CrazyUs, Author at CrazyUS.com

May is Mental Health Month

by CrazyUsMay 27, 2021May 28, 2021Travel

Recently I noticed that many of my posts are kind of dark, deep dives into heartbreak. I was like,

“Beth, you sound depressed. Why all the big feelings? Are you always this sad?”

Maybe I am depressed. I definitely have very large feelings. Please know that I am not always this sad. Yet, if I were “this sad,” I think that is ok too. Regarding my often pain-filled blog posts, I simply think I write when I have something I am working through (or most likely have been triggered). Writing helps. I have also come to believe that telling our stories is crucial to healing. Selfishly, I also recognize that a big part of my healing is having a platform. Honestly, at this point I am not sure who reads my words. Nevertheless, I am grateful I have a place to put them. I am grateful I am able to write them down. I am grateful for the opportunity to process and heal. Even better, I am grateful for those who do speak up, who do stand by me, validate and show me that I am worthy and I am seen. You are a gift. You have saved me more times than I can count. Seriously! Thank you!

I only hope I can do that for you.

…

Earlier I was watching Oprah’s new show on mental health called, “The Me You Can’t See,” when I heard the following quote,

“Therapeutic change is about healthy relationships. It’s about feeling like you belong and like feeling like you are connected.”

I love this quote and I agree. About the show, sure I cried all the way through and no, I am not going to review it except to say that it is vulnerable and it is good. I hope it reaches those who need to hear its message.

…

Now onto my story:

The stars collided in such a way that I could not refuse their message. My mind is racing to connect all the dots that have brought me to this place. I see the intersection of my family and our relationship with the Mormon Church (The Church of Jesus Christ of Later Day Saints). I hear my best friend Marianne say,

“Mormons are just like everyone else. They make mistakes. They care about social status, prosperity, power and popularity. They cheat on their spouses and talk behind your back. The problem is because they have Jesus, they think they are better. I would argue using your belief in God to justify your ‘Christlike’ behavior is even worse.”

I do not disagree.

As I think about Marianne’s words I solidly hear my non-Mormon therapist say,

“You know, Beth, many people love being Mormon and do not blame the Mormon church for their problems.” Then I see her pause long enough to make sure that I am really paying attention. She continues, “I also think many of these same people grew up with families who gave them healthy tools to navigate such an intense religion. These were the families that also provided their children with a healthy sense of self.”

Immediately I feel inadequate. I want to throw up. I feel deep pain. I feel weird. As a young girl, I know I did not have the tools. I know I did not possess a healthy sense of self.

As I try to piece this rush of feelings together, I am thrust back in time. I see my trigger. I feel the pain and insecurity as I remember how I perceived the women at church treat my mom. Though not everyone was like this, the ones who were, were terrible. I let my mind remember. I see my mom’s good friend dropping her upon being accepted into a more prominent social circle. I remember perceiving like my mom felt inadequate and rejected. I remember all the phone calls from those same women, including the “good” friend. They always wanted to make sure my mom knew how bad my sisters were. I remember the rage and frustration I felt knowing that the kids of these same women were doing the same or worse. I felt powerless as I watched my mom appear to feel like it was all her fault. It was not her fault. Those women were cruel, exclusive and self-righteous. Many of my peers remember these women differently. I think that is ok. I imagine we can hold space for all of us.

Most of these women live in Utah now. So does my mom. It is my memory that they never have included my mom, or invited her to their Minnesota get togethers. I imagine they would tell her the same thing the local LDS moms tell me,

“We just didn’t think you would want to come.”

I imagine my mom feels less than, confused and rejected. I wonder if she thinks it’s her fault. Maybe she moved on long ago.

Abruptly I move from these feelings of sorrow to the moments I needed my mom’s empathy and compassion. Instead, I hear her words every single time I shared my pain,

“They are such good people. Beth, are you sure there wasn’t something you did?”

What I have learned through hours of therapy and mistakes I have made myself is that what I needed is for my mom to believe my story (as it was). I needed her to stand by my side and to protect me.

Of course, we can always do better. I can do better. Regardless, what I keep thinking about is this: why do we live in a world where my mom or a person of color, or the whistleblower, the rape victim, the poor kid, or the family who no longer attends church has to shoulder the burden and constantly prove they are valid or that they have worth? Why does the burden of proof fall solely on the disadvantaged or marginalized? Why is the outsider required to carry the relationship? It makes no sense. Victim Shaming or shunning the outsider or whatever you want to call it, drives me absolutely bonkers! Unjustified rejection is my trigger. It is also my trauma.

I am certain this trauma goes right back to the moment my family walked into the doors of the LDS church. My parents were recently married. Both of them were on their second marriage. They were young. And somehow in my mom’s upbringing, I believe she was taught that everything was also her fault. I believe she wanted to have healthy relationships. I believe she wanted to fit in and to connect. As a young mom, who was raising a blended family with six children, I believe she did her best. What I remember is that her best was taking the blame, asking me to take the blame, and consequently, reinforcing our cultural belief that the burden falls on the disadvantaged. By the way, it is also my memory that the women at church had no problem letting my mom take the hits. I always thought it was so cruel. I don’t know if she realizes what I see. I am sure my truth would embarrass her and break her heart.

Honestly, how on earth could one expect her to give us a strong sense of self while she was reconciling her own past trauma? How on earth could one expect her to stand with confidence as a new member and within the confines of such a rigorous belief system and religion? How could I expect her to navigate the nuance of prosperity doctrine, social status, the generational cliques, while at the same time incorporating Christ’s teachings of inclusion and love? I truly believe she did her best. I also believe many of these women grew to love my mom. She is kind and openhearted.

Nevertheless, as many times as my mom has owned these moments, the trauma is still deeply embedded. It is what it is. I also fear I have perpetuated this pattern. For me to heal, I recognize that need to be honest regarding my complicity.

As a result of this learned behavior, within these dynamics, I always felt like it was me, not them. I felt like if I could shove myself into their world, everything would be fantastic. I have come to believe that feeling like I am less than and unworthy is damaging. I cannot fix them, or better, I cannot heal their own damage, the damage that causes them to be mean. I can only surround myself with people who love me for who I am.

As a result of these experiences, I was determined to help my kids feel a healthy sense of self. I was determined that they would always feel worthy. I encouraged their dreams, their fashion sense, their interests. I look them in the eyes. I make sure to connect with them each time they leave. I tell them I love them. I tell them I believe in them. I tell them these things often. Regardless of these positive behaviors, I also feel as though I have failed my sons. See, I could have done better. I am heartbroken. Now, when I know they are actively being ostracized and excluded I have never said and then asked them,

“Kyle and Eli, they are such good people. Are you sure there wasn’t something you did?”

However, what I did do is when they were actively being ostracized I stridently tried to negotiate with the parents. For years, I worked on these parental connections as I tried to prove our worth. I bargained over and over and over again. I allowed my boys to needlessly suffer because somewhere inside of me I felt like it was my fault. Thinking about the moments my children were rejected, condemned, and excluded fills me with suffocating pain and shame. I see the damage I enabled. Instead of encouraging them to walk away from people who do not treat them well, I encouraged them to stay. I am so sorry. I think I really still believed that I was the bad one. I was the one who was unworthy.

I have apologized privately to my sons. I have actively held boundaries with those who have been so unkind, intentionally or neglectfully. Now I straight up call these folks assholes. My brain also breaks each time I hear someone say,

“well, I mean, it was so and so’s plans. I did not want to step on toes.”

I scream inside at those who know what is right and do nothing. I think they are lame. After repeatedly placing my sons in harm’s way, and allowing them to stay in a situation they were ill prepared to navigate, I finally see that there is nothing I could have done to change who these people are. Sure, these folks also exist in a belief system where I believe they think they did what was right (in spite of our sons feel less than). From my lens, this behavior is still not ok. Regardless, it was my job to protect them. I could have done a much better.

That is why regardless of where I am tempted to place blame, at the end of the day, the buck stops with me. (Accountability)

I should have encouraged better boundaries. I should have kept Kyle and Eli from this harm. For my failings, I will always be sorry. I pray for Kyle and Eli’s forgiveness. I hope they see that because I know better I am trying to do better. I hope they know that I always stand by their side. I have their back. I like them and I love them. They are good and they are worthy. Ultimately, I hope they are able to surround themselves with people who love them just the way they are, (and not people who are not determined to dictate who they should be). I hope they always have places and spaces where they feel connected and where they know they belong. I hope they know they are loved — because they are loved — always.

Ropes and Rabbit Holes

by CrazyUsApril 27, 2021April 27, 2021Travel

Us, Guadalupe Mountains National Park, Texas

[So many commas & parentheticals]

Earlier, Dave, my husband, and arguably my much taller half, made an off handed comment regarding how he is received (in the workplace). He was like,

“If they don’t like my tone, then they can deal with it.” (In truth, I think he said something more nuanced like, “if they don’t like how I write, then maybe we are not a good fit.”)

WHAT? No. Like, really? WHAT? How can Dave so confidently believe that he does not have to step aside or change who is for the sake of someone else?

My brain broke.

Immediately I fell 300 feet down a rabbit hole, or maybe just a giant figurative pothole, one that my short-circuiting mind could not see.

As I tried to climb out of that deep, dark brain hole, Dave left the kitchen. I am certain he did not notice that I really could use a hand, or maybe even a very long rope, like that kinetic rope he recently purchased. Dave’s rope is shinny white nylon, long, strong and braids into an even stronger rope, “which translates into lower impact but higher energy transfer to the stuck vehicle.”

(Dave’s new kinetic rope arrived two days ago. Yesterday before Eli left for his friend’s cabin, and while standing next to the front bumper of our 4Runner, Dave sweetly and fastidiously explained how to attach the rope. Dave LOVES Eli! So do I. I love watching Eli become his own adult person. I love that he has grown his hair out and has found his own beautiful mountain man style. I also love watching Dave and Eli’s connection. Eli was patient and also anxious to go. At that, Dave enthusiastically admonished,

“Eli, you can use it for helping others out of tough spots.”)

Of course I imagined Eli helping his friend’s crazy dad free his Prius from a ditch. That dad is also the one who owns the cabin and who also [insert air quotes here] “accidentally” touched my left boob as Eli’s wide eyes met mine. (We still talk about the boob touch, of course with accompanying air quotes.)

Back in the kitchen I realized there was no kinetic rope in sight. I was still stuck in that emotional hole. Eventually, I decided to climb out myself.

There I was. I was standing next to the trash can drawer. Then I turned, looked out the west-facing window, and noticed the spring blossoms.

“Everything’s so green and alive.” I happily thought to myself.

Dave walked back into the kitchen.

“Hey buddy.” I gently said.
He paused to look in the fridge.
“I have been thinking about what you said regarding your writing. Honestly, I cannot wrap my head around your words.”
Dave stopped foraging and looked at me. Before he could speak, I blurted (in a nice voice — for real),
“Come on, man, how can you be ok with not adjusting yourself for someone else? It makes no sense. See, I never thought I could just let someone, especially a work colleague, accept me the way I am. I come from the generation where a woman was told to hide her emotions. You know that place where a woman’s workplace tears are a sign of weakness. I come from the family where I was told if I want a man I should learn the rules of football. Thank God you don’t like football. I come from a religious heritage where I was told that a man is the boss of our home — a.k.a. the patriarch. As a result, what I have received is the message that my own thoughts, feelings and insights are insignificant, or better, that my thoughts are significant unless I check them with a man first.”

I don’t know if I had fully processed what had triggered me. I am certain Dave had no idea why my words were directed at him or how they had impacted me. I think that is ok. Should he? Possibly. I am certain no one ever told him that his directness makes people think he is a bitch, or that his effective organizational skills makes others feel threatened, or that his confidence would disrupt the ‘sorority-girl’ vibe, or that his human tears make him appear unstable, especially in the workplace. Nevertheless, I think it is ok that he (and men in general) understand this perspective.

After I finished processing out loud, Dave walked toward the sink, turned on the faucet, and rinsed his hands. Then he walked in the direction of our west facing kitchen window. He paused again, turned toward me and said,

“If anything I have been told to show more emotion.”

We both laughed and quickly fell into a tangent, where I compared his family to Vulcans from Star Trek:

(According to Wikipedia, “Vulcans are a fictional extraterrestrial humanoid species in the Star Trek universe and media franchise. In the various Star Trek television series and movies, they are noted for their attempt to live by logic and reason with as little interference from emotion as possible.”)

I thought to myself,

“Our therapist always says that logic is an emotion, (which I love more than I can adequately articulate here).” (She says “logic is an emotion,” in response to Dave asserting that all I ever care about are feelings not facts.)
I was not mad at Dave, yet I wanted to be mad. Somehow I managed to do some quick self talk. I told myself,
“Beth, it is time to stop. Please do not walk this strange and introspective moment into a heartbreaking fight.”

Thankfully my self talk worked (enough). Instead of fighting, I quoted the most prominent Vulcan, Spok:

“I do not understand your human emotions.”

Then I looked at Dave and said,

“Dave, you are like Spok. You don’t understand my human emotions.”

We laughed again. We talked about why Dave likes every incarnation of that television series from, “Deep Space Nine,” to “Discovery.” I said that it makes him feel closer to his people (as if to imply that he was raised not to consider others or their feelings). Even though I said it in a fun loving tone, I thought I was being mean. In truth, I was not mean, nor was I kind.

(*By the way, I call these humorous digs pain avoiders. Instead of feeling and processing pain, these funny slights are effective at undermining the impact of my words. Thus they keep me lodged in a self-reinforcing space, a space where I believe I need a man to tell me that I am ok.)

I was connecting. I was feeling the pain of my conditioning, the one that tells me my worth is based on the concept that I need a man to validate my worthiness.

In the sunny afternoon light, I paused again, (not something that comes easy for me).

I let myself feel the intense flood of my past pain and inadequacies. For a second I thought I would drown. I looked at Dave, and he became my kinetic rope. Thankfully, he took it, at least enough so I could catch my breath.

Marriage. ❤️

A few hours later:

As a result of yesterday’s allergy shots, my right bicep is twice its normal size. Because we have dinner tonight with some relatively new friends, I am feeling terribly insecure. I reach for my new eggplant-grey colored shirt. I put it on. I love how the color looks on my skin. I walk over to the office wearing my new shirt and ask Dave if he likes it.

“Not particularly.”
“Why?” I asked.
“It looks like one of those ‘Flashdance’ shirts.”
“That’s the point!”
“Well, you asked me if I liked it.”
Defeated, I try to muster a comeback. Nope. I feel myself falling. Then I say something like,
“But my arm. I need something to cover my crazy swollen arm. Are you sure it looks bad?”
“It looks fine.”
“I wish you would throw me a lifeline. I wish you would like it.” I say.
Dave quickly responds, “If you did not want my opinion, you should have not asked.”
“Dave, you are not wrong,” I say to him and then play those same words on repeat to myself:
“I should not ask for his approval. I should not have asked for his approval.” Then I add, “Beth, you should trust yourself.”

And really, what does Dave know about fashion? Have you seen his dark brown, bright orange bottomed snow sneakers he is currently wearing? Eli often says that it looks like Dave is wearing potatoes on his feet. (I point out his “potato shoes.” We both glance at them.) The difference is: he does not care that we think his shoes are hideous.

Maybe that is it (at least for me). I have been conditioned to doubt myself and to seek a man’s approval/validation. Can’t I wear the shirt if I like the shirt? Apparently not. I am returning it. In between sentences, I am packing it up now.

Life.

Artist’s rendering of my shirt (By artist, I will mean, while editing, Dave inserted this image into post):

Tagged : Marriage / self worth / sense of self

We are all jerks: Complicated and Misunderstood Regard

by CrazyUsFebruary 26, 2021Travel

It could be worse.

I am dressed head to toe in layers of grey. I look outside and am enveloped by the ambience of a late winter day. Grey skies hover over dirty, partially melting snow. I feel the dark chill come over me. I turn up the heat and open the vent. I cannot get warm. I lock the office door, (really, my and Dave’s office door). I put my giant, charcoal colored Bose noise canceling headphones over my head and cue up the Icelandic band Sigur Rós. The stark, bold and poignant music begins to play. I turn up the volume. I notice that the tips of my fingers are icy cold. I laugh as I think that my fingers are as frozen as my cold, dark heart.

Pandemic blues are a real thing.

My mind wanders. Now I am mad at all the people I saw this past weekend in St. George, Utah. We went there on a hiking trip. Everywhere we went we were met by so many maskless people, people who seemed to have missed the memo:

“There is a deadly, worldwide pandemic. You can stop the spread of COVID_19 if you socially distance, wash your hands & wear a mask!”

On our last night, and after a windy Snow Canyon hike, we ordered very delicious take out Indian food. Dave and I masked up and walked inside. The restaurant was packed. Every table was filled. I am not over exaggerating when I say there were probably 150 people seated in this eating establishment. No one was wearing a mask. No one seemed to care that life as we know it has changed.

We walked out the door and I said,

“Thank God Kyle was not with us. He is very worried about the pandemic. This blatant disregard for others would have broken him.”

Dave agreed. Aghast, we walked to the car. I set the food between my feet, buckled up and slathered myself in hand sanitizer, as if this ritual would somehow ward off all the virus I had just been exposed to. We told the boys about the crazy crowded restaurant and its maskless patrons.

Back at home now I feel like my brain is broken, including my ability to communicate.

It is simple really, what happened, that is. Yesterday, Kyle realized that his computer needs an update. As a result, for the past twenty four hours, Kyle and Dave have been working on said update. Each time they try to run the update, the laptop tells them they do not have enough memory to install the update. So they delete more and more, hoping this time they will have enough memory. Then the next time they try to run the update, the computer says they need even more memory. It’s maddening! Eventually, they uploaded the update to a flash drive and then tried to install the update.

Nothing worked.

I saw their frustration. I felt their frustration. I heard their frustration. Early into this update process I noticed they had plugged Kyle’s computer in at my desk. No one said anything. No one asked if it was ok for them to be there. I am certain they did not intend for this update to last so long. I am certain they were not trying to be jerks. They just wanted to complete the update. As a result, I asked Dave how long they would be. He snapped. I backed away. I was struggling to type from my sofa. Hours later I asked again. Dave sweetly offered to move. He also did not think the update would take much longer. It did. Consequently, I asked again. He said something in his classic Beth-you-should-know-better tone, a tone that signals I had crossed a line. Then Kyle snapped.

I thought about how to reach them. I wondered if it was fair that I should. I mean, they were in crisis. I should know. I should leave them alone, right? Finally, and after much deliberation, (and probably against their better judgement), I decided to talk to them. I said something like,

“Hey guys. Of course, you don’t need to move. Can I share something? This is my space. My sacred space. I already have to stay out of the office so Dave can work, yet I really love being able to sneak in and sit at my desk whenever I want. I wish you would have asked. I wish you would have considered me. Had you, I would have happily insisted you work on your update for as long as you need. Instead, it is up to me to nag, needle and figure out when you will be done. Now I am the imposition. I am the jerk.”
“But Mom, I didn’t even know it would take this long.” Kyle snapped.
I tried to explain again, “Hey, I really don’t need you to move. Just consider me.”

Of course they were super frustrated with the entire laptop issue. I get it. They were also annoyed with my “feelings” talk. I could see it. Nevertheless, I felt like I had committed a sin. I felt like I should know better than to interrupt. I felt like I should graciously step out of their way. I felt like I should know that they needed to be there. I also wish they knew where I was coming from. Is that ok? I wish I could convey the love I felt. I wish they could feel my love, like it was a snuggly blanket. I also wish they knew that I am struggling for my footing.

I walked out of the office.

My laptop was in my bedroom. I grabbed it, a charger and a coaster and went downstairs. I set my kombucha on the coaster and plugged my laptop into the charger. As I opened up my laptop, Kyle shouted to me from upstairs,

“Mom, Mom. We are out of the office. You can have your desk back.”
“I did not need my desk. I just wanted to be considered.” I said.
Immediately Dave shot back, “Well, whether you want your desk or not, you can have it now. We are gone.”

Here is what I heard: “Hey bitch baby. You got your way! Now shut up!”

I grabbed my drink, the coaster, my laptop and my charger. I pushed the chair in and came back upstairs.

I set myself up at my desk. Then I walked into the living room. Dave was sitting on one couch. Kyle was sitting on the other. I thanked them for getting out of the office. I said that I was sorry that updating Kyle’s computer took so long. I do not think they heard me.

Then I said, “Seriously. You really didn’t need to move.” Before I could finish, Kyle cut me off.
“Can I finish?” I said.

Kyle, who made us a really fun and delicious lunch earlier today, began to walk away. Honestly, as he started to walk away all I could think about were those yummy bacon wrapped potato wedges he made. They were so good. I felt so much love. He was incredibly thoughtful.

Then I said,

“Hey Kyle, I just want to be considered.”
Kyle quickly responded, “Well, us moving is considering you — MOM!”

I look out the window. It is still grey. Ugh! The open vent has pushed comforting heat into the room. My fingers are no longer ice cold, but more of a clammy cool. The Icelandic music still plays. I almost feel transported — almost. I feel warm. I feel safe. I am in my space.

I had a goal.

by CrazyUsJanuary 25, 2021January 25, 2021Travel

I resolved on January 1, 2021, that I would write and then post Monday – Friday. Quickly, that goal changed. Next I decided that I would write and then post three days a week. Last week, which was also the third week in January, I did not post at all. I did write. I wrote and rewrote.

Last Monday I wrote about rejection. I was feeling blue and feeling left out. I spent the entire day writing. I ended up writing myself into an understanding space. I discovered that what I was feeling is loss, not rejection. For a moment I felt better.

I recognized that we all may be feeling left out, feeling a loss, or better, just feeling lost. We are living through a global pandemic (duh). We have been left out of the lives we usually lead. None of us are doing what we usually do. Even the more permissive pandemic-participators, as they defiantly slip their masks around their neck once inside Costco, have had to adjust. Regardless of their rebellious acts, for them to enter a store, they have to wear a mask.

Collectively, life is not how we pictured it would be. The pandemic’s end still seems so far. It is hard not to become numb and complacent, and forget life was supposed to be. Now with toilet paper reliably back in stock, it also seems comfortably dystopian. I think it is ok to acknowledge the awkwardness of this moment. It is weird.

Our oldest son, Kyle, should be halfway around the world at NYU Abu Dhabi, finishing his junior year of college. He and I hike together a few times a week. We have decided to explore all canyon paths around Salt Lake City. Last week he showed me this magnificent path above Salt Lake City’s Avenue’s neighborhood. It felt like we were walking in Los Angeles’ Griffith Park. I felt transported. Kyle is a runner and also has a goal to run everyday. Saturday he fell down a slippery mountain trail, bruised and hurt his knee. He ran on Sunday. His knee still hurts today. He is currently in the basement applying for jobs and playing Minecraft. Our youngest son, Eli, is one of the few people who was able to follow through with his plans: he did a Wilderness Medicine and Mountain Rescue semester at the National Outdoor Research School (NOLS). NOLS was his plan pre-Covid. Of course, we worried his semester would be canceled. Thankfully, it wasn’t. Yet, NOLS was also impacted. They eliminated the in-hospital sections and for three months Eli was strictly cocooned within a small group of students. In the desert, his group found their planned water source was dry, and had to search for water for more than forty-eight hours (twice). Eli loved it. He loved NOLS. His recent job, snow-making at Park City ski area, just ended for the season. Last night he came to my room and excitedly told me he loved having Sushi with his girlfriend’s family. Right now he is home and sleeping on the couch. I love these moments.

Dave is currently in the home office working, which he has done since March. I often try to work in the office too. During the day, the office has always been my sacred space. Between Dave’s Zoom calls and his super loud meeting voice, with my laptop in hand, I find myself quickly exiting, sitting at various tables around the house. Sometimes we fight about this office space. One week I even cried. I was like,

“Dude, everything was great until you started working from home.”

Then I felt mean.

Disrupted. That is what we are.

Before this all happened to all of us, what were your plans? What were your days like?

Dave left early each morning. I spent the day quietly working. I saw friends for lunch or long walks. This was supposed to be our empty-nest-year. A year ago, Eli was a high school senior. I was feeling all the feels and was not sure I was ready for my boys to fly away. I cried a lot and could not believe my babies were grown. As a way to circumvent our empty-nest sorrow, Dave and I schemed how we would spend the frequent flyer miles we’ve been hoarding into an expansive, around-the-world trip. I finally made it to Platinum status, something I thought I would personally never be able to do. We would leave right after dropping off Eli. We would fly to Europe, South Africa and back to Europe. By mid-October, we would meet up with Kyle at NYU’s Abu Dhabi campus. Then Dave and I would head to Singapore, Thailand, Vietnam, Australia, Japan and head on home. Dave would work remote. So would I. We were excited. I fantasized about all the national parks, little towns and villages we would explore all around the world. I imagined the different grocery stores and interesting people we would meet. Dave and I would be home in time to meet Eli as he finished his NOLS semester. I could not wait.

Even though I pride myself in my extreme budget travel ability to stretch points miles and grocery store purchases, including the Adams’-Family-preferred, 3-Euro meal, it is not lost on me how decadent our scheme was.

Then sometime last week, on one of our daily walks, I blurted,

“Dave, you have your thing. Right now you are converting our 20 year old 4Runner into an off road camping machine. You always find a project to distract you. It is January and the grey skies are bringing me down. I want a thing. Instead, I feel like I am treading water and am not sure how to put my feet on the ground.”

We were quiet and kept on walking.

As we walked, my thoughts percolated to the surface.

“Wait. Before this stupid pandemic, I did have a thing. We travel. I also used travel to pull me out of my winter blues. When January came around, instead of feeling depressed, I would distract myself by planning our next adventure. I think I need to find something else.”

I feel this loss. I really miss traveling. I miss it so much that even when Dave suggests we can safely camp in Utah, I snap at him. I tell him I feel like I am settling, that I feel resentment. I definitely feel discombobulated. I write about feeling discombobulated. I am sure I have written some of this before. I feel repetitive. I feel boring. I feel bored. I am working to find a way through (obviously). I hope you are too.

Thank goodness for perspective. I also recognize that if we were not living through a global pandemic, I would never have this extra time with my boys, or actually take the time to go camping — in Utah. I am grateful. I admire Kyle and Eli’s strength. I know it has not been easy having life ripped apart. I know my privileged-world sorrow pales with the significant disruption that so many are experiencing. Over this past year, I have seen friends lose jobs and lose loved ones. I know others who have dealt with devastating cancer diagnoses and sudden deaths, events that would throw anyone off their axis, even in non-pandemic times. I have a friend who was paralyzed from the armpits down this past July. He was working on staining his house while working from home. He fell 35 feet and landed on his head. He is alone in his ICU hospital bed and hoping one day soon he can move on to rehabilitation. I feel very sad for him.

I feel greedy again for feeling as lost as I do. Like a wave, my feelings move. At the end of these particular words, I realize that ultimately I feel grateful. I feel grateful that I am surrounded by the people that I love, even if I think they talk too loud on Zoom calls.

The Sunk Costs of Being Special

by CrazyUsJanuary 16, 2021January 16, 2021Travel

“The Sunk Cost Fallacy describes our tendency to follow through on an endeavor if we have already invested time, effort or money into it, whether or not the current costs outweigh the benefits…The sunk cost fallacy means that we are making irrational decisions because we are factoring in influences other than the current alternatives. The fallacy affects a number of different areas of our lives leading to suboptimal outcomes.”

I was always told I could be special. I wanted to be special. I wanted to be seen and I was willing to do the work.

I will start with a confession.

Earlier this week, after the January 6, 2021 United States Capitol Insurrection, I messaged a friend, asking him to look at a couple of aggressively far right Facebook pages. The pages I was directing him to are riddled with mean-spirited memes sprinkled in between “our God is the right God” posts, “we are true patriots” posts, “pray for Trump our great and misunderstood leader” posts, “disparaging Nancy Pelosi, Hillary Clinton, and Obama,” posts (obviously),” “ANTIFA stormed the Capitol, not the peaceful rightwing patriots” posts, “the 2020 election is a fraud stolen by an evil cabal of child molesters” posts, and of course, “Mitt Romney has chosen the side of the devil,” posts. I asked my friend to look because I wanted someone else to validate the incongruous hate I saw. I wanted my friend to see. Then I wanted him to understand.

He read. He laughed. He questioned. He understood. Then he “absolutely” agreed with me. And I felt special.

What I struggle to reconcile is that the beliefs conveyed within posts like these often come from people I love, respect and admire. The particular posts I directed my friend to come from the Facebook pages of the husband and wife who introduced my family to the Mormon Church. And you know what? I was always told they were special. To this day, if you were to ask one of our peers who was the most admired, most special member of our congregation, it would be them. It would not matter if they went to jail or if I cured cancer. I get it. They would always win. They were intoxicating. They were also the LDS (*The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints) people I believe we were raised to aspire to be. Consequently, we never dared to question their motives. We definitely believed in the vitamins they were selling and the end-of-the world prophecies they were preaching. I also believed if I could be like them, that if I could live like they did and believe in their God, I would be special too.

I was a young child in Minnesota when I met this particular husband and wife (and their family). They were extraordinary pillars of our western-Minneapolis suburban community. They were glamorous. Their kids were good looking and super popular. They had an endless stream of money, beautiful clothes, cars, TVs in their cars, visits from famous people, and an Olympic-sized gym to play all their Mormon basketball. On several acres of land, high on a hill, their giant gym sat right next to their beautiful mansion.

They were also the other Mormons who lived in our school district. In their shadow, it was obvious that we were not as wealthy. Our house did not come with a gym. We were certainly less popular. Considering how Mormons seem to equate wealth with righteousness, (prosperity gospel), then I imagine we were also never as worthy. When their family joined the current “jogging” fad so did my family. My family often ran in the early morning at our local high school track. It was always a happy day when we ran into them.

“See. We are just like you.” I would excitedly think.

When my parents signed up on their MLM (multilevel marketing) downstream, they assured us we would also attain riches. (That did not happen.)

What did happen is my adorable mom was assigned by our LDS church to visit the tall, glamorous MLM mom once a month and offer her a spiritual message. Another woman from our local congregation was also assigned, as her companion, but one week, that woman was sick so my mom brought me. We reached the mansion door. I was excited when my mom pushed a button that we heard a voice come out of a little white speaker box.

“How fancy.” I thought to myself.

For some reason, she would not let us inside the house. Maybe it was because my mom showed up without the other woman who was supposed to be there.

(I would not see the inside of the house until they needed a babysitter years later.)

“Give me a few minutes. I will meet you in our business office. It is to the right of the intercom.” She replied.

There, surrounded by walls of various kinds of vitamins, I sat on my mother’s lap while my mom and the mansion mom spoke about Jesus. From the windows I saw the skies turn grey and knew a big midwestern thunderstorm was headed our way. As a result, we cut the visit short. The thunder clouds emitted their loud booms. I began to cry.

As my mom and I walked to the car, I jumped into her arms, sobbing. The dad, who was milling around in the driveway for some reason, saw my tears and asked why I was afraid.

“I will follow you home. I want to make sure you are safe.” He replied.

As we drove, giant hail balls struck our car, trees fell in our path. It was apocalyptic. Every time we stopped to catch our breath so did he. As we pulled into our driveway I turned around and looked. He stopped his car, waited and he waved.

After that there was no doubt how close they were to God.

When they told us they prayed every morning as a family. We did the same. And for good measure, each member of my family took a turn to say our own prayer. (True story.)

I really wanted acceptance. I invested and fervently believed in the God they were teaching. When they spoke of their “I am proud to be an American” patriotism, morality, Jesus and eternal life, I knew to listen and follow their example. I did. I believed. I committed. I was determined that if I devoted enough of myself, sang in their church choirs, attended church every week, and did not have premarital sex, I could be special just like they were. Throughout my entire adolescence I tried. Oh my god I tried. I was dedicated. I was gawky, a late bloomer, and not at all cool. Stridently, I believed and I just kept on trying.

The oldest daughter was always kind. Two of the sons were always nice-ish to me and that did help. Sure. They are also human. As a result, it was excused that some of their kids were totally awful. I had a best friend who was best friends with the other sister. I often knew I was being dumped (lied to) so my best friend could hang with her. Nevertheless, as an entire family unit, they were extremely generous. They always shared their home, their giant gym, their time, their self-authored religious music and the trappings of their MLM money with our super tight knight LDS community. Within this community, I quickly learned that the tighter you became with them, the higher your social currency rose. It was not easy. Everyone in my community wanted to be connected to them, even the non Mormons. In truth, I get it. They were the compass leading us to the extraordinary. I knew my place and knew to be grateful for their acquaintance.

Of course I took it as a compliment when the mom told me,

“Beth, your mom sews all of your clothes and you have all that canned food from your garden. You already know how to survive the last days. We don’t. See, we have so much money. We buy our clothes. We have people to do things for us. During the second coming we will need people just like you. You will help us survive.” (I am not making this up.)

As an adult I was attending a funeral of a mutual friend when I ran into some of the members of the family. The mom asked me how I was. When she said,

“You only have two children? What about fulfilling the measure of your creation?”

Insecurely, I blurted, “I have had several miscarriages. I cannot seem to hold my pregnancies. I am very lucky to have these two boys.”

She shot back,

“My daughter has five kids. She had to adopt one because she just couldn’t get pregnant. She had such a hard time having her children. It was so very hard for her. Her struggles were so very very hard…”

As I listened, I melted back into place. Now in line I knew that the correct response was to acknowledge that her daughter’s pain was greater than my own. So I did. And she thanked me.

Us, Louvre Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates, October 2019

The world is interesting. The disparity between who I was taught I should look up to and who the people I was supposed to revere actually turned out to be is breaking my brain. As they now spout evil and dangerous nonsense online, I fight the urge to give these superstars from my upbringing a pass. I feel like I should show compassion. Sometimes I do. Ultimately, though, the people I really admired, looked up to and was raised to believe seem taken advantage of, misguided and lost. Sunk costs. I am guessing that I am not alone in my feelings.

Seeing friends while visiting NYU Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates

Like the superstar Mormon family from my youth, there are so many people I wanted to emulate, especially their values, truths, critical thinking and understanding. I also recognize that I should have trusted my internal compass and innate ability. I should have trusted my own critical thinking mind. I should have found a way to believe I was special without intermediating it through people that my family and peers identified as praiseworthy. I know now that I was worthy of respect all along. I am enough. But back then, instead, I doubled down and earnestly chased an external validation that I would never receive.

Ultimately, I think it is complicated that I empathize. I think the people who stormed the Capitol (or peacefully protested — depending on how you see it) are much like the family I grew up with. They are chasing a similar and reckless need for validation. They believe they are true patriots who are doing what is right. I think the irrational need to be seen are the sunk costs that we are all drowning in. Maybe the unity we seek is the ability to see each other and to find a way to work together. Maybe then we can swim. I really hope so. ❤️

Sitting At My Desk, Here Is What I See: Australia

by CrazyUsJanuary 11, 2021January 25, 2024Travel

Us, Ku-ring-gai National Park, New South Wales, Australia

There is a large monitor poised behind my laptop. A picture of the four of us is displayed as the monitor’s background. I stare at this image every time I sit at my computer. In the photo, I still had braces. Kyle is wearing a pink shirt. Dave and Eli are both wearing baseball caps. The picture was taken the day we drove from Nelson Bay, New South Wales to Sydney, Australia. We stopped to hike around Ku-ring-gai National Park. We stopped to hike off the road. The area where we stopped was a little inland. It was wet, a little muddy and there were little waterfalls everywhere. We climbed down a muddy trail, where we found a narrow bridge and an area covered in graffiti. I love graffiti. I suggested we take a family picture. Dave, Kyle and Eli obliged. It was a wonderful and magical day. It was April, 2019. It was a different time. It feels like we were different people.

I think I went to Australia on a dare. Many friends had told me they hated Sydney, that Melbourne was much better. But, if I was really going to the bottom of the world, I should stick with New Zealand. They were not wrong about New Zealand, It is also where we were when the pandemic began. And when quarantine is too much, New Zealand is where I travel in my dreams. We visited New Zealand twice before traveling to Australia. New Zealand is amazing and tracks with the landscapes pictured in the Lord of the Rings movies. Kyle made friends with a curious octopus there. Eli proclaimed it is actually a place he wants to go back to and when Covid intruded on our planet, New Zealand is the place I wanted to hide.

Us, Bondi Beach, Sydney, Australia: The album cover

Dared to be there and determined to make it the very best experience, in April 2019, Australia was where we were. Kyle met us there on his spring break, flying direct from Abu Dhabi. Before we left Utah, I did oodles of research on Sydney and its surrounding areas. One thread on one travel blog recommended we use the Sydney Ferry system:

“You must use the ferry system. It will change your world.”

They were right. Taking a ferry from destination to destination completely revolutionized our trip. Traveling by ferry was like traveling in a postcard, feeling the wet wind on our faces while looking to the left or to the right (depending on which direction you are traveling), blazing under the Sydney Harbor Bridge and seeing the spectacular Sydney Opera House. My mind was blown every single time.

Sydney was fantastic. More things were free than we expected. Food was fabulous and walking through the city was intriguing.

Kyle & I on our Birchgrove neighborhood walk

Near the end of our Australia stay, Kyle, Dave and I walked along the water near our AirBnB in the Birchgrove neighborhood. We knew Kyle had the opportunity to do a study abroad the following year. NYU has campuses all over the world. During the week we talked about the pros and cons of Sydney versus other campuses like Shanghai, Florence, or Buenos Aires.

“Mom, Dad, I think I want to do my Study Away in Sydney,” Kyle said.
I tried to tamp down my exuberant excitement and responded in such a low key way,
“Kyle, I think that is an excellent idea.” I blurted and (then probably jumped and high-fived Dave).

January, 2020: Kyle was home for 36 hours in between Abu Dhabi and Sydney

It is now January 2021. One year ago Kyle left for NYU Sydney, where he began his study away. Immediately he made an excellent circle of friends. (Kyle is great at meeting people.) On our video chats he told me how easily he connected with his fellow students.

“Mom, I feel more connected with my peers here than I did in Abu Dhabi. I love my Abu Dhabi friends. Sydney has just been so natural. I have friends. They are so easy. I really needed this experience. I feel good about myself. I am so glad I am here.”

Each time we talked, Kyle eagerly told me about how he was connecting to his new town. One call he told me how he was intent on taking different modes of transportation each day so he could learn the city. He bought a skateboard, learned the public transportation system and loved to walk. I felt like I was learning the city on a deeper level. Because we had been there the previous year, I felt like I could see the stories and experiences Kyle was telling me. As his mom, I loved that Kyle was having this moment.

Kyle, Dave & Me, Queenstown, New Zealand

Then the pandemic hit. Even though the world was shutting down, Sydney seemed safe and less impacted. NYU Sydney assured us that the students would stay in school. We felt so confident that everything would be ok with Kyle that on March 13, 2020, Dave and I flew to Queenstown, New Zealand where Kyle would meet us for his spring break, and Eli would meet up with all of us the following week back in Sydney. Eli was excited to do his first international trip without us. Kyle made his first international trip alone at the same age.

Until 7:00PM on Friday, March 13, 2020, that was our plan.

As we were packing to leave for the airport, the Salt Lake Schools shut down school. At the time they said school would only be shut down a week. We felt safe going and Eli was still planning on meeting us the following week in Sydney.

Dave and I were now in San Francisco on the long flight to Auckland, New Zealand.

From the time we were in the air until the plane landed, the world changed. We landed and immediately told that we had landed a few hours before the enforced incoming-traveler quarantine would take effect.

Things just got worse — for the entire world.

Now safely in the country, Dave and I flew from Auckland to Queenstown where we met up with Kyle. Within a few days his dreamy perfect study abroad was canceled. A few days after that he was abruptly told he could not get back into Australia, to leave his belongings in Australia and to go home. Of course we canceled Eli’s flight. Then it took some finagling to get Dave, Kyle and me out of New Zealand. We decided to spend our last few days hiking, healing and enjoying the amazing Queenstown area. Most travelers were already gone so we felt like we had Queenstown to ourselves. Again, it was magic. New Zealand was a gift, a respite from the pandemic storm. I will always be grateful.

We made our way home. Kyle finished his semester online. It was painful. I am not sure he has recovered. I am not sure any of us have. And when I say any of us, I am speaking of everyone on the planet.

I still long for Australia. I still fantasize about finding our way back. Our time together feels unfinished and incomplete.

For now, I will have the picture on my monitor screen.

Tagged : Travel