Bryce Canyon National Park with friends, January, 2016
On January 31,2016, our friend, Stephen Jones, was caught unexpectedly in an avalanche. He had all the necessary gear, knowledge and experience. He had his avalanche beacon. He was on familiar terrain. His family knew where he would be, and he knew the backcountry well. All of Steve’s preparations made no difference. The snow is mighty and the avalanche was powerful. And I am certain I am not the only one who desperately hates that the mountain Steve was skiing defeated him.
Saturday, as I sat at Steve’s funeral, and as the tears rolled freely, over and over I heard the words,
“Steve always had an opinion. Steve cared about everyone! Steve was generous, enthusiastic, outspoken, freakishly intelligent, driven and mostly. Steve was devoted to his wife Melissa and their children.” Steve’s mom brought the crowd to tears as she declared, “Melissa, once Steve realized what was happening, I am certain his first thoughts were, Melissa, I am sorry.”
Dave and I have been doing a lot of talking about our passionately opinionated and brave friend, Steve. I have been doing a lot of processing. Honestly, Steve’s presence was intensely bright, and I often find myself saying,
“I cannot believe he is gone.”
Dave always responds with, “I can’t either.”
Dave and I, Lindon, Utah with friends.
I think it is common knowledge among those who knew Steve that he would not have been fully able to be Steve without Melissa, his amazing wife. She is gorgeous (inside and out), generous, kind, and grounded. She also affirmed Steve’s seemingly crazy, ambitious dreams right into realities. In his mid-forties, for instance, Steve took up ultra-running. Last summer, at age forty-nine, he ran two 200-mile races, five weeks apart. Melissa was there, encouraging him through his solo, unsupported endeavors.
That is what I love about both Steve and Melissa. They cheer for all of us. Steve wanted you to feel his joy (hence his strong advice),
“Beth, you have the best trails behind your house. Get out and see them.”
Melissa generously offered that I publicly share as many Steve photos as I want.
“If it helps lessen the pain,” she said, “then I say do it.”
So I will.
First, it is important to note that I overflow with a paralyzing amount of empathy. I want to help people. I always have. I am incredibly clumsy when it comes to the juncture between following my dreams and my huge impulse not to step on your toes. Yet, as lame as I can be to myself (like not following dreams), I am really good at helping others fulfill their own (dreams, that is). Ask Dave, I am a most excellent second-hand-dream-fulfiller, unifier, matchmaker and cheerleader. It gives me impossible joy to bring people together. When it comes to my family or my friends (even in those times when I am uncomfortable or afraid), I am devoted. I am loyal. I will step aside for their needs. When you need something, I love to find it. I will apologize (even when I don’t need to). When I know you are hurting, I am there. I will stand by your side.
Mostly, with those I love, I will NOT remain neutral. I will NOT stand on the sidelines. I will always take a risk. And I always have. Being a good friend has always been my super power, or at least, I think it has. Ok. Wait. This is not a post to tell you how awesome I am. I am not, awesome, that is. I am no saint. I do hurt feelings (often). Ask Dave and the boys. For starters, I swear (and swear more when I am trying to stop). I yell and I am often late to pick-up. Nevertheless, I remain solid.
Us, Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, December, 2015
This week, a week, when I am full of reflection, and in a world where life is brief, and bright stars burn out, I have concluded that I would rather be an outspoken Steve Jones, or a generous Melissa, than someone who stands aside. I admire how Steve and Melissa treat those they love. And through them, I have been reminded that I would rather be someone who unconventionally goes out of her way, rather than someone who refuses. I would rather be what Steve was for me and Melissa still is: a friend who persistently tries to push me out of my Seasonal-Affected-Disorder blues, a friend who pays attention, and a friend who generously allows me to share because it helps me heal. In the end, (yes, the real end), I want to be remembered as someone who gave a shit, someone who was not afraid to speak up, someone who cared deeply, and someone who was not afraid to get involved.
But to be remembered that way, I must actually be that way.
Steve and his son a few years back on a school field with Kyle and Eli.
Forward: This has been week filled with heartbreaking news. Monday evening, February 1, I began this post. At the time I did not know that our most awesome friend Steve had died, or about the sudden illness and passing of my mom’s and Harvey’s sweet and beloved, grandson, Nick.
Dave, Kyle, Eli and I wish both of their families much peace now as they move through their grief.
…I also want to thank Melissa, Steve’s wife. You have graciously allowed us all to share our feelings, photos and thoughts. Thank you, my friend!
xo Jeff
Melissa’s words: “I say share away if it makes you feel any less pain.”
—
Rob’s Trail, the back side of the canyons Ski Resort, Park City, Utah
The following was written Monday, February 1, 2016:
Right now my thoughts are an anxiety-induced brain-coma of disconnects, intentional denials and lost trains of thoughts. I am certain my brain coma is a result of our current living reality: Our new home is covered in a mish-mash of unpacked boxes, unfinished construction, doors that need paint and door hardware and a toilet that need installing. I am certain my circuits persist in shorting because of things like the large, bright green, trash-filled dumpster in our driveway. Each and every time I go to back up, I literally forget how to back up.
“Do I turn the wheel to the left or to the right?” I ask and yes, out loud.
As I inch my way past that green monster, I am certain I will smash into it, or at least rip off my side mirror. Adding to my brain dumpster-PTSD is the part where I feel completely and totally emotionally exposed. Of course we are in a new neighborhood. It is a place where houses are close together and there are new people to meet and new people who will judge me. Vulnerable indeed. Facilitating this exposed vulnerability is the fact that our giant windows need blinds! And here is why: Often it is only until I am well into our well-lit kitchen, which houses a very large, uncovered picture window, that I look out at the dark outside while standing in the bright inside that I connect the dots.
“Beth, run! Hide. YOU ARE IN YOUR UNDERWEAR!”
No. It never occurs to me to turn off the lights.
In truth, new-house living is a gift, and the fact that we have this giant trash can at our disposal is super cool. Why I think (know) my brain is in a painful fog is the reality that as each moment passes, my time raising these amazing boys is growing way too short.
Consequently, whether a moment is soul-crushing, over-exposing, disconnected, boring, or ultimate glee, I always, always, always want to push the pause button. I plead,
“Why can’t I hold all the moments a little longer? Why?”
Ok. I know the answer. If we stop time for me, we have to stop it for everyone, and if we stop time for people living now, it would not be fair to all those who have lived before us, (and yes) or those who will live after us, or some other inequity I have not considered.
Nevertheless, damn you, Time! I want you to stop, at least pause long enough for me to catch my breath (or back out of the driveway without smashing my car).
And Time, if you will not stop, or even pause, perhaps you will slow down long enough so I can find a way to hold on.
Kyle and our dinner 😉
Here is the moment I am now in: I need to go grocery shopping – bad. In fact, I just placed two bags of frozen corn in the microwave. Yes, I am calling two bags of frozen corn dinner. As I type, I am sitting at our new kitchen island. Music is playing. The boys are milling around me. I ask Dave about my new ski boots. I bought them earlier today.
“Are they in the car?” I say.
“No. I brought them into the garage.” Dave responds.
We eat our frozen corn (dinner). I read out loud what I have written so far. As I read, Dave walks to the refrigerator, pulls out a package of tortillas, grabs the cast iron pan, turns on a burner and says,
“Anyone want a burrito?”
The boys start watching YouTube. I say, “Is that a Fail video?”
In unison (and by unison I include Dave), they respond, “It’s a Win video.”
Eli does not want beans in his burrito.
Dave, Kyle and Eli eating dinner and watching YouTube
As the boys watch their video, Eli says,
“I want to do that,” followed by Kyle, “I so want to do that.” (Because I am writing this, I have no idea what “that” is.)
They turn down the volume so I can listen to my music on my new…
“What kind of speaker is it?” I ask Dave.
Both Kyle and Dave answer,
“It’s a UE Boom.”
Kyle sings along with the Avett Brothers, “January Wedding.”
Dave affirms, “Ok, Eli, I am giving you a minimal amount of beans.”
Eli protests, “I want zero amount of beans!”
To which Dave insists, “You won’t even notice the beans.”
All this bean talk takes place as Kyle sings,
“In January, we’re getting married.”
Then he flips his burrito-dilla.
Dave asks, “Eli, do you want tomatoes on yours?”
Eli demands, “No, I want cheese!”
Quesadilla-crisis averted, I hear Dave say something. It takes a few seconds to realize that he is actually talking to me:
“Do you want to go to the grocery store tonight?” He repeats himself — this time talking a little louder, “Beth, do you want to go to the grocery store tonight?”
Before I can answer, Kyle looks at Dave and says,
“Ok. Dad. I am going to make the ultimate, ultimate burrito.”
Delighted Dave responds,
“Maybe it’s the penultimate burrito. Maybe it is the last before the last.”
Instead of giving Dave an answer about the grocery store I say,
“A penultimate burrito? What? What? What?”
Because Eli is still watching YouTube “win” videos, he offers this most excellent non sequitur,
“He duct-taped it to his feet.”
Dave follows with an equally non-connected response,
“mmmm.”
Kyle’s penultimate burrito
Kyle is finishes cooking what is now a burrito, walks over to Dave and says,
“Dad. Dad. Look. Cheese in between.”
Eli walks to the freezer and asks,
“Mom, can I have a fruit bar?”
Dave implores,
“Let me know if you want to go to the grocery store, Beth.”
I say,
“Let’s go now. I want to be back to put the boys to bed.”
Now at the store, together, we walk the aisles. Then we separate — me, for butter and yogurt, and Dave for ice cream. We reconnect, pay and leave.
Dave and me, The Canyons Ski Resort. One of the last times I went skiing.
On the way home we talk about my new ski boots. I am certain Dave does not realize how terrified I am to ski now.
Ok here is the background: Years ago I tore (nearly severed) this muscle in my leg/foot called the Peronus Longus. The muscle runs down the calf, wraps around your foot and connects in between the big toe and whatever you call the toe next to the big toe. And if you ski, you know that you need to be able to work your big toe and that toe next to it to turn your boot in your ski. I healed and even got special ski boots that were supposed to make it easier.
I remember the moment. I was in my new ski boots, and was on the steepest part of Saddleback (Canyons Ski Resort Blue run). It was the end of the day and the run was hard ice. I kept slipping and sliding as my boys skied past me and urged,
“Mom, Mom, come on!”
It was then that I realized that in those slick conditions, I could only turn to the right. I was confused and trying to work out how I could get down the mountain on right-turns only. I made my way to the edge. I stopped and began taking my skis off. I was convinced that I could just walk down. When Dave realized what I was doing, he emphatically stated,
“Beth, you cannot walk down! It is not safe. You need to ski!”
I stood there — immobile. It was cold, dark and the mountain was closing for the day. My friend, Jodi, whisked by and offered to ski all the kids down, (her three and my two –yes, she is a saint). Dave remained, steadfast in his resolve.
“Dave, my foot will not turn my ski!” I cried (yes, real tears).
I was embarrassed. I was terrified. After many painful moments, Dave slowly coaxed me down that mountain.
I have not been back, skiing, that is.
Now years later, with my special ski boots stolen (which I have used as a reason not to ski), and my crazy foot rehabbed, Dave sensed it was time. So on Monday morning, February 1, Dave declared,
“I am taking you to buy new ski boots today!”
My new ski boots. I will call them Steve.
I will admit had no interest in buying new ski boots. Come on, I have better things to do, right? There is a house to unpack and a toilet to install!
Dave would not accept my excuses. We made our way to our local Level Nine Sports, spent hours trying on ski boots with Christian, the very cool former ski racer from New England. Apparently the Fishers with an insole stabilize my foot. It felt like a Christmas miracle. My fear washed away and my trust came back because as I stood in my new boots, I connected.
“Dave, I can turn my foot!” I exclaimed!
There is Steve hanging with the kids (like he always did). We love this photo because Eli is so excited to talk to him.
Afterward: Of course I did not know Steve was killed in an avalanche on Sunday, January 30. Search and Rescue would not find his body until Tuesday, February 2. It was not out of the ordinary that as I tried on my boots my thoughts and our conversation leaned in the direction of our friend, Stephen Jones. Steve impacted a lot of us. He was bold, outspoken and fearless. He loved the snow, winter and skiing. Most people had no idea that I was so afraid of the snow. Steve noticed. So way back when I injured my foot, he repeatedly insisted I contacted Alan, Miss Diane’s magic carpet guy so I could rehab my foot and “safely” get my confidence back. His caring was also married with a lot of opinion. Consequently, for years, Steve pestered me about not loving the snow. I honestly think he got a thrill out of harassing me. Mostly, I am certain he was convinced that he could win bring me to the snow-loving side.
On Monday, February 1, 2016, he came very close.
Today I struggle with how to articulate moments, time, loss, and the impact others have on us. Oddly I was struggling a lot Monday (before I knew about Steve or Nick). Loss, time-stopping, and moment catching consumed my thoughts. During the week, my friend Beth (who also knows Steve) and I were talking about the impact others have on us. She mentioned tapestries and threads; and how each of us are threads that are woven together. Once connected, we ripple through each other’s lives. These ripples create things like the need to buy new ski boots out of the blue. As we talked I started thinking that maybe these ripples are the way we stop time.
Monday, February 1, is the day I stopped worrying about boxes, giant dumpsters and uninstalled toilets. It was the day I took a break, spent hours talking the upside of snow, and gratefully found ski boots that fit properly. Mostly, Monday, February 1, is the day I stopped being afraid, afraid to ski, that is.
So right now, and after a very sad week, I would like to think that as Steve left this world, the moment he left me is February 1, 2016, the day I bought my new ski boots. Of course I am grateful!
I have journals scattered to the four corners, online and offline; handwritten words that are letter-dotted with twelve-year-old-girl-bubble hearts, dramatic monologues of my first (second, third and fourth) broken heart, billions of blog entries, and some that are typed (yes, with that old fashioned instrument one calls a typewriter). As the snow falls in April, and I try to write my two college papers (yes, I am back in college and that is another story I need to tell), in my classic avoidance-styled behavior, instead of doing what I need to do, I think about last night. I should have been putting Eli (12) Kyle (14) to bed (because it was late and that’s where they were supposed to be), instead I kept them up so we could watch old family videos. Damn you, David Adams! Damn you, for converting our old videos to digital. I love these videos and I cannot stop watching them. I cannot stop watching as little Eli holds a brown paper bag over his hand, and when asked, in his raspy little two-year-old voice, he responds, “This is Angry Puppet.” Eli laughs, crumples Angry Puppet into a ball, and when asked what he is doing, Eli quickly throws Angry Puppet, bows his head, and switches to a somber tone, “he is sad because he misses his mommy.” Five-year-old Kyle comes into frame. He announces, “I am going to do one of my latest styles.” In the background you hear Eli, “I am stepping on this.” Kyle runs across the dining room floor, landing sweet-breakdance-move after sweet-breakdance-move. He stops, literally spits on each hand, we all laugh, and watch as Kyle does his sweet-breakdance-move again. A few moves later five-year-old Kyle tells me, “my hands are sticky.” “That’s awesome!” Fourteen-year-old Kyle responds.
Yes, I wanted to reach into those videos and will myself back right to the moment where the boys were outside playing in the crazy flower sprinkler. And yes, that flower sprinkler was crazy. Hooked onto the hose, it whipped all over the place, squirting water indiscriminately. The boys spent hours entertaining themselves and hiding from that thing. I wanted to be there and I wanted to hold on to the moment I was already in. Picture my hands outstretched, one reaching back and one holding, holding hard onto now. That is how I picture it. So I held those moments the best I could. I let the boys, one snuggled up on each side (thank god they still snuggle), stay up a little longer, and listened as they deconstructed their young selves. I feel selfish and I feel grateful. I know this. Each minute I spend with Kyle and Eli I am blown away with how lucky I am. It has not been easy having children, yet somehow Kyle and Eli snuck through all of my infertility madness. Wait. Let me correct myself. If any of you know either Kyle or Eli, there was no sneaking in through my defective-infertile me. My boys are smart, strong, bad-asses. They fought. They fought to be here and I am so freaking grateful. I am blown away. They fought to be here and I get to be a mom.
“Mom, my leg hurts. Mom, Mom, I need to go to bed!” Eli was done and wanted to go to bed. “Mom, really. My leg hurts. I am tired.” We packed up my laptop, the boys headed to their room slapping each other, when a very tired Eli began saying something about having to sleep in the same room as Kyle. “Can he just go away? Kyle, Kyle, sleep in mom’s bed.” Between houses and moves, we are temporarily in an apartment, Dave is still commuting to San Francisco, and with limited space the boys are sharing a room. I’d say a good 87% of the time they love it. Last night Eli simply wanted Kyle to shut up and go away. “Mom, really, I cannot sleep in the same room as him.” To this I responded with, and as I pointed to my middle, “Hey, you used to live in here.” It made no sense, except it broke into the moment of crabbiness I created by letting my boys stay up too late. I need to say this. My boys are awesome. They are sweet, kind, funny, and smart. Yes, they fight, but they also look out for each other. Their bond has never changed. I love my boys, and I do not understand why I get to love them so much and then send them on their way. It is brutal, this love. They were both in bed, I shut the door because Kyle yelled from his bed, “Mom, please, SHUT IT ALL THE WAY!” I shut the door ALL THE WAY, and as I walked away, I heard them laughing.
I stood in the shower, and in that moment away from everything, what snuck into my relaxed brain space is the woman who always asks me how old I am. “Why does she do that?” I thought. “Why does it matter that every single time I see her she asks?” I am not kidding. She asks me every single time and then does this whole restate thing, “You are how old again?” I always answer to which she responds, “I am younger than you.” Why does it matter? And really, if I am going to point the finger at her, I had to wonder, “Why does it bother me?” Is it that she asks or, is it that whole incessant drilling-restate-comparing-each other bit? I do not like getting blindsided and sucked into the vortex where I am forced to compare, especially because before she reminded me that I was older than she is, our ages did not matter.
I stood there naked, my hair pulled back, hot water pounding my body, and in that moment of complete exposure and soothing relief, I could not stop thinking about her need to put me in a place juxtaposed to her.
Trying not to get my hair wet, yet thinking that this shower time was somehow therapeutic, my mind untethered, I let the ball roll. It is not the big stuff that gets me. When I take a second to catch my breath, these trying-to-understand-why thoughts race into my quiet, years-of-therapy, and defenseless spaces. I promise. It is always worse with hormones [wink, wink]. Happy Day 1 to me! I am a rock when the world falls apart, but someone reminding, and reminding me how I stack up next to them is a conversation I hide from every single time. Fully immersed, I wondered, “why do women always seem so consumed with the exterior? Why do they base their worth on how they look next to another woman?” I thought about the other day in class. I pictured it. There I sat, and next to me sat the only other old lady [wink, wink] in class. She has six kids, which are her world. I know this because every single class period she looks at me and says, “my kids are very important to me. They are my world.” She also talks a lot about her hair. As I sat in class she up-and-down-glanced me, me, the one all-dressed-in-black-with-the-exception-of-my-very-bright-yellow-green-with-bright-pink-accents-tennis-shoes and said, “you don’t like to wear color, do you?” All I could think is, “why the hell does it matter, what a weird question, and why are you drawing attention to the color of my clothes?” My response as I now noticed her black shoes, “maybe we are opposites.” Then and completely catching me off guard, she waited for me after class, “maybe she likes friends who feel less than, and if they don’t, she finds a way to get them there first,” I thought, and maybe women, women who seem to have it all, like six beautiful and very important children, really do not feel like they do, and how they find a moment of feeling better is to intentionally or unintentionally size us up.
Between rinsing off the soap and deciding if I should use the yummy-smelling shower gel (of course I did) these comparing-oneself-to-others thoughts were making me feel a little anxious so I did what these kind of thoughts make me do and jumped right into the obvious correlating issue: the female body image.
I remembered the extremely thin woman I saw at Starbucks the other day. She was so out-of-place frail that I cannot forget where I was when our paths crossed. I thought about all the people I know who struggle with eating issues. Society can be such a bitch to us women. Then I thought about the one eating issue I have never quite understood: Anorexia. Being a person who desperately wants to understand, I often stop here when it comes to food issues, body image, and why. I understand over eating. I understand looking in the mirror and hating what I see. I have never understood why women starve or exercise themselves into emaciated, slow death. I remember the girl in high school. She wasn’t the most popular, but certainly not the least. She was smart, kind and started at an acceptable and very average weight. I remember watching the positive attention she initially received as the pounds came off, and also watched the positive attention fade right along with her size, until eventually she was hospitalized, nearly dying because she would not eat. Why? She was beautiful. Why was her brain making her do this?
It is crazy. We all know the women, the women who have gone too far, and because Anorexia is a disease where body-image-perception is severely distorted, the diseased person cannot see how distorted they have become, and if they do, they cannot stop, and if they do, they replace weight loss with another thing they must control, at least, that is what I have been told. I had a friend who struggled with Anorexia tell me something about the unhealthy relationship with food, and the power it had over her, and it is about letting go of that power. Because really thin people are obvious to our human eye, Anorexia is an easy way to see life off balance. We know the women with faces covered in the eating-disorder-indicative-downy-fur, baggy clothes, especially when you know they were exercising from sun up to sun down. I recently saw one of those women at the grocery store and all I wanted to do is offer her a granola bar. I knew it wouldn’t help. I felt really sad and wanted to ask her, “why are you doing this to yourself?”
Oddly there are even moments I wish I had the competitive genetic, focus behaviors and drive that seems to accompany the Anorexic. Many Anorexics I know push themselves to the highest level of success. The competitive insecurity that seems to walk hand in hand with that particular eating disorder is something that not only breaks my heart, is also an essential driving force, which can bring a person to the heights of great achievement. Even when “cured,” I have watched a severe eating disorder morph into some sort of other competition, comparing-one-self-to-another-disorder. I think it is harder to see the life off balance when someone being-too-thin is not the issue.
Maybe I sound super insensitive, or just super dumb. In truth, and like I have mentioned, I have mountains of compassion for anyone who struggles with body image, addiction or any comparing-oneself-to-another issue. I know the soul crushing pain of feeling less than and I would not wish that suffocating space on anyone. And in the interest of full disclosure, it is true. When I was fifteen I binge ate and barfed for a time. Not often, but often enough for me to think it is worth mentioning here. Thank God for my ADD-ness, because I lost interest very quickly and moved on. It took one person to say, “stop doing that,” and I was done. I feel lucky. Seriously. I know I am. I am grateful that my own biological switch was not completely turned that way.
Even now I am not sure what to do when I watch loved binge eat a bag of Skittles, or watch others count every single calorie they consume, some going as far as to drink alcohol solely based on its calorie content, or walking around with a bag of carrots at-all-times just in case of the temptation to cheat. It bothers me when friends ask me about the weight I want to lose when I have not thought about it myself, and it confounds me when I see a friend get their weight under control only to move to another competitive, obsessive issue. I want to remind them that they are good enough with their beautiful families, their beautiful parenting, their fame, their accomplishments, and every other awesome part of them. And this is where I think all that comparing stuff fits right back in, and if I sit back long enough, let the warm water calm me, I actually see it is not me, and really how self-centered to ever think it was? I do not know if it is even them? I think it is their biology, and the control that biology has over their soul.
Maybe that is it. The crazy part about that all-consuming body image issue, and the obsessive issues it can morph into (like competitions, excessive righteousness, being number one), is its power. The woman, who keeps asking, really does not care how old I am; she cares that she is getting old. The woman in class does not mind that I wear a lot of black; she is worried that she is wearing too much color. I have known many Anorexics, and simply people terribly off balance (which I have been myself – off balance, that is), and I think it is incredibly hard to see past the pain of them — what a shitty card to have been dealt.
Truth is I am not feeling dark, unless that is, you consider the acid-reflux-filled stomach monster that kept me tossing, turning and praying for an exorcism ALL NIGHT LONG, all night. I think it was the chili. And now unable to stop my head bobbing and my toe tapping, I take my Dark Friday post the long way round (great Ewan-McGregor-Reality-Motorcycle-television-show, by the way, and yes, it is indeed called, “The Long Way Round”). Well, as I digress, I sing, and in truth, I also imagine a sexy Ewan, and his lovely friend Charley Boorman, riding their motorcycles and singing with me. I cannot resist, and continue singing this beloved 1980’s Lionel Ritchie classic quietly (of course) while Dave and I sit in a Starbucks. “Well, my friends, the time has come, to raise the roof and have some fun, throw away the work to be done, let the music play on….play on, play on, play on…all night long. All night.” Come on. Sing it. Sing with me.
Do you know it? I will not assume you do. If not, may I suggest you Google this lovely treat, and know as you do that I am singing it too.
Back on track, back in my acid-reflux-praying-for-an-exorcism haze, it was now 2:00 a.m. and as Dave made his way into our room, then the bathroom, and then onto the toilet, all I could think is, “Dave, come back! I can’t get up. I need you. I need you to go back down to the kitchen and get me a chewable Pepcid (best stomach settler ever, btw)!”
Instead finished his business, washed his hands, and then took the full, recommended time to brush his teeth, and I am certain he flossed too, damn it! Writhing in pain, never have I wanted this man so badly and no, it did not occur to me that I could simply get the Pepcid myself. About and hour or so later (in truth, about five minutes) Dave made his way to our bed. “Please oh please Dave, before you climb in our warm and cozy bed, will you please go get me a Pepcid?”
And he did.
Dark Friday? As pukey, grumpy, shrill, and dark as I was this morning, dark is not where I am now. My guess is that even though he totally got on my nerves earlier, I feel light, because Dave is home. I am grateful. Not all of my moments are light, and I promise now that I will paint true. I promise I will not apply the Polyurethane on too generously or hide away my sorrow under a massive and glossy sheen. My guess is that when most of us chip away at our carefully crafted self-presentations, we are filled with both brilliant light and scary dark. We are really duct tape together pieces of who we think we need to be and who we are.
I know when I write, people respond most often to the dark, and through my words I have been able to reach that place I have always been afraid to touch. I am also glad that dark is not usually how I spend my boring day-to-day. That being said, I love to write dark. I don’t mind the weepy melancholy. I don’t mind the bat-shit-crazy fear. I like the rush, and it probably makes me a little weird, right? Oh well. I love that when I write the dark, hands break through, encouraging comments seep in, and somehow me through the tunnel. Thank you for that.
I think about navigating our way through the dark, and finding the door, I think about all the stuff. I think about all the garbage, the scary tragedies, the suicides, thoughts of suicide, the abusive wives, the passive husbands, the mean stupid mean girls (yes, I intentionally used the word meant twice), the Botox, the bullies (who really do come in all shapes, ages and sizes), the I-am-better-than yous, the eating disorders, the drunk drivers who kill our babies, their meth addicted mothers, and alcoholic grandmothers. I think about the devastating and unexpected illnesses, the houses taking forever to sell, the husband who works far away, the caustic, selfish divorces, the job losses, and all the other things that make us grow stronger, or kill us, right? Ouch!
And as I think I have spent a lot of time thinking about why our various veneers vary in thickness, a tongue twister indeed. Try saying Irish wristwatch ten times fast. Irish wristwatch. Irish wristwatch…I think most of us are aware of the fact that we are currently living in a world where our insides do not always match our outsides; and my guess is that some of us think our insides are so horrible that we paint our outside walls into a fortress. We make great effort to keep our walls secure, and because we do, I think a lot about transparency. And by this I mean the ability to find our way out of the dark while not hiding the fact that we were there. Sure, I see the need for a strong foundation, yet wonder why we can’t install a few windows? Are our insides really that bad? And maybe if we could let people see in, they would see that their insides are filled with a beating heart, lungs filled with air, and a healthy digestive system (nod to my achy stomach). Maybe we would all see that our own insides are not that ugly either, you know what I mean? I know you do. We don’t have to be a bitch about our bad day, do we have to always pretend everything is ok?
How can we be ourselves while not scaring the crap out of everyone around us? How do we wear our truth? How can we make our dark shine brighter than our light?
A small, yet wordy, preface: I have a lot to say. I always have a lot to say, and usually Dave or a few phenomenal friends get that earful. With Dave working far, far away, and because I believe one friend needs to attend to her dog (hi, Opie) and the other, for instance, well, I’ve already spoken with her at least seventeen times just today, I think I need to dust off my old blog, and find another way to let these words escape. Oh yes, I used to blog.
These days, I try to keep silent. I stop my thinking, and simply freeze the overly-analyzed thoughts, only letting them escape when letting them free is better than keeping them in, like now. I have such an icy mouthful accumulating. It is like I am stuck in that space right after, say, one shoves a giant spoonful of Mint Oreo Cookie ice cream in one’s mouth, and currently that yummy, very cold spoonful is stuck, frozen right in that spot, the spot the ice cream moves to as one begins to swallow; uncomfortable at best. As my throat throbs, my mind is confusing my frozen brain chaos for an epic ice cream headache. Words need to get out! My eyes water while I reflexively place my warm tongue to the roof of my mouth. Seriously, if I am not careful, as my frozen words begin to thaw, some poor, unsuspecting Whole Foods employee, or worse, a terrified mom (because she will be terrified once she hears what I have to say) well, that unsuspecting soul will get an earful of my now warming words. I can’t hold the frozen forever. I cannot cover the enormous mouthful or the enormity of this issue in one post either. Scratching the surface, kind of like nails on a chalkboard, is what I promise.
The Story: Remember what the airlines say, “Put your mask on first, and then help.” I think that sometimes we are so mired in our own stuff that we forget the, “And then help,” part (myself included).
It could have been anywhere. I could have been with any group of women, yet a Mormon Church Relief Society Meeting is where it happened to be. In case you do not know, Relief Society is the women’s auxiliary arm of the Mormon Church. On Sundays, Relief Society fills one of the three church hours. I debated whether I should include where I was, because I did not want to distract from the story, yet including it will, in my opinion, paint a clearer picture. So yes, I found my way to a Mormon Church Meeting, (long story, don’t read into it either way, by the way, don’t judge, ok, judge, but do not assume).
As I sat in this Mormon Church Relief Society Meeting, my head was pounding, and not from ice cream. I did not want to be there, but there is where I was. For a quick escape, I sat close to the door, next to my sweet, and very talkative neighbor. I listened as the women teaching the lesson shared her message. She asked for comments, and in the one place I thought I was free from the Internet, there it was. After a woman shared her dislike and disgust of Facebook, 500 gazillion members and counting, “I may be the only person in the world under 80 years old who does not have a Facebook Account blah, blah, blah…” Another woman sheepishly raised her hand, “I just joined Facebook and I have connected with family I never knew…” Like erupting popcorn, all over the room the hands flew. Church is a place where no one really knows me, and thank God, no one there knew I used to blog. Pop. Pop. Pop. The hands popping high, and I thinking, “How can I be at church and people be having this discussion?” yet there I was. And the there was the hand, and like my first spoonful of ice cream, once the hand went down, her words began to churn, “I am a young mother. I love my children. I am crafty. I would like to make money for my family. I am also busy raising my children. There are all of those CRAFTY MORMON WOMEN BLOGS. There are the Mormon Women Blogs that tell you how to make your house just like theirs and there are the Mormon Women Blogs that talk about their happy, happy family. [insert frustrated pause here] I cannot be them. I want to. I can’t. Their kids are perfect. Their lives are perfect. They make money from showing the rest of us their perfect worlds. I am too busy wiping noses and changing diapers.” I could feel the I-am-less-than bleeding out of her.
And as I listened, I literally threw up in my mouth while my heart sank. It wasn’t the place, and maybe this isn’t the place, but COME ON PEOPLE, something needs to be said. As my story moves, I will tell you WHY. At that moment, while I sat in church, I did know better. I was simply afraid to speak. I should have opened my mouth, yet I remained silent. Shame on me!
The young woman continued, “If only I could be like them. If only I could be them.” I wanted to scream, but I didn’t want to look foolish, or better, more foolish than I was already feeling. I wanted to stand up in this room, a room of mostly strangers and shout, “YOU ARE GOOD ENOUGH JUST THE WAY YOU ARE!” I know. In my head, I see myself as so Free-to-Be-You-And-Me. Hey, Rosie Greer (most of you are too young. Google it), well, Rosie Greer had a point when he sang those sweet words, “It’s all right to cry,” and all the other things you do by simply being you.
As she talked, she sparked a conversation. I am so glad she did. The other women persisted, and the hands continued to pop. I wanted to assure her, I wanted to assure them. I wanted to say, “It’s a bunch of smoke and mirrors.” I wanted to tell them, “Sure, some of those women totally have it together, or at least mostly together, and are super cool, but behind those Arty Salt-Flats-Family-Photos (a Utah thing), behind those lovely Instagram shots, the “Facebook happy” posts, the “Martha Stewart” look (something she mentioned), the white-stitched-jeans, the dessert bars, and impeccably sewn Etsy dresses, I promise you they all struggle. They doubt. They compete. They take Prozac. They weep silently. They overeat. They starve themselves, they exercise too much, their husbands are depressed, and while they work on their blog, their houses are a mess.” Desperately, I wanted to say, “WOMEN, you are all good! You deserve a space on this planet. You DO NOT have to be perfect!” (Yes, I know I am being dramatic, but it breaks my soul to see and feel so much pain. And damn it, dramatic is what I feel.) And finally, I wanted to tell this woman. Hey, I don’t know you, but you are here. You seem like an awesome mom, and guess what, it just doesn’t matter. Did you know that scientifically getting “likes” on Facebook or Instagram are one of the simplest forms of a Dopamine response? It’s crack for the non-drug user. Facebook “likes” or sponsorships on your Crafty Mormon Blog do not mean that you are better, or more perfect. You are good!
Unfortunately, this is just a sampling of the bigger issue. I really wish they did, but Mormon Women Bloggers and Mormon Women have not cornered the market on competition, the freakish strive for perfection, the need to keep up, or at all costs, and I really mean, at all costs, the need to be number one. I think we all know that.
We seem to be living in a world where so much energy is spent on the outward, on the appearance of looking like we have it together, that our kids are perfect, damn it, and that our marriages are painless; all the while people are disintegrating on the inside. We aren’t taking time to be the smart pig, of The Three Little Pigs, that is, and we are building are very attractive houses with straw, you know what I mean? We are so concerned with keeping up that we are forgetting to build together. We live in a world where it is easier to look away, wait, I mean, pull out our cellphone and videotape the tragedy, then putting our cellphone in our pocket, offering to help, especially when helping is not the popular thing to do, and Epic Fail YouTube video gets us way more friends, right? This issue of striving is so big. I know I am at fault. Like I said and for starters, I tend to keep my mouth shut instead of sticking my words out there. Women we are hard on ourselves and we are hard on each other. Please, it has to change. Why the hell do we stand on top, crushing each other, instead of standing together? Why can’t we be more brave? Why don’t we take sides, or go the road less traveled? Seriously, why?
Didn’t all of those as-I-have-loved-you-love-one-another church lessons, or those after school specials, or that Three Cups of Tea book (wait, he was a fraud), well and nevertheless, didn’t they teach us anything? Leave “Facebook Happy” to some far away land, a land Brandon Mull can create; a world with wizards, thinking zombies, and a world with amazing people, people who can remove a seed from their neck, plant it and be reborn. And if I am making no sense, let me tell you why we need to reach out, be honest, accept ourselves warts and all, throw away the smoke machines, and break the mirrors.
Earlier this week I heard about a woman. This amazing Mormon woman, a woman with a high level of education, had been student body president, an athlete, an active church attender, and also served an LDS Mission, was a friend, a daughter, a sister a wife and a mother, well, earlier this week, this lovely and amazing woman, alone, drove to a park and ended her life.
I did not know her. I knew her brother. I have no idea the unbearable pain and soul-crushing heartache she was in. I cannot judge her. I can only be sad, sad needed to go. Did she feel less than? Was she struggling to keep up? We can make excuses and say she was depressed. Of course she was sad.
She was also our sister, our wife, our mother, our friend, and for some reason it was better for her to leave this world alone then to hang on. I only wish I knew her. Her sudden death has hit me quietly, and has broken my heart. As a sister, daughter, wife, mother and a friend, myself, I think of the spaces those titles fill. She was someone’s daughter. She was someone’s mother, and now she is gone.
As I think of her, I think of the moments when I judge or simply look away. Sure, I know we need to fix ourselves, and that no one can make us happy. We all know that. I would like to think, however, I could be there to hold someone’s hand, especially when their own world seems so dark, and bottom-of-the-ocean like. I hope I could at least hold their hand long enough so they can resurface, and catch their breath. In those dark, scary, and uncomfortable moments, I hope I can remind someone that they are good enough, and completely worth it. I do not know enough about suicide except to say that suicide crosses all socioeconomic ranges, all ages, races and religions. Statistically, there seems to be way too many people who have completely lost hope. According to national statistics, 105 people end their life each day in the United States alone.
Blogs and Facebook be damned, because when the Apocalypse comes (wink wink) the internet will die, including crafty Mormon Women blogs, and with all the surviving cock roaches, and 10 million pounds of unground wheat (remember Mormons have a lot of food storage), I will also take the following, because what we have centered or stuffed inside is what we will always have. I will be grateful. I will be grateful for those moments, especially the moments when I am feeling completely less than. I will be (because I already am) grateful for those breathless, paralyzing moments, when a complete stranger, a Whole Foods cashier, a woman at church, an empathetic park mom, or a dear friend sees me, reaches their hand out, and their heart forward long enough to lift me to safety. Instead of trampling me to get out of the burning plane, or more apt, letting me suffocate, they stop and they help. How cool is that? My guess is that they already had their oxygen mask on, or are very good at holding their breath. Breathe and then lift. And as they wait for me to put my mask on, I am grateful they always stay long enough to hear me breathe. Thank God!
