Take Up Your Cross, Not Mine: Why You Shouldn't Feel Guilty About Your Pain

“Hey, I tell you what is. Big city, hmm? Live, work, huh? But not city only. Only peoples. 

Peoples is peoples.”

~ Pete, The Muppets Take Manhatten

May is National Mental Health Awareness Month.  Join me in blogging to erase the stigma of mental illness so our loved ones can seek the help they need.

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our life sucks: the water heater broke and there’s no money in the budget for it; or your car died on the highway, AAA is late again, and you weren’t planning on spending money on car repair; or you went to the grocery store and when you came out, someone had scraped the side of your just detailed car.

You beat yourself up for wasting a weekend in bed because depression kicked your butt and sucked all the joy and energy out of you.  Again.

And then you meet someone. 

Someone who would love a broken water heater because that means they have a roof over their head.  Someone who would pay for car repair or wouldn’t care about a scratch in their paint because that would mean they have a car.  Someone who would trade days of depression with the prospect of life with two children who suffer from childhood onset schizophrenia.

Somewhere, out there, is someone who bears a cross that would crush you. 

Somewhere, out there, is someone who is sure they can’t make it another day.

Somewhere, out there, is someone whose father/mother/brother/uncle/cousin/neighbor

beats/rapes/tortures/neglects/abuses them.

Somewhere, out there, someone has it worse than you do. 

Suffering is Suffering

Reminds me of a Demotivator poster (I love those guys!):

Image Credit: http://www.despair.com/

What can I say? All wounds benefit from a little gallows humour.

My point is this: suffering is suffering.  My cross may be lighter than yours, but that doesn’t make it any easier for me to carry.  What may feel like nothing to you, may debilitate me for days.  And I don’t bat a heavily mascaraed eyelash at things that would make you cringe in horror.

In the not so distant past, I would feel guilty and ashamed that situations and events that other people took for granted would throw me into an emotional tailspin.  And when people would tell me their stories of abandonment, neglect, addiction, and abuse, I would mentally fold up my “depression” blanket and offer comfort but never ask for it. 

Because I didn’t have it as bad as they did.  And I therefore had no right to be depressed.  Or to feel sad.  Or to crave oblivion.

But that isn’t true.  Because not all hearts are built to handle the same amount of tears. 

Take Up Your Cross, Not Mine

There are sixteen different personality types (Myers-Briggs); sixteen different ways of looking and interacting with the world.  And that’s before environmental and genetic factors are put into play.

Last night, I watched a documentary on childhood onset schizophrenia on Discovery and my heart just broke for the Schofield family and for the children who suffer from this very rare disorder.  And I know I wouldn’t be as patient and long suffering as those parents.  I would have given up a long time ago.

Does that make my suffering any less than theirs?  Does it make Susan and Michael’s suffering any less than Jani’s?  Of course not. Suffering is not a competition. 

Your pain is valid. 

It is valid if you are suffering from mental illness.

It is valid if your child is suffering from an emotional disorder.

It is valid if your child is suffering because of your struggle with mental illness.

Who’s to say whether one cross is lighter or heavier than another?  Your shoulders may be broad enough to carry yours but not strong enough to carry mine and vice versa.

So don’t let anyone ever try to brush off how you feel or how much pain you’re in because somewhere, out there, someone else suffers more. If you’re in pain, it matters.  

And it is worthy of compassion and treatment.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

To learn more about pediatric schizophrenia, visit Jani’s Journey and Discovery Health’s Born Schizophrenic.

The Gift of Receiving: Accepting Another's Gifts

. . .the bridges had been blown up; we squat on piers that don’t connect anything. . .
~ Ruth Kluger 

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uth Kluger wrote her memoir, Still Alive: A Holocaust Girlhood Remembered  about her experience in Austria during (and after) World War II.  After reading Richard Chess’ unpacking and exploration of her observations about bridging the gaps between “my memories” and “our memories,” I not only want to read the book, I want to take his class at UNC!

This gap is illustrated by an incident where Kluger and some friends were relating their experiences of claustrophobia.  The stories they offered seemed piddling compared to the one she could have told regarding her ride in s stifling boxcar to Auschwitz.  She felt that to have told it would have been rude, that somehow her friends would have resented her.  So she remained silent.

That struck me: this fear that Kluger had to share her story because it might make someone uncomfortable.  She said: “And so my childhood falls into a black hole.”  Chess goes on to discuss how an experience can be informative versus transformative and then relates that to writing. 

But I am stuck on the loneliness of Kluger’s statement.

Perhaps it would have been inappropriate to share her memories with the group.  Perhaps she knew that they would not have received it well.  But what if they had been open?  What if the sympathy she feared she might have elicited was what was needed in that moment?  Such a feeling could have been healing, both for her and for her friends.

Why is this?  Why is receiving a gift ~ whether it be of their time, talent, love, support, or even something material ~ so difficult for us at times?  What makes us uncomfortable with another’s generosity?  Chess discusses this discomfort and relates it to writing and learning:

The desire to understand may also be a natural reaction to the discomfort of being confronted with something new and strange, a discomfort that can trigger feelings of inadequacy and failure. Most of us, I expect, don’t want to sit with such unpleasant feelings, and we might be willing to do anything within reason to rid ourselves of them.

Feelings of inadequacy and failure.  Could that be why we are sometimes poor receivers?  Do we think we are unworthy of the gift?  Maybe we have received gifts in the past that were not freely given ~ that came at a price or with emotional strings attached.  But then, those were not real gifts.  They were bribes, Trojan horses.  So fear of gifts becomes a defense, a protection against further pain.

And we do not like pain.  As Chess says, we will do “anything within reason” to avoid it.  Some of us will even do things outside of reason.  But that is a topic for another post.

It might help us to move in the direction of becoming better receivers if we remember that a gift is always given twice: to the receiver and to the giver.  And when we don’t receive someone’s gift, we both lose. Henri Nouwen, the 20^th century mystic, observed

. . . by receiving we reveal to the givers that they have gifts to offer. . . . we make givers aware of their unique and precious gifts.  Sometimes it is only in the eyes of the receivers that givers discover their gifts.

What an incredible and freeing idea! That in receiving a gift well, we are in turn giving back.

May we all work towards becoming better receivers of each other’s gifts.

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela 

Have you ever felt uncomfortable when you’ve received something?  Were you ever resentful when a friend shared their story?  Share yours in the comments!

The End of One Journey. . .

Trouble is a part of your life, and if you don't share it, you don't give the person who loves you a chance to love you enough.
~ Dinah Shore

Christ is Risen!  Alleluia!  He is truly risen!  Alleluia!

Well, dear readers, I did it.  I made it through forty [almost] days of macrobiotic eating.  In the home stretch I fell off the wagon.  Make that I fell off, got my foot caught in the reins and was dragged kicking and screaming into the Easter Triduum.  But I made it!  And I have to say, I've grown quite fond of brown rice and I shall continue to eat as macro as much as I can [with an occasional loaf of rosemary olive oil bread thrown in here and there] as well as avoiding eating out [the other thing I gave up] unless out with friends.

So why haven't you heard from me in over a month?

No one treads more lightly in revealing personal items then a writer or a lyricist.  Sometimes it helps to connect with the reader/listener.  Other times it gets in the way of the message.  In this instance, est quid est.

My father, God bless him, is eighty-seven.  Once the strongest man in the world, he inches across the floor with a cane.  More than once, his legs have just given up and he winds up bruised.  My mother is much younger than he is and does her best to take care of him and hold down a full time job.  I spend as many weekends with them as I can, but each time I leave, I wonder if it will be last time I see him.

Every phone call from home stops my heart.  Every unanswered ring fills me with agony.  I am consumed with Death, yet am a coward when it comes to talking about the practical matters that must be settled before the inevitable happens.

They say worrying doesn't add one year to your life; in truth, I think it subtracts them.  It certainly takes over conscious and unconscious thought and that does not always leave room for coming up with upbeat and artsy topics or essays. However, since writing is therapeutic for me, I will try to weave the two together, especially since May is Blog-Every-Day Month.

In the meantime, I hope you will understand if sometimes there is radio silence.  Some suffering just can't be expressed in black and white.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

P.S. Prayers for my family are always appreciated!

How A Foodie Fasts

Life expectancy would grow by leaps and bounds if green vegetables smelled as good as bacon.
~ Doug Larson

The past couple of weeks have been a never-ending stream of x-rays, ct-scans, ultra-sounds and numerous hospital stays, all with the same answer: you are perfectly healthy and everything is functioning normally. We will just up the dosage of pain medication for the inexplicable and God-awful pain. Really? Thank you ever so much. Actually, a permanent IV of morphine would do nicely.

In short, the past couple of weeks have been exceedingly boring.

The most horrific part of my mystery illness has been the inability to eat anything. And I do mean anything. Well, anything solid and having any taste at all. Broth. This is what it has come to: broth. Sigh. Man does not live on broth alone….and neither does a Southern cook!

Happily, my non-existence appetite and broth exile has not affected my ability to cook and try new recipes on eager and willing friends and family. So I have filled my bed-ridden time pouring over foodie magazines, devouring old cookbooks and searching gourmet websites for ideas for the next culinary brouhaha: Easter dinner. This year, two of my roommates will be staying in town, so it promises to be a huge and absolutely insane gathering. I cannot wait!! If there is one thing I like better than cooking for my loved ones, it is cooking for a lot of my loved ones! ;-)

It has been a set-in-stone tradition in our family to serve ham for Easter dinner. No Virginia table would be complete without it and the one year we actually had Easter dinner out (the ultimate horror!) I swear I actually heard Robert E. do a 180 in his tomb! I myself am a great upholder of tradition ~ even traditions that are not strictly my own. I soak my soul in them! There is something comforting and connected about traditions ~ they say that what someone did and who they were mattered. And that hopefully we learn from what and who went before us. That being said, I also like to try new things.

So, how does this translate in the kitchen? Well, this year, the traditional ham will take center stage, but the glaze I use will be completely different from any I've tried before. I have not wuite decided on which one will win out, but I have several in the running. And in a supporting role this year will be lamb ~ a meat I have yet had the pleasure of swearing over…I mean, cooking. Not sure what costume it will be wearing when it does make its debut: in a stew or as a roast or perhaps even as chops? Then there will be the chorus: an endless array of sides: twists on old Southern standards, with some appearing in all their old regalia, completely untouched. After all, what’s the point of creating your own tradition if you don’t tip your hat to the old ones?

And the finale? Well, dessert will be a recap of what went before: old and new together. Mom's standard, old-fashioned coconut cake; my sister's rum-soaked banana pudding and something new, which I am still debating: dark chocolate and orange tart with toasted almonds, lemon panna cotta with blackberry sauce or individual maple and marscpone cheesecakes? Hmmm. Maybe I should have my readers vote on which dessert I should make (but of course, not eat!). Well, then ~ which should it be? Let me know!

And have a blessed and delicious weekend! ;-)

Oremus pro invicem,

Mikaela