Tag Archives: trust

Why Wait?

09 Thursday Jun 2016

Posted by in camping, death and dying, earth, Happiness, healing, nature, recovery, Spirituality, Travel, Uncategorized

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2014-10-02 pond swampy Sandhills off Hoffman Road“We never know how many tomorrows we have left: eat dessert first!” “We plan, God laughs.”

The notion that we shouldn’t waste time because we have no idea when ours will be up is all too familiar. We’ve heard it, we’ve said it. Often, it’s a loss of a loved one, or the abrupt change in personal status that makes us take a fresh look at our lives. When my father died in 2013, and a dear friend died a mere 11 days later, I experienced what I’ve just recently heard described as “zombie grief”. I remember trying to describe it to some friends, that sensation of being nearly paralyzed. I was sure, I said, that it was the body’s way of preventing one (me) from doing anything drastic. After a while, I was able to move again, but I struggled both physically and emotionally. Only in relatively far retrospect did it dawn on me that I was depressed, grieving. I felt a great deal of anger, and in a way, it was refreshing, in that I felt freer to say “no”, and I did simplify my life somewhat. I stopped giving so much mental energy to people who took my energy but didn’t replenish it. I realized that changes that had occurred in my work situation needing changing once again. I planned for my departure, taking a two month hiatus and traveled across the country, enjoying plenty of time alone, visiting friends old and new, camping, and doing a little creative work through writing and photography. I returned to North Carolina, and struggled to find a balance of work that would be meaningful as well as pay bills alongside my desire to have some flexibility to do the other things that are important to me. It has not been easy, and still needs some adjusting, but for the most part I am glad for where I am with that process.

A week and a half ago, I had a couple of biopsies done on the sole of one foot. I had been concerned about the appearance of small to medium markings that had not always been there. My father died as a result of metastatic melanoma, which coincidentally appeared on the sole of his foot, so I’d been quietly terrified that those biopsies were going to come back as melanoma. I did share this concern with a couple of friends, but for the most part said nothing. I told one friend that if the report showed melanoma of the type that my father had, there is really nothing to be done about it and I would plan accordingly. I thought for just a moment and said “why am I waiting to find out if I have melanoma before deciding to plan accordingly?” Although I continued to wake up each morning wondering if today would be the day I’d get the bad news, I also spent a lot of time thinking about how important it is for me to continue to work towards ensuring that what I devote my time and energy to is more and more in alignment with those things I hold dear.

This afternoon I got the relieving news that I should keep an eye on things, but there are no high alerts at this time. I am thankful. I also hope I have the capacity to keep my eyes towards those priorities and avoid the trap of complacency. I aim to keep things fresh, and not be afraid to shake life up as I did in the fall when I quit a job that offered a modest salary with those much-coveted benefits in exchange for days and days of adventure, exploration, time with friends, new experiences, another kind of self-confidence, creative energy, and lots of “I wonder what today will bring?” mornings.

Eat dessert first!2014-09-23 dessert first Roccio2014-08-25 torta asadaJune 2016 off 109 trailhead troy nc area

Gifts Postponed

30 Wednesday Dec 2015

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gift to Brueilly from Dad January 2013

Goldie, as some of you know, is my 2008 gold Honda Civic. When I moved to North Carolina from Colorado in 2009, I pulled into town in a blue Subaru Forester towing the smallest U-Haul trailer available. Soon after I arrived, the transmission completely went out on the Forester. I couldn’t afford to replace the whole thing, so I had to let it go and get another car. That’s Goldie. I didn’t name her for a long time, and didn’t say it out loud until after the high drama of April 2015. I went off the road on a dark, rainy night, in either a hydroplane or bump in the road event. I was airborne, spinning 180 degrees and down a steep embankment, getting tangled up in some heavy brush and missing the trees below by inches. Goldie was still running! I got stuck trying to drive back up the steep hill and needed to be towed to the road, but I was able to drive home from there. That was the night I decided that I should appreciate her a little more, and call her by her proper name.

Goldie and I have been through a few exciting events. In the fall of 2012, I was hit on the passenger side by a young man who was in a hurry to leave the bank parking lot. The force deployed the airbag, which tore out the fabric on the car ceiling. That and other damages took Goldie away from me for close to two months. I finally got her back, only to have the engine overheat a week later. What?!? I had her towed to the body shop, because I thought it had to have something to do with that accident and all the work they did. No, they didn’t think so, and so I towed her over to Brueilly Auto Repair. Steve Brueilly had been recommended to me a couple years prior, for minor work. My friend told me that he was highly qualified, and just as important, he was trustworthy. If he can help you out he will, is what I was told. The next day, Steve called me and said “you’re not going to like this. You have a cracked engine block. It costs upwards of 4,000 dollars to replace, and there can be a lot of damage from the crack. I was devastated. I didn’t have that kind of money. I envisioned myself paying two car payments: one for the Civic, which I wouldn’t be able to repair, and another for a car that I would have to buy so I could get around. I called my dad to make sure that this report about cracked engine blocks sounded accurate. He groaned and said yes, it’s very expensive to replace. I decided to just think about it overnight. Steve called me the next day, saying that something seemed strange to them there, so he had called up to the dealership in Greensboro and had them run the VIN number. Turned out there was a recall on that engine block!  He told me to get it up to the Crown Honda in Greensboro, and they’d get her fixed up.

I was in a shocked state, but thanked him profusely for following up on this for me. If he and his staff hadn’t taken the time to figure out what was going on, I would have been in some hot water. I called my dad, this time with a remarkable update. He was delighted and relieved for me, and heaped praise on Brueilly for his consideration and help. “He could have just told you the cost for the job, take it or leave it, and not given it another moment’s thought. He’s a mensch!”

This second event, with the engine block, actually spilled over in 2013, mid-January. Dad had been receiving monthly chemotherapy since October, in an attempt to shrink a liver tumor, a metastatic event from a primary retinal melanoma. The retinal condition had been treated a few years prior, and he had been given clean bills of health at all follow ups with the eye specialist, but it wasn’t really gone from his body. By mid-January, he was getting ready for the fourth and final treatment, with the plan to see the oncologist in February to review whether the treatment had the intended effect, and possibly bought him some time. He expressed some pain and fatigue at that point, but we are certain in hindsight that he was not telling anyone exactly how much pain he was in. He kept about most of his usual daily activities. Dick Marcus was not one to lay around and watch television, but one day I called him, it was a weekday, in the afternoon, and he said “Honey, I’m not feeling well. I’m lying in bed in the middle of the afternoon. You know that’s not a good thing.” It broke my heart, but he was not to be coddled, and it was the only time he alluded to such discomfort. Even then, he thought it was more the side effect of treatment that was getting him down than progression of the disease.

At the end of January, I received a piece of mail from him. There was a note that read “Give this to Brueilly, with my thanks. He might get a kick out of it. Love, Dad” In the envelope with the note was a plastic card, one that he received copies of every year as a member of the Retired NYPD Lieutenants Association. I put it aside, thinking I would stop by one day soon and deliver it to him. Two weeks later, I was flying to New York City to say goodbye to my dad, for the treatment had not worked, and he was gone within days of the oncologist’s report that there was nothing else to do except provide comfort care. Soon after his death, I pulled out the envelope with the card intended for Steve Brueilly. I didn’t want to go and see him and give him the card. I was afraid I’d burst into tears, unable to finish. So, I put it aside, thinking “I’ll get over there soon”. I’ve been there since for auto care, and I’ve never thought about that card. This morning, I was organizing some paperwork. I saw my father’s handwriting on an envelope, and curious, I pulled it out. I could feel the outline of the little plastic card. I read, again, the note, and held the card in my hand. I’m keeping it with me in my glove compartment. Hopefully I will remember to pull it out and present it to Steve the next time I’m over at the shop. I do think he’ll get a kick out of it.

http://www.brueillyautorepair.com/

 

 

Sights, Sounds, and Memories

14 Monday Dec 2015

Posted by in camping, Cochise Stronghold, Cochlear Implant and Hearing, death and dying, healing, recovery, sound, Spirituality, Travel, Uncategorized

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2015-10-13 16.19.55I had the great pleasure of hiking and camping in mid-October at the Cochise Stronghold campground, in the Dragoon Mountains within the Coronado National Forest in southeastern Arizona. I arrived late morning, and enjoyed a hike before setting up camp. At 5,000 feet, it gets chilly once the sun sets at that time of year, but the granite walls and sheer cliffs that surround the campground act to reduce winds that might otherwise make tent camping a bit uncomfortable overnight. With virtually no chance of rain, and little to no perceptible wind, I was able to enjoy a rain tarp-free experience, hunkering down into my sleeping bag as I peered through the mesh of my tent and watched the sky darken and fill with stars. At early morning, I was able to view the sky as it lightened and the sun came over the cliffs, the stars fading from view. I shared the entire campground with just one other camper. He arrived about an hour before sunset. I had two thoughts when he pulled in: “aw, I thought I’d have the place to myself tonight!”, and “should I be concerned?” My gut said it would be fine, that he was just camping out like me, and I was correct. We spoke briefly upon his arrival, then went about our respective business.

I had been sitting and eating my dinner when he pulled into the site. As there is no water whatsoever at that campground, I didn’t attempt to cook rice or pasta or anything that would’ve made excessive demands on my water supply (cooking and cleaning). I boiled some water, first for coffee, which I enhanced with a shot of bourbon, and then boiled more water to heat up a food packet filled with a tasty Indian spiced side dish. With that, some crackers and nuts, and the brew, I was set. While I ate, I wrote down some of my thoughts and feelings about the recent death of an old friend. Betty and I met when I was at college in upstate New York. The mom of the young man I became engaged to (but did not marry), we were close for many years beyond that time. I felt like an extended family member for a long time. Circumstance and distance changed things about 10 years ago, but we remained friendly, with my link to her eldest son keeping me abreast of developments when her health took a serious turn for the worse. Pancreatic cancer ultimately took her from this life. She died a few days after I started my journey, days before I arrived at this stronghold. I felt her presence as I sat on the bench, eating my simple meal and writing about her, about who she was as I understood her, and about her influence on my life. She taught me many things about relationships, family, devotion, and the little things that people do for each other to show love. She had a faith in God that I did not fully understand, yet I loved being around that part of her, because I felt like whatever it was that made her so special was intricately woven by that fabric, and I hoped it would rub off on me. I think it did, somewhat.

I heard so many birds calling as sunset came to the campground. Earlier in the afternoon, there were two woodpeckers nearby just having a ball, flitting here and there, banging away at trees, squawking, looking askance, I’d swear, at my feeble attempts to photograph them, to capture a focused shot or two. As I listened to the sounds around me, I remembered how thrilled Betty was for me at the success of my first cochlear implant, the technology that has allowed me to hear again after decades of severe hearing impairment. A musician, it must’ve saddened her more than she let on that I was losing my connection with the hearing world, especially with music. So as I retired to the camp tent for the night, I reflected on how much she meant to me, and how she made me feel like I mattered to her, and how cheered she would be to know that I could hear all those marvelous, musical sounds in the natural world again.2015-10-13 17.27.25

Into The Sunshine: Living With Trigeminal Neuralgia

10 Friday Jul 2015

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trigeminal_neuralgia medicalook dot com

If you were to Google Trigeminal neuralgia, you’d see a number of key features. Wikipedia covers both TN and atypical TN pretty well.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trigeminal_neuralgia

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atypical_trigeminal_neuralgia

Briefly, it is a neuropathic disorder stemming from the trigeminal nerve. It is marked by episodes of intense pain; in fact, it has been described as being among the worst pain known to humans. You know how the doctor or nurse may ask you where your pain is on a scale of 0 to 10? It’s a 12. It is also quite difficult to diagnosis, and often treatment is tried with the hopes that there may be symptom suppression based on particular symptoms in the face, eye, head and ear, rather than there being a specific test to diagnose it. It has been spoken of as “the suicide disease” because of the intensity of pain and the difficulty in managing the condition. It sometimes presents in older patients after a bout of shingles. It can also manifest as the result of physical trauma.

I have some friends who have heard some of my stories regarding physical challenges that I’ve had throughout my life. I have generally adopted an attitude of acceptance and to large extent tolerance of the various issues. One, however, has been such a challenge that I admit to having wondered from time to time if it was worth continuing to live with it. I am not suicidal. It’s just that everyone has their limits, and I was afraid I was nearing mine. I’d been dealing with a particular set of pain issues for so long (since 1998 I sometimes say, but the lesser episodes came even earlier) that I rarely even talked about it. What for? No one seemed to understand how to help me, and while I appreciate a little sympathy as much as the next person, it was way beyond that by the time I took a chance and spoke about it to a good friend, someone who is knowledgeable about oral/facial issues.

I described the severe pain: stabbing, throbbing, burning pain that I had been experiencing since 1998. The first major flare up was so severe that it had me convinced that something was terribly wrong with my teeth in the upper right quadrant. The dentist I saw for evaluation thought so, too. I was told I needed a root canal. I was shocked, because up until that point, except for several fillings in my teeth, I’d never had dental issues. I loved going to the dentist, in fact. The first root canal was done. I was no better. In fact, I felt worse! She advised that it was now the tooth next to it that also needed a root canal. After the third in a row was completed, it became apparent that something else was going on.

Let me stop here for a second. It’s tempting at this point to say what in the world was the dentist thinking? Incompetent! The fact is, though, that it is not uncommon for people who have experienced this constellation of symptoms in the face to be misdiagnosed. There are folks who have had whole quadrants of teeth extracted, because the pain was assessed as needing this course of treatment. Root canals, I’ve learned, are also not that uncommon.

So fast forward many, many years. Years of avoiding the dentist, as I no longer enjoyed getting work done on my mouth. I’d read up a bit and heard about trigeminal neuralgia, but erroneously thought that surgery was the only definitive treatment, and there were lots of risks involved with that, so I thought well, I am going to have to live with it. The episodes came on a regular basis, but usually lasted less than a day, subsiding over the hours. More recently, it seemed to step up its game. The pain would often last for two days or more. Yes, really. I felt like someone was stabbing my eye with a toothpick, and the eye would run constantly, my jaw would feel locked up, and it seemed like the breaks between episodes were getting shorter and shorter. When I finally took a chance and shared this with my friend, she immediately recognized that I was experiencing symptoms that could indicate TN, and I learned that they have some success with anti-epileptics to suppress symptoms. Did I want to try this? I was prescribed a low dose of gabapentin. I felt some slight improvement, but there were still a lot of what I call break-through episodes.

About two weeks ago, after incrementally increasing the dose to 900mg/day, I started to have some severe break through pain. Honestly? I thought FUCK! This isn’t going to work, what am I going to do, and on and on it went. That afternoon, I was eating a snack at my desk at work and I felt a piece of tooth break in the lower right quadrant. SHIT! Now I had a broken tooth, and I was more in a panic that I would have to have dental work than I was about the cost (and trust me, I was panicked about the cost, so you can imagine). I contacted my oral surgeon friend for a suggestion on what dentist to contact. I had not been to a dentist, not once, since I moved to North Carolina in 2009. Scary, I know, but this is how I have become because of my pain experience. I was given the name of a couple of dentists and chose to make an appointment with Henry Killian in Asheboro. He is really wonderful. He listens well, he has been in practice for decades and he understands. I had the longest evaluation I ever recall by any dentist and we came up with a plan. We were both thrilled, too, that my dedicated efforts to good oral hygiene were apparent. I should get a cleaning at some point, though. 🙂

My oral surgeon friend had asked me a question soon after the tooth broke: how are you doing with regards to the trigeminal neuralgia? I said you know what? It was really bad this morning and I was in panic mode. It is not as severe now. It was suggested that the tooth that broke may have been stressing for days or even weeks and could have been triggering the break through pain. This was actually a great reassurance to me, and reinforced for me the likelihood that this is what I’ve been living with for so long. I have not had shingles, but I have survived physical trauma, and it seems possible that there is a connection. I will explore this in further writings in the months ahead.

When I shared part of this story with another friend the other day, she said “I always think that when you’re cranky it’s because of your challenges with your job, but perhaps it’s the chronic pain”. I have been thinking about that a lot lately, actually. How much one’s mood can be affected by chronic pain is something I am well aware of, but I hadn’t turned the mirror on myself. It helps to know.

I’m doing a lot better now. I may have to increase my dose, as I can still feel it wanting to break through, but the pain level is much more manageable these days.

I feel incredibly blessed to have crossed paths with people who understand, and who care.

2015-06-23 20.36.04 (2)

Community and Hope

29 Monday Jun 2015

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Mother Emanuel June 24 2015 photo by Beth Summers

(Services outside Mother Emanuel AME Church, Charleston, SC 6-24-15)

“I stood between a black man and a black lady right in front of the church. Holding their hands in worship, singing and praying together. They are no longer my “black” friends, they are my friends.”

That quote is from a conversation my friend Beth and I have been carrying on over these difficult and remarkable days. In an act of blatant racist hatred, one white man entered the historic Mother Emanuel AME church in Charleston, South Carolina, sat for an hour with a bible study group and then opened fire on the participants, all of whom were black. He killed nine church members, including the pastor, the Reverend Senator Clementa Pinckney.

The city of Charleston, and indeed the whole of the country, has reeled from the impact. The efforts to understand, explain, categorize, this one event have been astounding. There are those who call it an act of terrorism, others who suggest that the killer was mentally disturbed. The collective pain of those who recognize in it how far we have yet to go in this country to experience a deep healing and respect for all regardless of color or creed is palpable.

On a personal level, I immediately wondered what my friend Beth, born and raised in South Carolina, was thinking about what was going on in her hometown. Beth has lived all but a few years of her life in the Charleston area, and takes tremendous pride in being a Southern woman. We are something of a study in contrasts, as I am one of those “damned Yankees”, never mind that I have lived elsewhere than my native New York City for a good part of my life. I am also Jewish, and I am reasonably certain that Judaism is a relative mystery to her. Though we have spoken frankly with one another about many things, in the wake of the church shooting, with the killer’s white supremacist motivation, I wondered what I would discover in my friend, now that her beloved hometown was under a microscope and caught in the high beams.

I think that sharing some of our conversation, conveyed through written messages, does a better job of telling than I could do on my own. Shared with Beth’s permission. Photo credit: Beth Summers

At Mother Emanuel AME church for services in the days before Reverend Pinckney’s funeral:

Wonderful evening! So glad I went. I debated because I knew it would be very late getting home, but it was so worth it. Not in my dreams would I have imagined, even one week ago, that there would be such a gathering at Marion Square. All ages and races gathered together. I stood between a black man and a black lady right in front of the church. Holding their hands in worship, singing and praying together. Yes, they are no longer my “black” friends, they are my friends. I saw a white minister break down and beg his “colored” brothers and sisters to forgive him, and he repented for his sins. A woman walked up to him hugged him and told him “I forgive you”, and one by one most did the same. The outpouring of forgiveness was incredible. There were about 10 different ministers from all denominations, and each spoke briefly. Very powerful experience! So proud of the unity, and proud to be a part of it.

On the Confederate flag:

So, Strom Thurmond’s son, Senator Paul Thurmond, has called for the Confederate flag to come down. I am really shocked about that, as well as about many of the others who are changing their views. It won’t be an easy battle for them. McConnell made sure when it was moved in 2000 that it would be almost impossible to touch it again. But there is hope!

Did I tell you my family has one of the Confederate flags that flew over the Capitol Dome? Yep, about $2,000 was bid for it. They changed it out each day and donors were able to take them home.

(Deb: Wow! That’s incredible. So, where is it now?)

I need to ask Alex. It has to be somewhere in his home. It’s properly folded and encased in a frame, where it belongs, just like the one flying in Columbia. That needs to be placed in a museum.

From the Post and Courier: http://www.postandcourier.com/article/20150623/PC16/150629748/1006/paul-thurmond-calls-for-flag-to-come-down

Reflections on racial tensions in the past, and parallel experiences as an “out” lesbian:

I still recall a day about 20 years ago. I walked into my own church, and I could feel the uneasiness among those gathered outside the sanctuary. I heard whispering and even one say, “I will not go in there today”. As I entered I looked around and I saw a young black girl sitting with the daughter of one of the members, along with several other young girls. The girl had a slumber party the night before, and brought all her friends to church. I was shocked by the fact that so many reacted so strongly to this. Unfortunately, the attitude of that church remains the same today. It is somewhat better due to implementing the Upward basketball program and all are invited for that, but their feelings about the actual worship hall remains the same. Then there is the fact that the last time I attended a worship service there, only one lady spoke to me. That was after Bill and I split, and they all found out I was a lesbian. I no longer felt welcome. I did attend the service when Alex did part of the sermon not too long ago, as well as for Bill’s funeral and the funeral for the father of a friend of mine. Many speak with me now, but I still don’t feel welcome. I started thinking about all that last night and how prejudiced and narrow thinking that church is even today. It’s sad. But there is always hope, there must be hope for change.

Services outside Mother Emanuel June 21 2015 by Beth Summers

(Services outside of Mother Emanuel AME Church 6-21-15)

Retreat weekend with MDSA–brief thoughts

30 Thursday Apr 2015

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Ocean Grove MDSA weekend 2015

I think I am going to need some time to process my experience at the retreat I attended this past weekend with Making Daughters Safe Again (MDSA). I would like to share a little bit now, and then more as I see things more clearly. Ten of us, survivors of mother-daughter sexual abuse, along with licensed, clinical therapists and interns did incredible work on the range of issues that confront us as survivors. We had a beautiful space to do the work, a lovely Inn at the Jersey shore.

One of the last things we did as a group, on Sunday morning, was open up boxes that were filled with cards on which we had written notes to each other throughout the weekend. I have taken the notes and compiled the various comments into what feels like a short letter from one person to me. Somehow, it feels more powerful to look at them collectively, although the individual messages are heartfelt and deeply appreciated.

Deborah,

Congratulations on making it through your first retreat! I’m so glad you were able to attend. It was an honor to be a part of your journey. From the first time I saw you, I thought “what a kind smile she has”. As the weekend went on I saw that it was a reflection of who you are, considerate of others and very kind. You were always so affirming and had a warm spirit. My wish for you is that you are on the receiving end of the same, especially from significant others. The way you talked to your mother during the empty chair exercise was amazing! Thank you so much for your bravery in that exercise. It was powerful. I find your courage to share your experiences in an open way incredibly inspiring. I was encouraged to share more and be more vulnerable by your wonderful example. I am so glad I met you. You have inspired me. Your insights were spot on. Thank you for being so open! I was so touched when you shared about your grandfather after I read my letter to my grandmother. I could tell that you truly understood exactly how I was feeling. I hope you will come back. It was great getting to know you. I look forward to seeing you next year.

Repost at Stir Journal: On Forgiveness, Trust, and Desire (Part Two)

29 Saturday Nov 2014

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Continuing with the re-posting of my essays run at Stir Journal (www.stirjournal.com) I offer the link to Part Two here. I encourage readers to spend time at Stir Journal. They are doing some important and creative work!

http://www.stirjournal.com/2014/11/28/my-stir-on-forgiveness-trust-and-desire-part-two/

On Forgiveness, Trust, and Desire (Part Two)

19 Friday Sep 2014

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Entangled in Chaos by JEA 9-2013 part two Forgiveness Trust and Desire

I do some of my best thinking while I’m in the shower. Surely that’s not an uncommon thing. Maybe it’s the warm water coursing over the body, relaxing the muscles and releasing tension that may also be locking up thought processes. Anyway, one recent morning my mind wandered over to an essay that I had written, at that point, nearly a year ago. The piece itself is not very lengthy, but it took the better part of my life to be ready to formulate those sentences and share them with, at least theoretically, the whole world. In it, I spoke of my experience as a survivor of mother-daughter sexual abuse. Here is the link to that piece, if you wish to read it. Although this piece stands on its own, reading the earlier essay can put the current piece into perspective: https://visionsofsong.com/2013/09/04/on-forgiveness-trust-and-desire-part-one/

As in Part One, we are now in the period of days prior to the Jewish New Year during which we are mindful of the need to reflect on the past year, on situations in which we may have harmed others, and those in which we have been harmed. We make sincere offers of apology and pleas for forgiveness. We open our hearts to accept apology offered to us, and grant forgiveness for trespasses we have endured. In the earlier essay I have spoken about the internal struggle I have had in trying to find a way towards forgiveness of my mother’s abusive, harmful actions towards me. Those actions which were not limited to abuse of a sexual nature, but for many reasons, my perception, my reality, is that it was those that caused the gravest harm to me. I will be 51 years old next month, and I am only fairly recently moving towards a habituation of love and appreciation for myself and having a relatively balanced sense of comfort in my own skin.

I’d had an expectation of myself after sharing that essay. I anticipated taking a few months to let the feeling of having put it all out there become more natural, after fielding the comments from readers both publicly shared and privately messaged. I sat down and began to write no fewer than half a dozen times between December and July, but barely got started before I got stuck and had to walk away. I was doing a lot of emotional work during that time, which I will touch on here, but I could not get my next set of thoughts to flow. I realized I didn’t know what I wanted to accomplish. I thought, well, maybe that’s all there was? Maybe that’s all I needed to do? It didn’t resonate with me, though, given the rich inner experiences I was having around healing.

Then, with a head of hair full of Pert shampoo, I began to reflect on some work done by Desmond Tutu and his daughter Mpho Tutu. The Forgiveness Challenge is a sensitive, thoughtful, and structured approach to forgiveness. I shall not spend a lot of time describing their work, but I will share the link and encourage you to check it out. It is eye-opening and potentially life changing healing work from two people who know more than a little about the need to forgive. http://forgivenesschallenge.com/  I am in the process of working through the steps, and I read a few pages of their related (but not required) book, The Book of Forgiving. Just prior to my introduction to The Forgiveness Challenge, I had engaged in a series of sessions with a local and very skilled practitioner of EFT. Emotional Freedom Technique. Here again I will not go into tremendous depth about the practice, although you must feel free to send me a message if you have questions. I am generally skeptical about such alternative techniques that make claims that cannot readily be scientifically defended. I suspended judgment because I was curious about it after having a long conversation with the practitioner in an unrelated setting, and because I was in a lot of pain and the idea of freeing up some of that stuff that was holding me back was very tempting. In the end, I found it to be unexpectedly helpful, in that it gave me some language and tools to use to reorient myself and focus my responses to my emotional reactions.

As I rinsed out my hair (which I’ve mentioned elsewhere that I’m allowing to grow longer and wilder by the day) and thought about these different experiences of not merely thinking about forgiveness, but building the skills I seem to lack around relationships, and I had a sudden realization that the next part, and the next essay, would relate the complexity of Trust and Desire in the context of healing from abuse, and about how it is about nothing less than forgiveness: what it is, what it looks like and feels like and how the process of forgiving another for serious transgressions such as child abuse, spousal abuse, hate crimes, is as much about building the framework for healing oneself from the damage of shame, guilt, layers of secrets and self-loathing as it does about freeing the other from the shackles they wear as a result of their crimes—both metaphorical and (occasionally) literal.

As I did with the first essay on the subject, I have borrowed (with permission) a photo taken by friend and nature photographer Eric Abernethy. He has done some remarkable photographic work with birds, turtles, beavers, and a host of others on Lake Lucas, and more recently wanders deep in the Sandhills region of North Carolina capturing phenomenal images of snakes, frogs, and other delights. It’s his imagery from the lake that resonates so strongly for me around this subject: in the first, the mirror work from the dark places, swimming deep and desperate for a lungful of air, and in this, a tangle of thatch, leaves, webs, yet there is sunlight shining through the in-between places. I get the sense of coming up for air: still not in the clear but there is ample reason to be hopeful. The surface is about to be broken.

On Forgiveness, Trust, and Desire (Part One)

04 Wednesday Sep 2013

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You’re my daughter. I can do what I want.” 

This is the time of year in the Jewish tradition that one focuses with intent on matters of redemption and forgiveness. We look deeply into ourselves through the mirror of the past year, making a frank appraisal of our thoughts and our conduct towards our friends and family, our communities, ourselves. Whenever possible, we are to approach those who we may have harmed, and offer up apology and request for forgiveness from the injured parties. We are to allow ourselves to be open to those who approach us with a willing spirit, asking the same of us. Over the years I have been an exuberant participant in the rituals related to Selichot, the penitential prayer period. It feels right to tell someone I am sorry for any hurt I may have inflicted, intentionally or unintentionally, and to grant forgiveness to those who apologize for their own transgressions. In some instances it has been difficult, but never has there been any regret for apology or forgiveness.  It lightens the load of living, it really does.

There is one exceptional challenge in this process for me. Every year I run up against it, and though I see it from a different angle each time, it remains impervious to this redemptive process. I have made my usual attempts to find it in my heart, for myself as much as the other, to forgive egregious transgressions. I have also gone at it from the other side, bringing into the light some of the issues and asking for the opportunity to work together through some aspects of it, but I have met with the strongest denial and resistance. In other words, I have asked to be offered an opportunity to resolve bad feelings and be offered apology for transgression against me, and I have attempted to freely give forgiveness in the absence of such an offering. I pirouette and do running jumps and backward flips and I remain where I stand.

I am a sexual abuse survivor. The perpetrator was my mother. Until very recently, I shared this truth with precious few. I have since shared the truth with a handful of friends. Only recently have I begun to realize that I harm not only myself by keeping my truth the world’s best-kept secret. It denies others the possibility of understanding that yes, there are mothers who sexually abuse their children. It does harm to other women (and men) who feel they are truly the only person on earth who has survived this particular abuse, that there is nowhere to turn, no one who can understand their experience. There is a fair amount in the literature that reflects belief about the destruction wrought due to sexual abuse by one’s own mother. The shattering of innocence by the primary nurturer, the one who we ought to be able to run to when we are hurt, or scared, or in danger, is seen as emotionally devastating for the survivor. But few seem to have actually met any of us. There is a belief that it is rare, that the maternal impulse is that strong. Perhaps it is. But I suspect it is not as rare as we wish to believe.

I have a love for life that is immeasurable. I am still here because of it, and I say with no posturing that there have been times that I have wondered if I should even bother living with the memories, the scars layered on my emotional terrain thick and rough-edged. I’ve come to understand that what happened to me was not my fault, I had no power to control it, and that it doesn’t have to dictate my every move. But there is the layer below the intellectualizing where I live with the visceral knowledge of the devastation left behind. I no longer swim in its waters daily. I have survived and thrived in numerous ways. But the body doesn’t lie. It has taken a systematic approach to reclaiming my body, its feelings and functions, without shame or anger towards it. I have had some success in exploring this new path, and I have become ferocious in defense of my sensuous nature and I am a champion of anyone else walking a path of such self-discovery.

The image that accompanies this piece was not of my own hand. It’s the creation of Eric Abernethy, nature and wildlife photographer. Part of his “mirror” series, I use it with his permission.  I see in it a reflection of where I have been when immersed in sensory experience. Many abuse survivors report having a lack of feeling during sex, of an inability to respond. Even when receiving otherwise safe and nurturing touch, sensation is distorted or absent. In my consenting relationships, I’ve never lost the ability to respond, to sense, to feel. What I’ve had was a hatred for my body and its ability to feel.  I’ve engaged in some strange mental wanderings to survive it, swimming deep at times.                                                      There is some wreckage at the bottom of the lake. There are gems down there, too. I did not know this for a long time. Soon I will tell you more about what I found along the way. It is terrifying to put this out there for others to see, but I intuitively know that it’s the only way for me to move forward.