TG ponders 37%

I have been reeling since the murder of Michael Brown ten days ago. Not that I have any particular right to reel, I don't live there, I didn't know the young man, I am insulated in my DC suburb by the (hopeful) belief that MY police force is more open-minded, empathetic, better trained, diverse... all the many things that would prevent what happened to Michael Brown from happening here.

I am shocked by what happened, sickened by the fact that he lay on the street for HOURS. By a video I watched, open-mouthed, of the attack on Kajieme Powell that ended his life with nine - 9! - bullets because he had taken two energy drinks which he left on the street. Or what about Victor White who committed suicide, while handcuffed behind his back, in a patrol car? At least according to the Iberia Parish, LA Police Department - even though he was not armed and the shot that killed him was INTO his chest and OUT his back. There are dozen, scores, hundreds more similar stories. Young, Black men (some women but mostly men) are unarmed and being killed BY OUR POLICE OFFICERS. 

And I read an article today by Pew Research Center for the People and the Press discussing the reaction to the shooting death of Michael Brown. And in that article one of the statistics shared is that only 37% of White Americans feel that this event "raises important issues about race." 

Thirty seven percent, approximately one third of White Americans. How can this possibly be true? How can the other 63% of Whites, 60 % if we are rounding, feel that race isn't an issue that needs addressing? Immediately? How can so many people I see every day, my coworkers and commuters and citizens that need my assistance multiple times a day, not feel we are at a crisis point? How can so many feel that a Black life is disposable?

So that is what I am pondering today. And what is angering and saddening me today. I hope that everyone I know falls into that 37%, that no one to whom I am related or call a friend believes that these losses are ok. And I hope against hope that Michael Brown and Trayvon Martin and Victor White and Kajieme Powell rest in peace. And that their parents, their mothers, are able to move forward and make sure their sons lives mean something.

TG Hopes

I am going to add my voice to the full and loud chorus discussing mental health awareness, hoping to end the stigma and shame of having a mental health diagnosis, and mourning the recent death of Robin Williams. I am not sure I have anything profound to share but writing is a catharsis for me and maybe something I say will resonate with someone out there. Maybe something will help.

I am a woman, middle-aged, a sister, a daughter, a niece, an aunt, and an incredibly thrilled mom. I am a best friend and a good teammate. I am pretty smart and fairly silly and quite passionate. I am beautiful. I am a lover of pink and read voraciously and think naps are God's gift. I am also diagnosed with major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety order and obesity. I am medicated - yes, THOSE medicines, I am a felon, I have used drugs and been a victim of domestic violence. I have had suicide ideations, a suicide plan, and have been hospitalized - yes, THAT hospital.

I am a survivor and have been thriving for a few years now - longer than at any other point in my life. I have worked very hard to get where I am and in no way deserve all the credit for this transformation; I am blessed with an excellent healthcare team including a really, really, really (yes, really) excellent therapist. They taught me how to stop spinning my wheels and start making changes. They worked with me to tweak my medications as one stopped working or another suddenly began making me vomit. They helped me create a safety net and a plan so that I wouldn't fall back into that black hole again. And they are there still when the road gets a little rocky or the sky a little stormy. 

And they taught me the importance of having all of this in place because the speed from which a person can go from well to suicidal is quicker than a hummingbird's wings. It happens subtly and quietly and lets you think you are just a little tired or work is creating a little more stress and before you know it, there is a huge abyss in front of you and if you aren't careful, you will free fall right into it.

I am incredibly lucky I never did fall. Lucky that the stars aligned and kept me safe. Lucky that no one had the audacity to call me selfish or a coward for feeling so very bad. I am lucky. And blessed. And oh so very grateful. Remember how hard it can be to ask for help, to even know you need help. Reach out to someone, offer a literal or figurative hand. Smile at other people, hold the door, toss your change into the collection plate or the cup in an outstretched hand. Flirt with babies and pet dogs and stop to smell the way your world smells just before it rains. And after that rain, look up... you might just see a rainbow. And if you do, point it out to someone. You may save a life.

Taken 8/12/14, at about 6:00 p.m. in Arlington, VA

Sometimes OCD is the only control TG has

I am a snob about many things. Probably not the important things: my taste in music is rather... pedestrian, my palate is not the most evolved, and I value comfort first and foremost when dressing. But there are things about which I am quite opinionated and, ahem, vocal. Coffee needs to be good, grammar rules need to be adhered to - strictly. Manners are very important, too. And so is matching, matching is really very important. And those close to me will tell you that I am not just insistent but obnoxious about it.

One day my son was wearing jeans and a new black t-shirt. He looked very handsome. He was also wearing grey Converse and while grey normally coordinates quite nicely with both denim and black I know he owns black Vans, too. And it was a funny little itch all day long that he wasn't wearing the black shoes. I have more than one friend who teases me about her appearance stating she hoped not to disappoint me. On one occasion a friend called to ask me to bring different colored barrettes when we met to go out; she had changed her shirt and her barrettes no longer matched. She knew it would bother me. Most seriously was the morning I was having brunch with Max and a dear friend; she was wearing a sweater I had given her. But the shirt underneath was red while the sweater was pink and purple and black. No one would have know the shirt didn't match the pink parts of the sweater, it actually looked cute. But I KNEW and that itch was back. I even called my mother to tell her I knew I was being ridiculous but... I couldn't help it.

All this to say that I believe the reason for my "matchy-matchy" personality is that it makes things neat and tidy. It provides control in a slightly chaotic and disorganized (NOT unorganized!) world. It soothes me when I feel like the silver ball bouncing around a pinball machine. Coordinated clothing is happy clothing. 

When looking for a photo to add to the blog I ran across this site and was a little taken aback. I am all for individuality and creativity, but am not sure I could rally to this challenge. For those of you who can though, please share your pictures: 

And if any of you have overcome this type of OCD, please share your tips - my friends and family will thank you!

"Love"

My very intuitive and lovely friend Erin Callahan sent me this song by Jana Kramer yesterday titled simply "Love." She knows me so well... it has become my anthem. The lyrics begin with "I still believe in fairy tales... I still believe in shooting stars... and butterflies you get right before you kiss for the very first time." I could have written them... I believe in them as much as I believe the sun rises in the east and that coffee is a gift from the Gods.

And I realized over the weekend I still believe in him, the one about whom I wrote last week. I was hurt and the fallout from what I wrote was quite ugly. I feel pretty rotten about the things said. We came to the end of something. But I don't hate him. I don't wish him pain or loneliness. I still wish him a lot of joy. And wish that he always feels love. I hope there may be a day when we can laugh about "Leon and Margaret" and even, maybe, play Scrabble again. I hope to get periodic pictures of his son as he enters Middle School then High School. When Max got his Driver's License Saturday, I emailed him right away. I rubbed the spot on my tattoo that represents him over and over... not to hide it but as I remembered all the things about him that made me want him represented not just to me but on me.

And this afternoon I was talking to someone about reading and my love of words... new words, the way they play off one another, that I am drawn to songs because of their lyrics more than the actual music. I tried to explain that words are tangible in my mind, they aren't just two dimensional shapes on a page but are colorful and have texture. Words hold power and magic and words hold... love. And some of the words I feel and see and taste about him are: hard-working, smart, stubborn, father, reliable, witty, beautiful, strong, icing, silly, dubious. Those aren't all he is - I don't think any of us can be just a few words - but he is those things. Thank you Erin, and Jana Kramer, for reminding me of them!

With Erin, Summer 2013, National Harbor

TG would like a one way ticket to oblivion, please!

Technology must be the bane of the unfaithful's existence. With text messages and emails and instant messages and social media, being sneaky and having secrets is far more dangerous than it used to be.

Last night I was playing around on my phone, waiting for someone, and Google Play suggested I look at applications my friends enjoy. Alrighty then, I am game for, well, games - educate me Google! Except that the first recommendations were for dating sites that the man with whom I have been in love for many years rated 4 stars and 5 stars respectively. I tried to minimize the sucker punched feeling by rationalizing these ratings were given in December of 2012 and January of 2013 but quickly realized we were more "on" than "off" then. For his birthday that December I gave him a ring and explained that even when things weren't so good we were like the ring, we went in a circle and the good stuff was as bright as the diamonds that sparkled on the front of the ring.

What frustrates me most about this is that there is no way to have this conversation. I will be accused of making assumptions, making a mountain out of a mole hill, making us more important than we actually are. There is no way to eradicate the sickening feeling that I am not, was not, and won't ever be "enough" for this man. And right now it feels like there is no way to leave him behind. No way to forget his slow smile or beautiful hands or channel the breathtaking, all encompassing love I have for him into a healthy distance.

Maybe we aren't supposed to forget our true loves? Maybe you can't have both: a true, deep, mad love that is also fulfilling and healthy? Or maybe you have to earn that love. Or, most likely, I have no idea. What I do know is that the feeling of missing this man isn't as horrible as the feeling of knowing I am not who he wants. And I know I hope this time I can be as brave as he has tried to teach me to be so that I can just be, just me - happily!

The power of magic

My FaceBook status this morning reminds people to look for and believe in the joy and magic all around us. Which, to many, may seem a little fantastical and perhaps not based in reality. But I beg to differ.

Depending on how you define magic, it is every where. I don't mean spells and wands and turning toads into princes. What I mean is the magic of hope. And I mean the magic of love. And I mean the breath taking, heart stopping sensation that holding a new baby causes. Magic can be that weightless sensation you have when you start to fall in love and the way you feel the first time you kiss someone. But it is also the familiar scent of the man you love and the safety and warmth being in his arms brings. It isn't just a new baby but it is watching your six year old ride away without training wheels for the first time or your high school graduate cross the stage.

The only problem with this joy, this magic, is that it hides very well. It hides behind the horror of being the parent of a child, learning at school, who is suddenly gone, the victim of out of control gun violence. It is hidden in the charred remains of a plane, smoldering in Eastern Ukraine, that had been full of mothers and fathers and 100 children headed to vacations and conferences and visiting loved ones. A plane that was shot down because of petty arguments started by tyrannical people whose need for control and power trumps the basic right of just living. This magic hides in the cracks of broken hearts and is drowned out by the noise of life support machines.

But it isn't hiding from us, it isn't coyly flirting, but instead it is waiting patiently to be discovered. We have to be still, and quiet, we have to trust someone. And if we are brave enough to do that, if our defeated souls can hear the whispered voice of hope encouraging us to "try one more time" we will learn to believe in magic. And we will find joy.

But... it is 2014? TG is dumbfounded

Yes, I wear "rose colored" glasses. Yes, I tend to believe the best about a situation until the opposite is beaten into me with a bat. Yes, I am trusting and optimistic. No, I am not nearly as aware as I should be about the bias, bigotry and cruelty that non whites continue to face.

Diversity and inclusion are topics that always foster passionate conversation. Conversations regarding them happen everywhere by just about everyone. Even before children understand the concept as a whole, they are aware that there are differences and that those differences somehow matter.

I feel like I have seen and heard a lot about race in just the last week. I read an article about the Student Body President at the Lawrenceville School, Maya Peterson, who was forced to step down. She posted arguably offensive pictures mocking the typical male students at her school. You can argue that as President of the Student Body she shouldn't have done or said anything that may have alienated any members of the student body. Ms. Peterson's point that creating an environment of inclusion for the 21% of Asian students and 16% of black/Hispanic students was a priority seems pretty inclusive and important to me. 

But it isn't only the one event at the Lawrenceville School. On the news this morning I caught the tail end of a report regarding the shooting of a Mexican youth near the US/Mexico border. The young man was in Mexico and was shot multiple times and killed. Later that day I did an online search to find more information about the incident and was shocked to discover that it wasn't a one time event, Sergio Hernandez and Jose Antonio Elena Rodriguez are just two of the more recent victims. While some of those shot are trying to sneak into the border illegally, excessive force is often used. And there are tens of thousands (some estimates say 60,000 to 80,000 annually) who are fleeing their homes to a safer place. I know this is not a solution, that we as a country cannot absorb everyone who struggles, but I wonder if the reaction would be the same if these were white Canadian children?

Incidents in my personal life that I viewed as isolated are becoming too numerous to not be symptomatic of a larger problem. A friends 12 year old son, who happens to be black, was helping me at the store and is chastised for having my debit card; the same card that my white son uses all the time without anyone blinking an eye. Wandering a CVS with a black coworker; she is followed and asked numerous times by the same person if she needs help. The same person has seen me throughout the store and hasn't asked me once. Learning Spanish vocabulary from a friend and being shocked when she is told "You are in America, speak English!" She is as American as I am, and speaks English, Spanish and German eloquently and beautifully.

How did I not know that this still happened? That judgments are made in a heartbeat based on the texture of someone's hair, the color of their skin, or the lilt in their voice? I feel guilty that a fluke allowed me to be white - yes ALLOWED - and that the benefits I reap from that have nothing to do with my talents, intelligence, or hard work. And I wonder what I can do that would help begin to level the playing field. If you know, please let me know.