Kill the Beast

"Day after day

Give me clouds, and rain, and grey, 

Give me pain if that's what's real,

It's the price we pay to feel. 

The price of love is loss, 

But still we pay, we love anyway."

"Light", Next to Normal

It was like I was watching fragmented parts of my own life swirl together into recognizable shapes through a kaleidoscope.  The story of a family torn apart by the unexpected and sudden loss of a loved one, a daughter that put huge amounts of pressure upon herself to succeed, a daughter overshadowed by her problem causing brother, a mother caught in the throws of depression but unable to find a good way out of it. . . I went to the musical that night expecting to hear music I loved and to hear it performed well.  What I didn't expect was for it to be so personal.

It was like the first time I'd seen The Glass Menagerie.  Stunned at how whiplashed I felt as I saw myself and those I loved echoing through the bodies of fictional characters with lives confined to less than a hundred pages of text.

It started, I think, when my uncle died.  I was twelve and came home to a house so empty and cold and silent.  I remember the silence being particularly dreadful.  It wasn't the silence of a house asleep but the silence of a house stunned.  I remember my mother at the top of the stairs looking exactly as the house seemed to feel, and my father. . . my father had aged a hundred years or more as he told me that his younger brother had killed himself.  I cried because I was scared to see my dad so upset more than for my uncle.  I'd barely known his brother.

Uncle Bob had manic depression.  Later I would find what that meant.  And it was scary at first, but then it made sense.  Scary when I read through sections of his journals and saw the shift in his emotions so rapidly.  One day on top of the world, the next in the depths of despair.  Over and over again.  It must have been utterly exhausting and so, so horribly lonely a life.

But after the initial fear, I started to see it.  I saw it in the way that my father would respond when he was discouraged or frustrated.  The way he would react quickly in anger and just as quickly in sorrow for having lost control.

I saw it in the way that I did the same thing he did.  Lash out.  Say things I didn't mean.  Use words and glares with full intent of injuring the person opposite me until half a second later I realized what I was doing, and who I was doing it to, and I hated myself for it.

But a name for it.  A name for "it".  That helped.  Depression.  Not manic.  No, I was too level for that. Not wild enough.  Too practical by nature.  But it made sense.  It helped me to understand why I so often didn't make sense to myself.  That on a perfectly lovely day in which nothing all that bad had happened I could want nothing more than to curl up alone.  It helped me to understand why it was such a perpetual battle to be happy with myself and to understand why I was the way I was.  If I had a name for it, I could beat it.  Right?

I live in a part of the world where happiness is passed around like a drug everyone is expected to take, or at least pretend to take.  (If you aren't happy, then clearly the solution is that you need to pray more and go to church more.)

Except for me, faith so often works more like what Tennyson describes best in his poem collection In Memorium, where he describes feet that "falter where (they) firmly trod" and "lame hands of faith" that grope for understanding that is out there, but is not here.  Never, never in the middle of my emotional challenges have I doubted that God is there and loves me.  It's not my style.  I have too many evidences to the contrary to doubt that love.

What I learned in that evening performance of Next to Normal was that I may never ever be rid of that depression.  It's part of my genetic makeup, after all, passed to me from one generation to the next and no solution yet.  Temporary remedies, perhaps, through therapy or medication or, in my case at least, downright stubborn will to keep moving forward - but no solution.  Watching Next to Normal I saw a family that fought so hard to keep together it hurt, and when it ended, the solution was not the "normal" happy life they had always dreamed of.  Normal, says the daughter, is "way too far away."  Next to normal.  That was the goal.  If killing the depressive beast entirely wasn't an option, then containing it and harnessing it would be sufficient.

This year, this quarter century year, has been one of intense pressure.  I set high goals for myself.  Goals that are worthy and respectable and good, but goals that are lofty and difficult to reach in the impatient amounts of time I would prefer to give myself.  Perhaps, then, this depression I battle is my kryptonite.  My extraterrestrial reminder that I am, after all, only human.  My reminder of the lesson taught so eloquently by Eve, who learned that the value of love was only as great as the potential loss it was tied to.

No.  I don't need to kill the depression beast.  Chain it down and tell it who is boss now and then - but if the laws of nature or genetics won't let me ever be rid of that awful monkey, I'll get by.  I can't wait for life to be perfect or entirely happy.  "Some ghosts", the mother sings, "are never gone.  But we go on [. . .] and you find out you don't have to be happy at all to be happy you're alive."  And I am happy, so happy, to be alive.

A Little More Conversation, a Little Less Knee-Jerk Reaction, Please.

I grew up in what I like to call a morally conservative, artistically liberal household. This means that our values were faith based, but our experiences were not often censored. This is not to say that we spent time running around like hippies - there were still boundaries - but we were given room to explore and determine for ourselves what was and was not right.

I've spent a good deal of time thinking about this lately. How grateful I am for trusting parents who didn't immediately rip books like Go Ask Alice out of my hands because the book is "dirty" (which it is), but instead trusted that I would talk with them about what I was reading and use the experiences of others as a way to find more strength in my own belief system.

I mention this because I've seen more often than I ever have before in my life recently the idea that the world is full of dark, evil things and that the best way to keep evil things from corrupting you is to hide from them completely and not explain why to those around you (particularly in the form of parents talking to their children about the world.) For example, I had a friend tell me of an experience she had at school in a class where a girl (high school junior) was convinced that babies grew in the stomach (and wondered why pregnant women didn't have a baby-sized tumor on their side.) She was corrected by another student who said that babies ACTUALLY grow in the small intestine.

But it's not so simple as basic reproductive understanding, either. There's also a great deal of fear for what is out there. I've seen parents terrified of their children finding out about certain lifestyles or reading certain books that talk about what they don't agree with. Not that there isn't a good time and place (and age) for certain bits of information, and there are certainly books that are inappropriate or full of garbage - but it seems to me that those who live in this way don't understand the basic tenants of Mormon faith.

Our church is founded on the idea of learning for yourself. The church itself would not have even been established if Joseph Smith hadn't been curious. If his parents hadn't allowed him to attend other congregations to try and find truth. It seems to me that people who live this way (or parents who force their children to live this way), are afraid that the truth of the gospel will somehow not be strong enough or true enough to stand up to the diverse ideas of the world. Or perhaps these individuals simply think that the LDS faith has a corner on truth and that there are no other means by which truth can be found or expanded on. (For example, I've known my share of people who don't seem to understand that my faith is strengthened through fiction.)

Ultimately, what this leads to is a population of people who breed fear of the unknown. People who take one look at something that is unfamiliar and immediately interpret it as wicked or somehow 'wrong'. They don't want to talk about or try something new because it might be what they fear it to be. To which I say: Yes. It might be. But it might NOT be. It might be something you could actually talk about. You might actually be strengthened by reading/writing about/listening to/watching an idea that is not like one you currently hold. It's no wonder so many people in this valley live in fear - it's easier to assume the worst and refuse to talk about the truth than it is to actually talk openly about things. Bad things happen when people are left to wonder.

As for me, I feel like my life would be not quite worth living if I spent all my time and energy trying to keep bad things out. I'd rather spend my time seeking out good things, because - as we all know - light will always overpower darkness.

Lead Kindly Light

Three years ago, right now, I was sitting in Fitz Park. Fitz Park is a small but happy little place in Keswick, England - one of my favorite towns in the entire world. Keswick is in The Lake District - an area in the North Western part of England known for their, wait for it, lakes - and their untouched countryside, mountains, and the general sense of peace there. I don't know if I could ever live in Keswick permanently - it's a bit too small for a girl who grew up in the suburbs - but it is a place that I will always have a soft spot for. It's a beautiful, remarkable sort of place to just be.

I was in Keswick that time around for my study abroad. On this study abroad, our theme hymn was "Lead Kindly Light", a song that I'd always loved but understood better after actually walking across the moors and having my feet be so literally far from home. Since then it's more or less been my favorite hymn. This morning I turned on my church music playlist on iTunes and "Lead Kindly Light" was the first song to come up. Normally I'd smile and think about how much I like that song and move on with getting ready for church, but I stopped today, thinking instead about how appropriate this song is to my life right now.

Several months ago I decided I was moving. I decided that I was ready to be done with Provo, that I didn't want to do what everyone else does in sticking around Utah forever, that I was tired of living where I am and needed change - that the best way to get it would be by going somewhere entirely different and new. A clean break. I wanted Seattle. I went to visit for a week in April. I went again the next week for a teaching fair. The second I got off the plane - or soon after, anyway, I knew what I'd more or less known and been stubbornly denying the entire time - that it wasn't where the Lord wanted me to be. I had been - like the song said - trying to choose my own path.

So much of that decision was based on how completely miserable I was for nearly all of February and a good portion of March as well. I was feeling suffocated. I was trapped in a place I didn't want to be without very many real friends around. I holed myself away and threw myself into my teaching. A worthwhile thing, perhaps, but the Lord hasn't ever been entirely content with my hermitting. Neither have I, though I might not always have the gumption to fight against that tendency.

What I am meandering around to say, then, is that I realized again this morning that I am glad that the Lord chooses paths for me instead of allowing me to choose them for myself. I have a great capacity to dream and imagine great things, but the Lord has always known better. In the last several weeks, a string of things has happened that I never thought would have, but they are better than I ever would have imagined them to be on my own. I have made dozens of new, positive friends to replace pessimistic ones. I have opportunities lining up in front of my eyes that I never would have found without meeting those same people. I am in the right place at the right time. These blessings have been months in the making - going all the way back to last August when I first told the school that I wanted to help with the play. Going back to being placed at this school in the first place.

I don't know why the Lord has blessed me in this particular way. I think about the ways that other people are blessed and so much of this feels unnecessary and extra. I don't really need to travel as much as I have, do I? I don't really need theater, do I? Aren't there other ways that aren't quite so elaborate? Ways that don't make me feel this happy? Perhaps - but whether that's true or not, today I am feeling decidedly grateful to my Heavenly Father for caring enough for me to guide me to where I am right now. I am overwhelmed.

It's a Marshmallow World...

In August?

Alright. Story time. I have a very boring job (that officially ends TOMORROW!) that involves me entering information into a computer all day. I talk to no one. I sit in my box and look at a screen all day. You kind of start getting the feeling that eventually you'll hit the right combination of keys on the keyboard and someone will run by and give you some cheese or a Scooby Snack. So I do any number of things to keep myself occupied throughout the day to forget how boring everything is. I munch on almonds and have a kind of routine that I keep-I listen to a movie in the morning on a portable DVD player with the screen down so I don't look like I'm watching instead of working-a movie I know really well helps pass the time rather quickly. I listen to music on my iPod on shuffle so I get a good mix of musicals and classical and more up-beat type stuff, and I listen to books on tape that I know really well (Harry Potter, Ender's Game), so that when I zone out and stop listening I don't get confused when I come back in. I change my music in and out fairly frequently so I don't start listening to the same stuff over and over and over again. So I was getting near the end of listening to Ender's Game and I decided to put Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone on just in case I finished. I have all my books on their own playlist in itunes so that I don't have to have it on my iPod all the time-so I suppose you could imagine my surprise when about two hundred Christmas songs from my collection made their way on to my iPod. I was listening to songs on shuffle when all of the sudden I heard "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" by Andy Williams. I was completely confused. What in the-I hadn't added Christmas music! I love Christmas and all, but I don't listen to Christmas music until the day after Thanksgiving when I start putting up decorations and looking for trees. Shame on me though-I broke my rule and listened to nearly every Christmas song that came through in the shuffle because it was exactly the change I needed and put me in such a good mood that it didn't matter how ridiculous it was. Christmas music makes me so happy. It has a kind of smell to it-a sound and feel associated with every Christmas memory I've ever had. Like picking out the tree with my mom and driving around to look at lights-caroling in full Dickens-dress with the cast of the Hale's version of A Christmas Carol...walking home in the snow from work when it's just me and the street lights and feeling all romantic about it until I get home and realize my mascara's run and I look like a raccoon instead of the snow-queen I've imagined for myself. All the Californians who come to Provo in the winter can back off as far as I'm concerned. I love winter and I can't wait for snow.