My Misfit Brain

One sunny afternoon I went to a family and friends’ celebration, and I wanted the earth to swallow me whole. I’d that very week been diagnosed with clinical depression and anxiety; nobody there knew. Those at the gathering were celebrating religious and political beliefs that were virtually opposite to my markedly less conservative views. I was invited as a relative, and never knew if they really thought I shared their views or if it just didn’t matter. There was a lot of Bible reading, text interpreted to support favorite right-wing politicians. Many emotional speeches on the rightness and beauty of the group’s beliefs also implied that divergent views were stupid, evil or both. I wished I could disappear.

Mental health problems are inconvenient, messy, embarrassing. Incompatible philosophies and tastes, maybe even political or religious views, are sometimes socially acceptable as matters of personal leanings. But being exceedingly depressed or anxious? Lots of people would rather avoid or deny such things, and wish that mental-health patients, even functional ones like me, would keep quiet about it and get over ourselves.

Instead, I got help. I’m very lucky. I have terrific supporters, good doctors and meds. I’ve also recognized that I was already on the fringe before feeling so excluded at that long-ago party; that week’s personal crisis merely magnified it.

Feeling like such a misfit at the party simply exaggerated the real reasons I was miserable: severe depression and anxiety. Apparently I don’t have the balanced body chemistry that lets most people cope rather casually with everyday life. I think that every car on the road is about to crash into me; I have panic attacks in utterly benign situations; I believe everyone around me will reject me if they find out I’m so broken. My logic argues with my anxiety that this is all absolutely ridiculous, yet doesn’t always win.

The support and treatment have been great. I’m not ‘cured’ of being different this way, but for the most part I manage fine. Still, there will always be another odd-one-out party, another trial that seems gigantic though logic reminds me that being odd or upset is inconsequential.

What saved the day for me was to join the children. I discovered a wonderful kind of grace there: the littlest kids don’t care who believes what or who seems left out. While the adults bonded over joys I could never share, I wanted to escape to the car to nurse the emotional paralysis of my terrors in private. Instead, I slipped out to the front porch and sat on the swing in the safer company of kids, and we chattered aimlessly about how much cake and ice cream we all planned to eat. They didn’t care whether I seemed normal or grown-up, or not. Next party, I’ll be heading straight for the porch.

Kathryn at Art-Colored Glasses

 

Why I Run

You might run for the thrill. You sail into the zone, keep on like you’re under a spell. I wish it came so naturally to me, wish these limbs would move with knowing.

I run because I was terrible at it. And I’m less terrible the more I do it. I run to silence the aspiration for what’s easy. To teach my body to endure, hold on just a little longer. I run to meet my weaker self head on – conquer her on strong legs Treadmill2so I limp less under my load. I sprint for the fullness of being alive because I often forget how to live. I remember the power of simplicity. I jog to find my pace and cadence. I run to take ownership of myself and to stretch my reserve. I run to claim every day that is mine.

I run because good enough isn’t good enough.

 

See me wrestle? Why I Sweat

 

Greatness, Part 7: In the Mouth of Slavery

I am mystified by the tenacious practice of slavery in history. What transpired in the American South is merely a page in the saga of human trafficking, traceable all the way from the 20th Century to 1700 BC when The Babylonian Code of Hammurabi distinguished between slave and free. The Hittites were among the ancient civilizations to keep slaves as did the influential Roman and Greek empires. Then came the prominent period of transatlantic human commerce. Spain and Portugal bought from Muslim traders North Africans to work the farms and mine the gold in the Central and South Americas they had conquered. When the “need” exceeded resources and enslaving the Indians in the New World wasn’t enough, the European countries went on to kidnap ordinary villagers out of West Africa. The Dutch joined in on the lucrative melee, followed by the British who kept their hand on Africa for over three hundred years. Which brings us well into the ironic dealings of America who had insisted on independence from her oppressive English mother.

So I watched Twelve Years a Slave and went blindly save the knowledge that the movie had earned critical acclaim and a string of award nominations. I didn’t go to do a review but to see what it might contribute to this series. The film added perspective and detail to the African-American story I was well familiar with. Twelve Years spotlights a quieter segment of American slave history, free blacks in the North who were kidnapped to the South into an unthinkable life. Based on the true story of Solomon Northrup, the movie not only goes no holds barred in the depiction of injustice but offers a stirring conceptualization of bondage. It is horrible to be born into a box, to know nothing from birth but that you are disposable, unsafe, and must buy with blood and sweat your right to breathe. But to have known freedom? To have enjoyed love and esteem, fine dress, house and land, opportunities to develop gifts; and one day find yourself literally thrown at the door to a life that denied your personhood, stripped you of your family, property, accomplishments, and name? It’s a dream you go crazy to wake from. I had not realized that blacks were actually never fully free in the North. You could believe your horizon as wide as anyone else’s but if you were dark, you laughed and worked possibly a marked man. Just like a West African.

The way a slaver inducted Northerners into the ways of the South was to beat them until their spirit, identity, humanity broke. The heartbeat of Solomon’s struggle is to hold onto his dignity and refuse despair. How long can you fight despair, especially when the majority of slaves born or kidnapped into the madness never made it out? How far will you go to survive? He sees a man who tries to defend a black woman from rape stabbed to death without second thought. Yes, Solomon learns to bow, call the white man Master, run when Master barks, hide how smart he is. A psychopathic plantation owner orders Solomon to lash a female slave who had left the premises to procure soap. Solomon reaches a point of paradigm shift. The need to live supersedes principle and loyalty. He has a wife and children he’s been praying to see again one day. He whips Patsy as long as he is required. Hearing her scream with the deep, bloody grooves running across her back in the next scene, we wish she had died.

The endless sky under which Solomon labors is his endless prison. When Solomon incredulously wakes from his bad dream and jumps on a carriage to be escorted back home toward the end of the film, you see the very air is different. He marvels. It is free air. I had planned to name this post Out of the Mouth of Slavery but decided to keep it a tribute to the millions of people around the world Solomon came to represent those twelve years deep in the mouth of hell. I take pause to acknowledge the desperate fight within the human spirit to maintain dignity and keep hope in view when darkness prevails. I recognize those who stood helpless as their wives were raped, children sold, and marshaled the strength to put one foot in front of the other. Great men, women, and little ones who triumphed over the assurance that their sun will never rise.

The Wayfaring

So another day gives way to dusk
Feels like more than 40 years of road

I kept pace down Fifth Avenue
and ambled on West 4th where
I shot the eight ball into corner
pockets in the Village, time
ungrudging when I was young.

Verdant Pennsylvania trails crossed
country to Pacific sand where I met
the man who would set out to chart
new ground with me.

I’ve stumbled on pockmarked
streets, lost the North Star
benighted by strength that failed
me. Oh, those angels I couldn’t pay back
because I was meant to pay forward.

And I still do.

Let me set down this bag:
wallet, pots, dishes, cordial
aged with memories I’d like to
rewrite but full with inspiration
unco-rked it purples pages of books,
paper and pen

And though night blackens my way
tonight, with faith in a new moon
I rise again for the holistic journey.

NStar2