Stand By Me… But Just A Few Will Do

When we live with chronic illness, either mental or physical, it’s all too often that we have to focus on those who don’t stand by us. Those who we thought were friends (or family), but don’t want to know us now.

Over the years there have been many friends like that.  They’re particularly those who didn’t like how I was choosing health treatment options, as if it was up to them.

Then there were those who objected to some of the changes I made in my life.  I can give you a whole list of those who run for the hills when I started smoking.  My overly enthusiastic drinking was always kept under wraps, so that never gave people the chance to exit stage left.  My self harm was also kept under wraps, or at least under my clothes so again, people didn’t have the chance to run.  When I stopped going to church, that was another trigger for some to go.  Over time, plenty just left.  They skulked away presumably just because I was different now.

My ex-husband was one of the first.  From outward appearances it seemed that I was the one who left him.  I was the one, after all who packed my bags and left the house.  My house. But that was only after several conditions that he laid down in front of me.  He wanted me to change, or I couldn’t stay.  I chose to leave.  I think he was surprised (did he think he was that good?), but I guess he got over it.

It’s easy to focus on those people who left.  Yes, it hurts very badly.  Yes, there were times I wondered if anyone would like me ever again.  There were great losses involved when any person who had been close… left.

Image Credit: Squelle, Wikipedia.com

Image Credit: Squelle, Wikipedia.com

But actually there were people who stayed.  Even when I tried to push them away.  While I was hurt by those who weren’t interested in being in my life anymore, strangely those who still wanted to be there, I pushed away.  I was scared that if I didn’t push them away, they might choose (after all) to leave.

The first friend who comes to mind, just kept on coming back.  I know the choices I made for my life were not hers.  I know that some of the choices I made, just made no sense to her.  But she kept being there.  I know some of the things I came to believe in were not her beliefs.  Actually I kept expecting her to walk away.  But she didn’t.  She kept being there.  Nowadays we don’t see each other often, but we can still add up 25 years of friendship.  We live in different parts of the country, and to some extent, we have drifted.  But I know she would be there if I needed her.  And to me, that’s what counts.

The other person who quickly comes to mind has been my friend even longer, and no matter how much I’ve pushed her away across the years, she too, is still there.  I remember not wanting to see her when she came to visit me in a psych hospital.  Visitors are few and far between in a psych hospital but she kept coming, even though I admit I would fake a headache or something so I didn’t have to see her.

Having done that repeatedly embarrasses me now.  It was a long drive to come out to see me, yet I would regularly refuse to see her.  It was really about hating myself so much that I couldn’t bear to be seen.  I understand that now, but I still don’t know if she understood it.  Maybe not.  But she continues to be my friend. Again different parts of the country now mean we don’t get to talk often, but we caught up recently and it was great.  I felt completely accepted, just as I was.  What more could I want?

I don’t have a lot of friends now.  Just a few will do.  Should I say, I don’t have a lot of what we call ‘real life friends‘.  That’s partly been my choice, partly people who have left, and partly something that has come about because of the illness.  People leave just because they don’t ‘get it‘.  Even ‘internet friends‘ I’m not interested in having hundreds of friends.

What I am interested in having is friends like those above, who I know will stand by me.  As cheesy as it sounds I want friends who will be there for me, and will allow me to be there for them. I’m not interested in anything else.  I just don’t see the point.  Judge me and I’m simply not interested.

I think age helps.  In your twenties I get that it’s maybe hard to say a few friends will do.  Even harder to be satisfied with staying in on Saturday nights.  It’s hard again to have a quiet feed on all social media sites.

When I hurtled violently into the world of mental illness, I was in my twenties.  Sometimes it’s hard to remember that I’m not there anymore.  Frankly though, I’m glad I’m not.  Quantity doesn’t matter so much now, I’d rather have quality, or at least those who will stick around no matter what I hurtle through.

It’s a little bit cheesy now, but it’s true, so here it is…

“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.”

― Henri J.M. Nouwen

Good Intentions

I had good intentions.  You know when an event is coming up and for once you’re organised?  Each day leading to the event is planned?  That’s how I was with Christmas this year.  I knew what I had to do, I had most of what I had to do done.

But then I got a phone call on Monday morning.

It changed all that.  While Christmas still happened (like such events have a habit of doing regardless of what we have happening in our lives), Christmas changed.  The days before, and the days afterward changed.  I think I’ll remember this Christmas.

I had already come to the conclusion that Christmas this year would be about family.  For once, I was actually looking forward to the day.  I don’t usually.  I’m one of those people who would rather ignore the day.  Usually I grudgingly do the things expected of me, but mostly detest this celebration… for a number of reasons.  This year was going to be different.  Somehow my mindset had changed just a little.

Early Monday morning I got a phone call to say my almost-87-year-old mother was not well.  I wasn’t yet dressed but threw on the nearest clean clothes I could find, and drove over to Mum’s flat in a nearby retirement village.  And there began a search to get help for her.

To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure what to do to begin with.  We are all fairly new to all this.  Thankfully I was able to get some quick advice and then acted on it.  Many phone calls later, Mum had an emergency appointment with her doctor in a few hours.  That followed with more appointments.

I can tell you that a few days before Christmas is not the time to seek help from health professionals.  Everyone wants to see them, but luckily those involved made room for mum.  Unfortunately the problem wasn’t solved and the conclusion was eventually that family would have to provide the care Mum needed.  That basically meant me!

What followed was three nights on Mum’s couch.  The most uncomfortable sofa bed I have ever had the misfortune to attempt to sleep on.  I have now spent seven days with Mum, although we agreed that she didn’t need me so much at night and that because my back was now extremely sore, I have been home at night.  I only live five minutes away and I can easily jump (if my body lets me) in the car and go back (as I have had to do).

Nearly a week on, Mum is doing better although is not herself.  I wonder whether I will ever see that ‘herself‘ again.  I don’t know.  That’s the nature of the illness.

I will continue to spend days with my mother, and then on Wednesday she will move to a rest home, providing residential care for the elderly.  This is something that was already planned.  This past week we tried unsuccessfully to move Mum early.  It didn’t happen because… well, I won’t get into that here.

That is the short story.  The purpose of sharing it here, as well as to simply write out for myself what happened, is that it very much fit with what I had already been thinking of for Christmas, and what I had intended to post about on Monday.  Obviously it didn’t happen.

Image credit: Permission obtained from Penny Redshaw http//: motivating giraffe.wordpress.com

I am sharing this image firstly because I love Penny’s blog.  Somehow, without my involvement (obviously… it is not my blog) she illustrates what I am thinking.  Amazing!  I also love images of giraffes.  I’m sure I would love giraffes themselves but there are not many in this country.

For some weeks I have been thinking about what is important for me at Christmas.  My thoughts came from a disappointment that I simply wasn’t going to be able to give my nieces and nephews gifts this Christmas.  I had no money as a result of not only a very small income but also because of some recent very large and unexpected bills.

I started (a few weeks back) to feel pretty down about this, not to mention embarrassed.  I had to shift my thinking somehow, and I started to do that with Penny’s statement in this image.  Remember what is important.

What is important is that I am alive and can be with at least some of my family.  The niece and two nephews who I would be with were really what mattered.  But that doesn’t exclude the other family members I would also be with.

When my mother got sick this week, it gave me a new appreciation of the fact that I still have her, and that regardless of her illness she would (and was) with us on Christmas Day. Who knows how long she will be with us? I had to take her presence on Thursday as another thing that mattered.

It’s been a long, hard week.  And it’s not over yet.  My fibromyalgia is screaming, as are side effects of a new medication which made it almost, but not quite, impossible to get down on the floor and do jigsaws with four-year-old niece L.  Getting up afterwards was even harder.  But it was fun, and that was what was important.

Hey, life goes on and I have a new appreciation of what’s important for me.  It didn’t matter that I hadn’t given gifts.  I suspect the teenagers might have objected a little, but they didn’t to me.  We just had fun together, with their Grandma quietly looking on.  I wonder what she was thinking.  I know I’ll never know

But that’s what’s important to me right now.

 “My dear young cousin, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the eons, it’s that you can’t give up on your family, no matter how tempting they make it.”

― Rick Riordan

What I Did And Didn’t Want

Do I exaggerate? That’s a rhetorical question for most of you.  My family (who might or might not be reading) are welcome to try to answer that question but you must be kind.  Very kind.  Your purpose in attempting to answer must be purely to educate me and not to, in any way, attack me or get back at me for some random, unrelated misdemeanor.  The question is really one for myself if I am completely truthful.  It won’t be the first time I try to answer, and it certainly won’t be the last.

I just have got the impression over the years that those people close to me have the impression that yes, I do exaggerate.  Personally I don’t think I do.  I think that I feel things strongly and that I notice a lot of what is happening around me.  Perhaps more than others.  But when I express it, it’s not exaggeration but simply what I am seeing and/or experiencing.

This past week I have been through a lot, and for some of the people around me, they have been through even more.  It has been really hard.  Emotional, soul-searching and stressful.  And no, that’s not an exaggeration.  It has been hard on us, and it’s not over yet.  Actually in some ways I suspect it is only just beginning.  For some of us, it has been something that we always knew might happen, going even as far back as childhood.

It comes down to what I did, and didn’t want.  Clear as mud, I know!

It’s always important to me that just because I am a blogger, that doesn’t mean those around me must have their lives printed here too.  As such, there are no details.  If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you will know that is how I sometimes write in order to protect the privacy of those people.

For what seems like a long time, I have been very concerned about something that others around me seemed to not see.  Of course, we see not only what is apparent but also what we are open and willing to see.  In addition, we can only see what is there.  If it comes and goes, if at times it gets hidden, it is pretty hard for others to see.

No one has said it out loud but I got the impression that they thought I was exaggerating.  Maybe they thought that was because of my mental illness.  I don’t know.  No one has ever said.  Maybe they thought I was simply too emotional and reacting too strongly to what I could see.  Again, I don’t know.  No one has ever said.

This week finally, some other people told me that they could see what I could see.  Wow!  That was such a relief (in some ways!).  As I watched them, watch what was going on, I was quietly terrified that they would say they couldn’t see it.  They didn’t.  They could see it clear as day.

It’s hard because I wanted them to see, but at the same time I wanted to be wrong.  I know that will make little sense, but I guess it’s just human nature.  I wanted to be right, but I also didn’t want to be right.

I was right, and actually those other people assessing what was happening, were even more concerned than I was.  I didn’t know how to feel then.  I wasn’t quite ready for the depth of their concern, even though I was glad they could see and were concerned.

What had been sometimes unspoken, and sometimes barely whispered, had now come amongst us.  I had really hoped it never would.  Others around me had hoped it never would.  Even those who had passed on hoped it never would.  But now, here it was, and there was no denying it… for any of us.  I got what I wanted.  I wanted others to see.  But now I really didn’t want what I had got.

I can’t wind back the clock, and that is painful.  I want the clock set on today when everyone concerned can see what I see, but I so don’t want it.  It’s totally thrown me off-balance, even though I wanted this, I also knew that what I wanted was the last thing I would ever want.

If you’re confused, then I apologise, but just imagine how I might be feeling with all this in my head.

I think I need a rest.

“Because that’s life, you know? Good and bad. You can’t have one without the other. The bad brings out the good in us, and the good can be corrupted by the bad. It’s always a struggle—to fight for the good, so it tips the scale. – Jet Phoenix”

― Rachael Wade, Repossession

 

“But He’s Such A Nice Man”

I’m quite sure that utterings of “But She’s Such A Nice Woman” get said at times, but for the life of me, I can’t think of an example in this context.  This past week though, my city of Christchurch, and probably half of New Zealand has come out in support of “such nice men“. They can do no wrong, it seems. “Nice men‘ apparently makes them ‘innocent men‘.

Enough to make me sick for the victims of those “such nice men“.  Those men, who are defended by the masses and often close-minded, sometimes have victims.  And to me, the uttering of “but he’s such a nice man” simply goes far enough to harm the victim all over again.

Shame on us for letting niceties get in the way of supporting victims.

What am I talking about?  Mainly sexual harassment, one of those types of harm that often goes unrecognised.  This past week, in Christchurch, sexual harassment has been top of the list of talk-back topics, social media comments, newspapers and anywhere anyone could get themselves heard.  Everyone, it seems, has had an opinion.  Too often it has been the opinion of the close-minded and ignorant.  The only opinion we haven’t heard is that of the victim, bound to silence by a confidentiality clause.

A man (Roger Sutton), whose name won’t mean a lot to most readers, was accused of sexual harassment by a woman in his office.  This complaint made the big time here because that office is CERA (Canterbury Earthquake Recovery Authority).  Again, a name that won’t mean much, but here in Christchurch where we are recovery  mode from the earthquakes of 2010 and 2011, CERA is perhaps the most important office in the city.  This man was its Chief Executive, and it seems that to many here, he was single-handedly making the recovery of the city happen.  And he was apparently ‘such a nice man’.  I never met him so I wouldn’t like to say although I admit he always seemed to come across well in media interviews.

The details don’t really matter.  What matters in this post is that the claim of sexual harassment was upheld, and there was a victim who wasn’t/wouldn’t/ couldn’t be heard.  She was not only anonymous but also bound by that confidentiality agreement.

The masses were crying such statements as:

“She’s just ugly!

She has no love in her life so has to wreck his life”

“But he’s such a nice man”  (heard repeatedly)

This all gets me angry because this woman who is now being torn to shreds, but remains anonymous and silent in terms of the agreement, is now not only a victim of Roger Sutton, but is also now a victim of the general public (not to mention the media who have also made the most of it).  She doesn’t need to be a victim twice.  What’s more is that too often we (the public) and the media make victims victims.  It’s just so wrong… regardless of how ‘nice‘ he is.

I admit that I possibly feel strongly about this because I too, have been the victim of sexual harassment.  And I too, also became a victim of the onlookers.  My experience was much less public, but for me the victimization of the onlookers actually hurt a whole lot more than the initial harassment.

My sexual harassment was not in the workplace, but rather in a church.  At the time I was a church-going Christian.  I grew up in the church (a minister’s kid) and to a large extent, I saw my church as something of an extended family (especially when most of my family had moved away).

To be sexually harassed by one of the male church leaders was very shocking and hurtful.  These people are supposed to be ones I could trust. I had naively thought that amongst church people I was safe.  Unfortunately that is so untrue.

Eventually I made a complaint to the church authorities.  Thankfully the head of the church, the minister, accepted my complaint.  He had received a similar complaint from another woman who had since left the church.  He and his wife would turn out to be my most supportive people.

The man who had abused me (and harassment is abuse in my mind)  was stripped of his leadership role.  As that became public, and the reasons behind the move were now known, the general public (of the church) quickly turned on me.  I was said to be “wrecking the man’s marriage“, “putting undue pressure on his wife“, and the familiar line came forth:

“But he’s such a nice man!”

He was a nice man, and everyone liked him.  Unfortunately no one wanted to believe what he had done, or was capable of.  I left the church soon after.  There was no space there for me as a victim of this man.  This church was no longer the safe ‘family‘ it had been.

The lesson I learnt since, over and over, is that nice people sometimes hurt people.  Nice people sometimes hurt, abuse and harass people.  I have gone on to learn that sometimes it’s is the nicest people who do the most harm to us.  That has certainly been my experience.  Sad but true.

What really worries me is how many victims have learnt the same lesson?  And what do they do?  It’s not just sexual harassment to which this applies.  It’s any type of harm.  How many victims choose to stay silent because of this?  How many perpetrators run free?

“To those who abuse: the sin is yours, the crime is yours, and the shame is yours. To those who protect the perpetrators: blaming the victims only masks the evil within, making you as guilty as those who abuse. Stand up for the innocent or go down with the rest.”

― Flora Jessop, Church of Lies

 

 

 

Where Does Compassion Fit?

I really started to learn about compassion when I made a decision to love someone deemed by others to be unworthy of that love. I started to understand the cost of compassion when I was judged on that decision.  When I was going to be loved on the basis of that decision.  Then I knew that compassion is easy when people are nice, animals are cute and cuddly, and when no one’s done anything that might harm us.

When others stand and literally spit at you and call you names, then you start to realise that sometimes compassion has a cost.  Yet I still want to be a human being who has compassion for my fellow beings.  It’s simply a harder battle.  It simply makes me be sure of what (and who) I believe in.

We talk of compassion as something that rolls off the tongue, but I’m starting to realise that those who practise it most pay a price when they choose to exercise it to those who the rest of the world deem unworthy.

“Anyone can slay a dragon …but try waking up every morning and loving the world all over again. That’s what takes a real hero.” 

― Brian Andreas

I thought I started to learn about compassion as a teen.  I don’t remember it being raised earlier, although I am sure it was implied.  When people hurt me, I was told to have compassion for them.  Usually that compassion came with the word ‘Christian‘ in front of it, although I have never understood why.  My experience is that when compassion is prefaced by religion then it sadly comes with conditions.  Some people are deemed unworthy of compassion simply because they choose to be different.  That just screams ‘wrong’ to me.  It did then, and it does even more so now.

But still, that’s what I was taught.  Put aside my own hurts and be compassionate towards the ones who had hurt me.  As a teen that was really hard, especially when I had been hurt badly.  It seemed to me that no one was being compassionate toward me.  My hurt didn’t matter and I learned from that, rightly or wrongly, that I didn’t matter.  I couldn’t understand people who loved me telling me in this way that I didn’t matter. Although they claimed that’s not what they were doing.

As I’ve grown I have distanced myself from the prefaced type of compassion.  It seemed false to me, although I hasten to add that there are some very loving and caring people in any community.  It just seemed inconsistent and uninterested in my needs or my beliefs.

Now I see compassion as something that all human beings should have for all other beings.  But as I’ve already suggested, it’s perhaps hard to be compassionate when you’ve been hurt.  That said, I don’t believe it’s impossible.

Last year I was hurt very badly by someone.  While I was still picking up the pieces, that person accused me of hypocrisy.  I was accused of writing in my blog about compassion, yet not showing it to the person who hurt me.  Did I laugh or did I cry?  I admit that accusation stopped me in my tracks, because I knew it was something I had blogged about and I needed to question my actions since.  For a while there, it was difficult to write at all.  I also knew that the person accusing me had hurt me bad yet I had done nothing to deserve it.

I eventually came to the conclusion, that I hadn’t been hypocritical.  The person who had hurt me was entitled as anyone to my compassion, but I was also entitled to theirs.  Is that confusing?  Hopefully not.  It came back to that issue of how to be compassionate when you’ve been hurt.

Actually it led to a realisation that I needed to be able to forgive their actions/words in order to have compassion.  It didn’t come immediately, because I still hurt like hell, but it has come since.  It didn’t fix the relationship (that won’t happen) but it gave me some peace, and actually, that was enough.

As human beings I think that we make judgements about who does, and doesn’t deserve compassion.  I’m not convinced that the judgement is mine to make.  Who am I to determine who deserves compassion?

The reason for this post comes from things I’ve seen, heard and read lately, on a number of different subjects.  Watching people determine that they have the right to destroy another person’s life rather than have compassion.  I’m not referring to anything specific because it’s there every day, anywhere we look.  Often that destruction occurs of people who are unknown to the destroyer.  They don’t even understand the effects of their actions.  They simply don’t know who they choose to destroy.

I’m not perfect.  I make mistakes, and maybe at times I don’t have as much compassion as I should for someone.  We’re all human.  And when we’ve been hurt, compassion seems next to impossible.  It makes me so sad how easily, we as humans, can set out to destroy others, and then we congratulate ourselves on a job well done without stopping to think of the price, without stopping to think of the alternative… compassion.

So you think I’m crazy?  No.  Just thinking about another way of being.

It’s not my right to destroy another, but I believe it is my job to offer compassion where I can.  I was told recently that if I had compassion for a person who had hurt me, then I hadn’t suffered enough at their hands.  The person who said it hardly knew me and certainly didn’t know of what I had, or hadn’t suffered.  I disagreed strongly with that view for so many reasons.  But mostly I just don’t see it as my role to destroy others.

I know all too well how hard it is to be compassionate towards a person who has hurt me.  Being hurt doesn’t give me the right to hurt back, although I know that’s what comes naturally.  I think if someone has hurt me and I find it hard to give compassion to them, I need to back off  (and probably shut my mouth) rather than seek to destroy.  Eventually I will work to a point of peace again, and maybe then I can find that compassion.

In case you’re wondering, this is all me just wondering out loud.  I’m working out something for myself.  I’m not saying that it’s how it has to be for anyone else.  Although I think for me, it has to be.

“Deserves it! I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends.” 

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

Christmas Resolutions

Image credit: By Kelvinsong, via Wikimedia Commons

Twas the night two days (in NZ) before Christmas… and all through the house world, not a creature was stirring (well, that’s just wrong!) and every Kiwi (and probably Australian too) was hard at work baking a pavlova (staple Christmas food Downunder).  Me?  I have no pav to bake, and my contribution to Christmas dinner can’t be made until the day.  So I’ve been writing and here’s my Christmas post…

You maybe thinking that I’m a week early on setting New Year Resolutions, as is the usual practise for many people.  I’m not though.  I don’t do New Year Resolutions because they never seem to last, and I never seem to be enthusiastic enough.  But as Christmas has approached I’ve realised that I’ve quietly been setting Christmas Resolutions instead.  The great thing about Christmas Resolutions, in case you didn’t know, is that they come bearing a little Christmas magic with them.  A perfect way to make sure they come true.

So here they are.  Completely unrelated, but of importance to me…

Image credit: Connie Bowen (used with permission)
Facebook: I Create My World: a Children’s Book of Affirmations

Christmas Resolution #1
I believe (again) in the magic of Christmas!

I admit that I gave up on the magic of Christmas a while back.  Actually, I had almost given up on any Christmas.  I didn’t enjoy it, couldn’t really see the point, and just hoped it would be over sooner rather than later… with as little pain as possible.  But actually, Christmas is kind of cool.  There’s the Christian Christmas Nativity story, which I’ll get to in a minute, but there is also Santa Claus and reindeers…

I’ve been watching a few Christmas movies lately, my favourite being the one my friend Kathy very kindly sent to me.  That is ‘Miracle on 34th Street‘.  It makes me sad when children, through the ideals of their parents usually, are taught to believe that Santa Claus is not real.  I think those children miss out, on a lot.  I think it’s good for children to use their imagination and experience such tales.

I can remember when local television stations used to track the progress of Santa around the globe.  What amazed me was just how Santa made it around the whole globe in just one night.  Well I understand that better now and it helps that some places don’t celebrate Christmas, so he can zip past those places.  But again, it is sad that those children (and adults) miss out on the magic of Christmas.

So what is this magic of Christmas.  I think we need to get away from it being about gifts and start to see it as being about spreading peace, joy and love around our whole globe.  If each person, adult and child, could have a piece of that this Christmas, then I think we’d be going a long way.  And if it could apply to the whole world, and not just those of certain religions, then that too would be a great move to seeing the world be kinder to each other.  Now I believe that is something Santa Claus would support.  Throw in a few reindeers, and a bit of mistletoe, and we’d be getting somewhere.

One more point on the magic of Christmas.  For a few years now I have been aware of a debate within the Christian church of whether the virgin birth (at Christmas) was really a virgin birth.  I was raised in a Christian home and spent a good chunk of my life as a practising Christian (although I’m not now).  The Christian story of Jesus’ birth was what I was raised with.  Santa Claus took a very definite second place, and I know that many people reading may also see it this way.

So what of this virgin birth?  Was Jesus’ mother really a virgin?  This is far from a theological stance(my argument would probably not hold up anywhere) but I’ve come to my own conclusion that if I can believe in the magic of Christmas, then I can believe in the virgin birth. Maybe it takes a little imagination, but imagination is a very good thing.  And why should we confine it to children believing in Santa? In my mind, it is sad when we limit our experiences to what we see as literal.

So yes, I believe in the magic of Christmas, including the virgin birth.

Christmas Resolution #2
I support the survival of the rhinoceros  (and I did tell you these were unrelated!!)

Image credit: Andrew McMillan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

It broke my heart a few weeks ago when I read that the black rhino as a species is now extinct.  Rhinos are wonderful animals.  In my mind they are part hippo, part dinosaur and part unicorn (yes, I did say unicorn).  That spells a wonderful mix.  The thought that we as human beings have killed off a species because ‘we’ wanted the ivory from their tusks, is a tragedy.  It’s happening to elephants too, another animal I like, but I won’t get side tracked.  Why can’t we salute the rhino?  Why can’t we put an end to the hunting, and celebrate the unicorn in the rhino.  That little bit of magic.  If you look closely you’ll probably see a rainbow too.

One species are extinct but we can’t afford to lose more.  As for me, I will do what I can to support their survival.  What about you?

Christmas Resolution #3
I must stop crossing oceans! 

This third resolution comes on the basis of the quote I read some months back and knew instantly that it was ‘my‘ quote for 2013.  Anyone else might read this quote and think “oh, that’s nice advice” but after this year, it is imperative that I get on board with it… and not on board a plane either.  I did something like 75 hours (there and back) of that before I learnt my lesson).

The quote is:

“There comes a point when you have to stop crossing oceans for people who wouldn’t even jump puddles for you.”

I have no idea who uttered these wise words, but I’m sure they were speaking metaphorically, and not literally.  Only I could do this literally, crossing many, many oceans (and lands) before I read this quote. Sure, you can say I was in love and had my head in the clouds.  It’s true.  But from now on I check first on the ability of the person in question to ‘jump puddles‘.  I checked many things, but alas, I forgot to check whether he would jump a puddle for me.  Even if he’d lay down his coat in a puddle so I could walk over it (as I remember my Dad telling me that a gentleman would).

If they won’t jump puddles for me, my feet are staying firmly on kiwi ground.  And I expect them to jump big puddles too.

That’s the end of my resolutions.  There’s no point making so many that you can’t keep up.  New Year Resolutions are made to be broken, but these Christmas ones are firmly embedded in my mental ‘it’s happening‘ list.

So sit back, look out for Santa Claus and his reindeers flying past. Oh, and keep a very big eye out for any flying rhinoceros.  I think that would be a sight to see, but also one to perhaps avoid if you can.  Have a lovely Christmas.  Forget the stress of families and money and food (especially for those of us who battle eating disorders and know this time of the year is the absolute worst).  Have a little magic instead.  Have a little peace.

And while you’re about it, check out the wonderful Facebook page where I got the image from.  It is I Create My World: a Children’s Book of Affirmations  A big thank you to Connie for her permission to use her work.

“Christmas magic is silent. You don’t hear it—you feel it, you know it, you believe it.”

― Kevin Alan Milne, The Paper Bag Christmas

Honouring The Silly In Other People

When someone takes the chance, and shows us their silly side, we are indeed honoured.  We all have silly in us, but it’s not that easy to let it out, especially when we’ve been hurt badly in the past.  When we feel vulnerable in other aspects of our lives we become even more vulnerable to let someone in and see silly.

Silly is not about immaturity.  Actually I think the people who ‘do’ silly the best are usually very mature people who see the value in letting go of those inhibitions once in a while and being silly.  That said, I know very mature people who would never be seen dead doing silly, but I am sure that they would be better off if they tried it once in a while.

Dictionaries tend to define silly as foolish, lacking common sense, frivolous, stupid or childish… but that’s not what I am talking about.  Silly is not a negative thing in my mind, but rather something that is very good for our mental health.  It’s about letting out that child inside of us to have fun.  Silly is a little bit crazy, but in a good way.

The Urban Dictionary provides a multitude of definitions but I like this one:

“The most awesome compliment you can give a person! It is cooler than cool or even ice-cold. Silly is the epitome of greatness, and a term used only to describe the greatest human beings on the planet”

I can be silly with two (almost three) year old L.  It’s easy to be silly with a two-year old.  To let go of adult inhibitions and answer her toy mobile phone as I would my own real phone, drink pretend cups of tea, not to mention lots of other interactions which I probably wouldn’t have with most adults.

But it’s good to know who you can be silly with as an adult.  Those people really matter, because they are the people with whom you can be yourself.  If you can be yourself in silly moments with them, you also know you can be yourself in the moments when you are struggling.  And for those of us with mental illnesses, it’s good to know who those people are in advance.

I really value the people around me who I know I can be silly with, mostly because I know they accept me for exactly who I am.  I also feel extremely honoured when others feel they can be silly with me, because it tells me they trust me.

Recently someone in my life stomped fiercely on my silliness.  Actually it wasn’t the only thing they stomped on, but the silly Cate is the matter for today.  It’s interesting because the stomping on the silly me is perhaps the most hurtful of all, and I keep surprising myself with that one.  I literally cringe when I stop to think about it, because I know how vulnerable I was in letting that person see that side of me.  I’m not talking about the fun, silly but the most sensitive two-year old who dares to let you into their world.  Who dares to let you into their imagination and fantasy.  Who trusts you to show you the real them.

Having that stomped on hurt like hell, but it reminds me to value moments of silliness with people in my life.  It reminds me to honour that part of them, by not only enjoying it, but by treasuring it.  I can tell you, and you probably can too, once silliness is stomped on it’s almost impossible to win that trust back.

If nothing else makes sense in what I have said today, remember that.  And honour silly.  Value the trust being placed in your heart.

“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.” 

― Henri J.M. Nouwen, The Road to Daybreak: A Spiritual Journey

Gut Instinct

I constantly see articles, blog posts, quotations and books telling me to trust my gut instinct.  But what happens when my gut instinct gets it wrong?  Yes, that’s right.  Wrong.  Everything told me I was on the right path, my heart was completely at peace with the direction my life was heading in.  I had big plans, that felt completely right.  Not a doubt.

Some years ago I worked in jobs where relying on my gut instinct was sometimes the only way to know that what I was doing was right.  The job focused around people in need of money and food.  I had to be able to spot inconsistencies in the story clients were putting to me, and I got pretty good at it.  But very often it came down to gut instinct.  Did I believe what this client was telling me?  Was the need they were putting across to me genuine?  Over the years I got pretty good at it, and I learnt to trust my instincts.  No doubt there were occasions when I got it wrong, but mostly I was right on the mark.

A few years on and I was in another job.  I had a man in his fifties working for me.  He was the nicest person.  Everyone thought so, and he did an excellent job both with clients and with helping other staff.  My gut instinct told me that this was a good person and he became someone who I trusted to look after the department when I wasn’t there.

I was eventually made redundant from that position and so left the company, but some years on it was discovered that this lovely person had been systematically defrauding the company while he was working for me.  I never suspected a thing. No one did.  He’s now serving out his time in prison.  My gut instinct didn’t pick it up.  Okay, so I’m human like the rest of us, but how can it be that you can be so sure you’ve made a good decision about someone, but you get it wrong?

You will have guessed by now that I like quotations.  I love getting nuggets of wisdom from people who have gone before us.  So often I conclude that even with time, life really doesn’t change that much.

My favourite quote is one I have used here before:

“Come to the edge”, he said. We are afraid. “Come to the edge”, he said. They came. He pushed them, And they flew…”

-Guillaume Apollinaire

So often when we are facing something new or just different, we need a push.  All going well, we get that push and we fly.  We soar.  And we’re glad we took that step off the edge.

This year I was facing something new, and my heart and my gut told me that what I was doing was absolutely right for me.  It was huge, and it wasn’t that I was without fear.  Fear is just natural when we face something new.  But in spite of what seemed to be just normal fear, I was totally sure of what I was doing.  There wasn’t a doubt in my mind.

So I came to the edge, and as I took off from the edge, I started to fly.  I thought I had listened to my gut instinct correctly and I was happy.  Actually I was more happy than I had been for years.  But then the flying faltered, and I went…     splat….     there was no more flying but instead I had crashed at the bottom of the cliff.

I very quickly discovered that my gut instinct had got it wrong.  This wasn’t a moment of flight, but instead I found myself scraping myself off the rocks, looking at my wounds and wondering how the heck had I got it so wrong?

This post isn’t about feeling sorry for myself.  The wounds are still there, but I will survive.  This post is about making sense of what happened and asking myself, what happens when gut instinct gets it wrong?  It’s not like I was in denial of real doubts.  And it’s not like I hadn’t put a whole lot of thought into what I was planning.  My gut instinct told me that I was doing the right thing for me.  I was completely committed to what was ahead.  This was right for me.

I’ve been mulling this post over in my mind for several weeks now.  I didn’t want to write it until I had an answer for myself.  I wanted that hope of understanding, but to be honest I’m still stumped by this.  Every time I see something telling my just my gut feeling, I am left with the thought ‘but I’ve proven that I can’t trust my gut feeling‘.  How do I trust my gut feeling, when it gets it wrong?

Maybe for some reason I just had to go through what this path has taken me through.  Again, I don’t know.  I’m sure there would be an easier way to learn a lesson.  I personally don’t believe that everything happens for a reason.   I believe that some things are too awful for some divine power to put us through.  Don’t try and tell me that innocent people have died in Syria in past weeks for some divine reason.  I don’t buy it.  I’m not saying that what I have been through is in that category, but I’m also not prepared to say that what I have been though was all for some unknown reason.

None of the books, articles, blog posts tell me what to make if my gut instinct getting it wrong.  I don’t know the answer.  I just have to keep treating those wounds, keep taking one step at a time.  As for leaping off cliffs?  I think I’ll pass on that for now.

“Deep down within the heart there is a stillness which is healing, a trust in the universal laws which is unwavering, and a strength which is rock-like. But because it is so deep we need both patience and perseverance when digging for it.” 

― Paul Brunton, The Notebooks of Paul Brunton

Big Ears

No, this post is not about Noddy and his friend Big Ears.  It’s about using our ears in big ways.  I read recently that we generally don’t listen to hear, but instead listen to reply.  While the other person is speaking, we’re already working out what we’re going to reply.  It made me stop and think.  People have said before that I am a good listener, but I suspect I am usually listening to reply too.

Today I had the experience of someone listening to me to hear.  I’m not in any way implying that others I have talked to recently weren’t listening to me, but this time it was different.  This time I knew that the person who was listening to me, heard what I said.  He got it.  He really got it.

This person was my doctor and I was seeing him for a totally different reason.  I admit I have been less than flattering in my blog of him in the past.  That comes because he and I have a different understanding of one of my diagnoses.  But this time, my time was up and I was treading on his lunch hour (or half hour).  But he took the time to listen to something I haven’t been able to tell anyone for what seems like a very long time.  And he accepted it and he got it.

No doubt in time I will be complaining again about his understanding of my illness, but for today he sat there, listened and reflected back to me what he had heard.  Actually the real impact came for me as I walked away from the surgery.  When I realised I had told someone and it was okay.   The world was not going to end.

It’s simple stuff, but I know only too well when listening to another it is easy to be consumed by our own stuff.  One could easily say that my doctor was paid to listen to me, but we all know that doesn’t work in practise.  They’re pushing for time, and it just doesn’t happen.  We get our allotted 15 minutes (if we’re lucky) and there’s no time for conversation.

The fact that he listened today left me with an enormous amount of relief.  It hasn’t changed anything in my life, except that today I know that for a few minutes I was heard.  And for that I am thankful.

“People love to talk but hate to listen. Listening is not merely not talking, though even that is beyond most of our powers; it means taking a vigorous, human interest in what is being told us. You can listen like a blank wall or like a splendid auditorium where every sound comes back fuller and richer.” 

― Alice Duer Miller

Standing Idly By

It’s something that I find so difficult.  To stand idly by and do nothing when someone is being hurt.  Some people find it easy to say “it’s none of my business“,  or “I’m not getting involved” but for me it’s so hard.

A few years ago I was out walking one morning with some friends.  We had been walking alongside the Avon River, which flows through Christchurch, NZ when we noticed a mother duck leading her ducklings (about 10 from memory) onto a road bridge to cross the river.  From my observation (I live near the river) ducks don’t have the best road sense and in breeding time it is a common sight at the end of my street to see peak hour traffic grind to a halt as a mother duck leads her young across the road.

Back to the ones crossing the bridge this particular morning, without even need for discussion we could see that traffic was not going to be able to see the duck family in time to stop, and so we formed a kind of human shield at the back of the ducklings, while one of our group tried to herd them onto the footpath.  As it turned out, no duck or human was hurt that day.  The traffic could see us much easier than the ducklings and so their lives were saved.

I am very clear that many people wouldn’t have done anything to help the ducks to safety that day.  They’d say “it’s none of my business“,  or “I’m not getting involved” or even “they’re just ducks“.  That attitude makes me kind of sad, although I recognise that it is perhaps a much more stress-free approach to life.

English: Duck and ducklings, Frogmore "Go...

Image credit: Wikipedia.com

My stress levels have been peaking this week, and I’ve found myself with physical symptoms of stress that I haven’t had since Christchurch was in the thick of earthquakes in 2010/11.  Life has been pretty stressful lately but actually it wasn’t about my life that I was getting stressed.  This is interesting because it was what I could see happening to other people (whom I don’t personally know) that was stressing me more than what was happening in my own life.

“You don’t just give up.  You don’t just let things happen.  You take a stand!  You say no! You have the guts to do what’s right, even when everyone else just runs away.”

 – Mia Kaim

And this is where I get stuck.  I might have the guts to do what’s right, but sometimes it is at the expense of myself.  I could stand up to the person who I can see harming others, and a big part of me wants to.  That big part says those people being hurt deserve to have someone stand up for them.  I realise that it’s like I’m stuck in this battle of is it me, or is it them?  Who is going to get hurt the most?  Actually in this case, the other people are being hurt much more than what effect it has/would have on me, yet I am also aware of that there probably would be a personal cost to me.

From an early age my mother would tell you that I ‘collected’ what she called ‘lame ducks’ (that always seemed rather uncharitable to me) or people who needed my help, or needed to be ‘saved’ by me.  She’s right, I did seem to collect people like that and I think her worst fear was that I would marry one of them and maybe produce ‘lame duck’ grandchildren (I didn’t).  Actually I think my father did much the same as I did in collecting people who needed his help.  Maybe its genetic, but I just hate to see someone being hurt, or mistreated.

I don’t find this one at all easy.  I talking about the general dilemma rather than the specific issue in front of me right now.  I simply don’t find the “don’t get involved/it’s none of my business” argument that easy to sit with when people are being hurt.  Actually I’d go so far as to say that I sometimes wish I was the type of person who could take that approach.  It must be so much easier to simply turn your back and walk away, but even as I write that I’m screaming “That is so wrong!“.

“If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. If it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. But I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.” 

— E.B. White