#123: The Spectrum of Goodness

Okay. Buckle up folks.

It's a fact of the human condition that, however we each individually measure value, we are never as "good" as we want to be. We all fall short.

That's really okay. In fact, it's probably for the best that we all want to be better than we actually are. It's what keeps us trying and improving. We would be stagnate and dull creatures if we didn't want to measure up to a higher standard.

The thing is, for every positive value, there is an opposite value. It's a spectrum, not a check box. You are not strong OR weak. You are not kind OR cruel. You are not generous OR stingy. You--and every person in the world--lie somewhere on a long spectrum that runs between each of these pairs of values.

And, here's the rub, what that logically means is that if you are not as kind as you want to be, it also means that you are more cruel. If you are not as strong, not as rich, not as clever, not as thoughtful as you want to be, then--by the nature of reality--this also means you are weaker, poorer, slower, and more callous than you wish you were.

This is simply fact. It doesn't make you, personally, good or bad. Not being perfect doesn't make you horrible. It just makes you human.

Now, why did I say all this?

Let's talk about racism.

Just like every other character trait, there is a spectrum from "racist" to "not racist". No one is all the way at "not racist." We want to be. We strive to be. We know we should be, because we know it's wrong to judge people based on their color and none of us want to be that kind of person.

And yet, all of us are. None of us makes it all the way to "not racist." And, since none of us is as "not racist" as we want to be, you know what that means.

We're all more racist than we wish we were.

And, frankly, we don't really care to admit that.

Now, admitting you have a problem is the first step to correcting it, right? Whether you learned that from AA or your therapist or a TED talk, we've all heard it and we know it's true. Admitting there is an issue is the first step. But not a single one of us wants to admit that we're more racist than we'd like to be.

Which makes it really hard to start correcting the issue.

Now, I get it. I really do. We want to be good people. And racism is bad. If we're somewhat racist, then that calls into question everything we think about our own inherent goodness, doesn't it?

As I get older, I am learning not to think that way. I am learning to understand that what makes someone a "bad" person is a refusal to learn to be better. When people embrace their negative qualities, when they don't care about their impact on others, when they turn a blind eye to the harm they cause... THAT is when I judge a person as bad.

But, for all that I'm really angry at humanity right now, in the end I have always believed that most people have a shot at redemption, if they want it. And I don't mean a magical cleansing of their soul by an outside source. I mean accepting where they lie on each value spectrum, and trying to move consistently towards the place they WANT to be, rather than the place that they ARE.

If you WANT to be better, and you're willing to WORK to be better, then you're a fine person in my book. No matter how far that journey towards "better" may be for you.

But the first step is admitting that you have progress to make. That there's room to grow. That you're still a little more racist than you'd like to be.

So, as we have all these conversations on racial injustice, and you find yourself feeling uncomfortable, and not wanting to be labeled as a racist?

Let that go.

You're racist. So am I. We all are. And that's not just the white "we" (although for sure, the white "we" has a huge and painful burden to bear there.). That's the human "we." We're racist. Because we're not perfect, and we live in a racist world. If your discomfort stems from not wanting to be labeled as a racist, you gotta let that go.

It's only getting in the way.

#122: Hurricane Walking

I've been backing off my depression meds recently--

Lemme stop there, for the concerned people who aren't well steeped in the "brain drug" lore.  Meds help, but they also can hurt.  Basically every brain medication has a small chance of actually causing the thing that you're trying to heal.  Why?  In lots of cases we're not sure--  

It's super fun when you start to really look at areas of medicine that are not particularly well understood, like the brain. The more you learn, the more you realize that the most educated expert in this field still bears a striking resemblance to the call center IT person reading through a google search with you. 

Good times.

Anyway, back to what I was saying--

--we're not sure, but we do know it's true.  In my case, the 20 mg of citalopram I was taking daily had turned my life into a greyscale.  I was never upset, but I was never happy.  Even things that normally make me joyous had barely any effect on my mood at all, and I hated it.  The level of disconnection I was experiencing was as bad, in it's own way, as full blown depression had been, and I decided something had to change.  

So, once more, with feeling...

I've been backing off my depression meds recently, and it's been good, but fraught.  Having the feels come back is wonderful, but, you know, not all the feels are good.  Not to mention, I am way out of practice at handling my feels.  So I'm trying to remember how to float among these waves, without struggling and going under.

When I was a teenager I was super volatile, emotionally speaking.  I laughed easily, cried easily, got angry easily, and loved easily.  Time, experience, and motherhood taught me to temper all of that, because the more you are confronted with situations where you cannot wear your heart on your sleeve, the more you are forced to learn to hide it.  I don't honestly know how I feel about this life lesson.  It is good that I can handle most of what my children throw at me without breaking down in tears (at least, in public) and it is good that I can check my anger and find its source before starting an unproductive fight.

But it's bad that I feel like I am always in a box.  Always contained.  Always letting just a tiny bit of myself out into the world, and always ready to yank it back in if that small piece of me turns out to be too much.

I am a hurricane trying to feel like a gentle breeze, and it does not feel good to me, no matter how much nicer it is for those around me.

*****

Now, ready for some even more uncomfortable honesty?

Lately, I have been confronting some things that I always knew were true about myself, but that I did not want to be true, and hoped I would grow out of.  Now, at the half way point of my life, I am coming to terms with the fact that these things will not change; that they are fundamentally a part of who I am.  That I can learn to manage them, and handle them, and contain them, but I cannot get rid of them.  I will always be this way.

People who know me often describe me as strong, and capable, and unapologetic in who I am.

People who know me best are aware that, in fact, that is who I force myself to try to be.  That at the center of myself, I am a bundle of insecurities that revolve around my desperate need for love, attention, and approval.

I am a needy, needy person, y'all.  I need to be liked.  I need to be noticed.  I need to be appreciated.

And I kind of hate that about myself.

I dream of running away and becoming a hermit.  Living alone with myself, so that I couldn't be concerned with anyone else's opinion of me.  I'd only have access to my own opinion, and then maybe I'd be able to be who I wanted without worrying about other people's approval.  And then maybe I'd learn that I won't wither and die if people aren't noticing me.

Of course, there's always the possibility that I would wither and die.  We all like to think that when confronted with a situation that can destroy us or forge us into something stronger, that we'll totally emerge as a well tempered artifact, but I try to be honest with myself.

I might just shatter.

*****

So, here I am, a hurricane in a zephyr's clothing, my inner tempest getting stronger again, and I am so scared of what happens if I can't contain it.  Not to me, at least, not directly.  I have always loved a roller coaster.  The lows make the highs more profound for me, and there is no escaping that basic aspect of my nature.  Some people like to walk along steadily, but I prefer to soar and plummet.

Original Watercolor "Mizz Irma" by Gina Fote

That is who I am.

But, folks, who I am is a lot for everyone outside my own head.  I mean, sometimes it's a lot for me, too, but I think I have some natural immunity to it.  I walk in the eye of the storm.  But for the people around me, getting buffeted by the winds of my moods...

It's just a lot.

So, what do I want more?  The need to express my thoughts and feelings without malice, but also without inhibition, is a central part of who I am.  But so is my need to be appreciated, and valued, and loved.

And I am honestly not sure I can have both.

#121: The Terrible Absence of Pain

Recently, when I was talking to a friend about my struggles with depression, I was going through the litany of why my life was fine.  And he looked at me, and said something that really made an impact.

"What you just said are all absences of pain.  Not the presence of good things."

He was right, of course.  The state of my life right now is absence of pain--most of the time.  And don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking absence of pain.  I don't think he was either.  But it's hard to live a joyful life when you don't feel any joy.

I know I am depressed.  I know that's not something in my control, and that it's an actual mental illness.  But I can't help feeling guilty that I can't find the joy in my life.  It feels like a failure on my part.  Like a selfish, greedy way of looking at the world; to want for more joy when so many people are dealing with such agonizing pain.  

I, personally, know of someone who just lost a child.  I would stop breathing if I lost my children.  Why is it so hard to translate the knowledge that my children are whole and (mostly) well into some kind of joy?

I don't know.

I know that, emotionally speaking, my life has been hard for the last decade.  I lost my partner.  I am a mostly single parent.  I moved.  I started a job.  My children have atypicalities that make school hard for one, and almost impossible for the other.  My health has not always been great.

I have taken every meeting at the school.  I have signed every piece of paper.  I have managed every phone call, sometimes multiple ones a day.  I have learned a new industry and a new way of working in the space of two months.  I have rearranged my life schedule and planned alternative after-school plans and tried to figure out how to still do the laundry.  Speaking of which, I have done every load of laundry.  I have done all the dishes.  I have cooked all the meals, dealt with all the dead mice, shoveled all the snow, and taken out every load of trash.  And the weight of knowing that these things are all mine to do--not individually, but collectively--that it is all mine to do--is heavy.

I grew up in a home where there were never less than four adult to share the load.  Sometimes I think wistfully of what that would be like.  Even two would be pretty swell.  But I don't have two.  I have me.  And me is trying her best, but anyone who walked into my kitchen right now would see that some things are slipping.

And yet... there is an absence of pain.  Sure, this is hard.  I'm not trying to say it's easy.  But I have dealt with the children's school issues, and both of them are doing better.  I have gotten the job which will provide me with my own financial security.  My children are healthy, and getting happier.  So why is it that every day seems to be so hard?

I really don't know.

But I do know that I'm not the only one who feels this way.  That this is actually a common problem.  And, in the wake of the past four years, where the nation has seemed a terrifying and out of control place for many of us, the macro crisis of the world at large has sent a lot of us with this very common problem into a tailspin.  

As another friend recently put it... we're struggling.

But we don't talk about it all that much.  We feel shame that we can't find the joy in the simple absence of pain.  We feel guilt that things are hard.  

We really don't want to talk about the state of our kitchens.

And the thing is, I think we need to.  Depression isn't a safe thing to keep quiet.  When it's serious, it can be a terminal illness.  And when it's less critical it can still take a life that ought to be vibrant and full of joy and leech all the color from it.  And worst of all, it spirals downward.  When you're depressed, it's harder to do the things that can pull you out of depression.

So we need to talk about it.  

My friends are a lifeline to me, because they know, and they don't let me slip too far down the spiral.  Not because they can fix anything, or change anything.  Just because they're always there, and they keep reminding me that they care.  It's amazing how strongly knowing that someone else cares can anchor you in place.  But people aren't mind readers, and they might not see that we're slipping if we're too embarrassed to talk about it.

So, I'm going to keep talking about my mental illness.  I'm going (to try) to let go of the shame of the things I keep let slipping--

Seriously.  Those fucking dishes.

--and I'm going to encourage others to talk about it as well.  None of us need to sit in silence when so many of us are in the same damn boat.  None of us need to feel alone in this.  None of us need to make the isolation any bigger.

Hi, my name's Jessica, and I'm depressed.

*the art in this post is from a photo shoot on grief that I did with a friend. 

#120: An Open Letter to Dudes in Trucks

An open letter from a part time pedestrian, on a rainy day, to Dudes in Trucks, with their giant wheels, and their immense insecurity about life;

so very immense

Dear Dudes,

Here we are again.  In the summer I reached out to you to let you know my feelings about your demographic.   Now, obviously, #notalldudesintrucks, but a huge percentage of the catcalls, yells, and general douchey behavior I got while out walking in the warm months came from you guys.  Now that it’s fall, I find we gotta have another chat about your need to take up as much social real estate as possible.

Now, I know that your truck means a lot to you.  You get to climb into that big ol’ cab set up on those big ass wheels and look down on the people around you, in their tiny, fuel efficient vehicles or—more embarrassing still—moved by nothing but their own two legs.  I get that this gives you a warm feeling somewhere in your nether regions.  I’m not trying to take that feeling from you.

But Dudes—my dudes—we gotta talk about the rain.  

Today, for the first time, I learned just how far those giant wheels sling the rainwater they scoop up from the road puddles in their deep, chasm like tire treads.  I learned this not by academic study, but by walking innocently down the sidewalk.  One member of your brotherhood passed me by, and lo and behold, I was wet from the knee down.  

Sort of dirty, too.  

Now, I can enjoy being wet and dirty as much as the next person, but I tend to prefer it to be at a time of my own choosing, not when I’m headed to the train to go to work.

I realize that asking you to drive a more reasonably sized car—for the sake of the environment, if nothing else—would be an infringement upon your right to do as much damage to the planet as you possibly can in your short span upon it.  And I realize that asking you to give up your monstrous tires in the name of “why the fuck does anyone need tires that big unless they are hauling produce across the country in an 18 wheeler?” would similarly be insupportable, since you need them for the aforementioned warm feeling in your nether regions.

But for fuck’s sake, can you at least slow down when it’s wet out, and you’re driving past pedestrians?

Sincerely, 

The woman on the train with very wet legs.  

#119 The Story of How EVERYTHING IS FINE.

Okay, it's very important that we start this story with the following reassurance:

It's important because, at various times over this tale, you are likely to wonder if (a) the house burned down, (b) Elliot is okay, and (c) if I had the state called on me as an unfit mother.

So, I repeat...

EVERYTHING IS FINE.

On with the tale.

Yesterday was my first Friday at work.  For those of you who don't know, I've recently taken a new job.  It's great, I'm super happy with the company, and, more importantly, it has the best working mother schedule in the world.  Most of the time I only have to be in the office every other Friday; when they cater lunch and then have cocktail hour at four and we all play Beat Saber.

Right?
RIGHT?

Bask in the glory.

Anyway, since I was just starting I've had a few extra office days recently, but they always either were scheduled so I could be home around the time the kids got out of school, or someone else was here (for instance, I was down in Boston all day Wednesday, but my mother-in-law was here so that was no big.)

Yesterday was the first day I was (a) in the city and (b) no one else was home.

On top of this (and this detail is critical to the story) Elliot is currently awaiting a new school placement.  So he's at home, being homeschooled until the new placement goes through.

If you're quick, you've realized that this means he was going to be home alone yesterday.

Now, to be clear, I did not just swan out the door without a care.  Elliot has a way to contact me on his computer.  I had also previewed the day with him, set him up with the school work he needed to do, made sure he had set an alarm for lunch time so he'd remember to eat, and put out food for him.  He felt confident, I felt--well--at least moderately okay, and I figured we'd give this a shot.

So I go to work and I'm not really thinking too much about it until my phone rings at 11:30.

Now, this call is coming from Charlotte's account on Hangouts.  (Hangouts is the google messaging app.)  This confuses me because Charlotte is supposed to be in school.  I answer the phone immediately.

"Chaz?"
"NO!  It's me!"  My son sounds slightly panicked.  "I fucked up really bad!"

I die.  In this moment, I am dead.  Something has happened.  The world is coming to an end.  I am forty minutes away from my son and something is horribly, horribly wrong.

He continues.  "I locked myself out of my email account!"

The world stutters and my heart starts beating again.

"Oh."  I say, barely able to speak due to the adrenaline spike that now has nowhere to go.  "Ah, what happened?"

Turns out my dude had tried to fix the ad settings on his YouTube (yes, some of his school work involves educational videos on YouTube) and had, in all innocence, given google his real age, whereupon google had promptly booted him.  He was calling from Charlotte's account because he was locked out of his own account.  I logged in, fixed it, proved I was an adult with the right to do this, and got him set back with his account and told him to leave the ad settings alone.  Crisis averted, right?

Well...

About 90 seconds after I hang up with Elliot, my phone rings again.  This time it's an unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Jessica, it's Linda."

This is Linda Rosa, the social worker at the school that Elliot used to attend and Charlotte currently attends, calling me (I can only assume) from her personal cell phone.   That does not normally happen.

"Is Charlotte okay?"

"Charlotte is perfect, but I've gotten this email from Elliot..."

My son--my brilliant, problem solving, alternative thinking son--had apparently not immediately thought of using his sister's account to contact me, and had instead logged into his school email account and used it to contact Linda.  According to her his email was as follows;

"Help, I've fucked up really bad!  Please call Mommy and tell her I need her."

I feel like maybe Elliot and I need to sit down and have a chat about how to word things.

After assuring Linda that he was fine and that I had spoken with him and that it had actually been a fairly minor issue, we hung up the phone and I moved on with my day.

Well, I tried to move on with my day.

Three minutes later, my phone rings again.

This time it is the Parker Elementary main number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Jessica, this is Chrissy, I'm calling because I've got this email from Elliot..."

Y'all... I cannot accurately describe my emotional state in that moment, but it was a bizarre mixture of guilt over their worry combined with wild hilarity.

Chrissy (the current principal of the Parker) told me that she had heard from (in no particular order) Elliot's third grade teacher, his fourth grade teacher, the Behavioral Analyst, and the old principal, all of whom had heard from Elliot and were worried about him.

I sent them all an email.

Then I contacted my son.

Y'all...

So anyway.  I get home from work yesterday, and Elliot comes bounding down the stairs with a big grin on his face.

"Well!  That was quite an exciting day, wasn't it?"

You can say that again, dude.

#118: Slam Head Into Wall. Repeat.

I've got some furniture I'm selling.  That's not the point of this story, it's just a critical detail so you can understand what is to follow.  In the process of selling this furniture I'm talking to a lot of strangers.  The conversation I am about to relate is with one such stranger, whose name has been changed out of respect for his privacy.

Such sources of drama.

"Hi, Dudebro?  This is Jessica with the king bed."
"Oh, hi!"
"So, I have some unfortunate news.  The box springs were stolen out of the back of my van last night, so I'm calling to--"
"That's illegal!"
"Yes, I know, I'm--"
"Someone went into your car and took your property, that's breaking and entering!"
"Yes, I know.  What I'm calling about it--"
"Have you talked to your husband about it?"

beat

beat

beat

Now, for anyone who knows me even the slightest bit, you will understand that this question pushed the rage button in multiple directions.  For one thing, there's the assumption that I have a husband.  For another, there's the assumption that, if I did have a husband, I would be going to him in order to deal with this.  For a third, there's the fact that once upon a time I did have a husband and, frankly, that's a slightly touchy subject for me.

So I really don't know what to say in cases like these. 

or just a light maiming?

Do I say "Well, I would talk to my husband about it, but it turns out he was a figment of society's collective imagination and the woman he really was is arguably more feminine than I am, so, really, I'm the butchest one around and I'll have to make do?"  Because, let me tell you, the temptation to unload that one and just really confuse the fuck out of them is SO STRONG.

Or do I say, with a catch in my voice, "My husband is no longer with us." and then start sobbing?  Because, I'll let you in on a little secret y'all, some days remembering my husband does actually make me cry.  I mean, mostly I'd be doing it to lay the world's largest guilt trip on this asshole making assumptions, but there would definitely be an aspect of authenticity about it.  And if I have to get the little stab wound of being reminded that I no longer have a partner to help me deal with the difficult shit, then I don't see why I shouldn't spread some of that misery around.

Or do I say, with every ounce of radical Feminist condescension I can muster, "That is an outrageous thing for you to ask.  March your feet to the base of Mount Shame and begin your climb, oh wretched man, and return not here until the wounds of self-flagellation can be clearly seen upon your hide-bound flesh."

SHAME!

Of do I say none of these things, because I do not want to deal with this man right now, I just want to deal with my furniture?

If you've selected that final option, you have, in fact, sussed out my chosen path.

With one little question I was suddenly ass deep in frustrated anger, but hell, I had other shit to do that day, so I simply ground out;

"I don't have a husband."

At the time it truly seemed like the better part of valor, but I had cause to regret my forbearance.

"Oh!  I'm sorry."

It flashed through my mind to wonder if he was apologizing for his question, or if he was saying he was sorry I wasn't married.  Like, honestly, it could have been either.  But I was goal oriented here, so I pressed on.

"Yes, but what I'm calling you about is--"
"  I just meant you've had a B&E.  What you should do it call the cops and report it and--"
"YES."  There was a deep breath in here while I tried to find a way to say what I needed to say without being utterly rude.  "I am completely capable of handling that myself.  The reason I called--"
"You can handle a B&E yourself?"
"yes."
"Oh.  Okay.  It's just my family is in law enforcement."
"Well, what I'm calling you about is to find out if you still want the mattress."
"Oh.  Yes."
"Fine.  Then come pick it up."

And after all that, folks?

He didn't come get the mattress.

motherfucker

#117: On Behalf of Artists

So, recently I've been having a lot of conversations that surround--not art itself, but the commercial aspects of making art.  That's gotten me thinking about artists, and value, and, you know... advocacy.  Because with me, everything is about advocacy, right?  So, I thought I'd write a brief little note about art, artists, and value.

And if you yourself happen to be an artist and want to print this on paper airplanes and sail it at the people around you, please do feel free.

Artists Have Imposter Syndrome

Okay, like, obviously #notallartists.  But, seriously, yes, all artists, this is a thing.  The artists in your life do not know that they are any good.  They make their art because they love it, and they delight in it, and they can't imagine NOT making art.  But they also know what they're not good at.  The woodworker you love knows how difficult they find dovetail joints.  The watercolorist knows all the places where the color bled the wrong way in their last painting.  The sculptor knows where they had to completely change their last piece because they couldn't make it form the precise way they wanted.  And because artists always want to be better at their art, they frequently look at a piece and only see the flaws.  What they got right isn't particularly relevant to them.  It's what they need to improve that they focus on.  And that's good for growth and what not, but it's bad for appreciating your own skills.  

So, hug an artist.

But not me.  I'm not an artist.  

I'm just not good enough.

#impostersyndrome

Art is a Demanding Sugar Baby

Art is so expensive to do.  SO EXPENSIVE.  Okay, (since apparently I'm doing this) obviously #notallart.  You can do beautiful things with paper and pencil.  But then you start thinking about how much better your work would be if you just had that really nice sketch paper that handled your eraser better.  And, speaking of erasers, you could really use a super high quality one that doesn't make such a mess when you use it.  OH!  And wouldn't your line work be better if you had varying pencil leads?

It's a slippery slope, people.

Anyway, art is expensive.  High quality paper, pigments, clays, fabrics, woods, yarns, beads--ALL THINGS ART.  They cost money.  They cost LOTS of money.  And here's the thing: the only way you ever get better at art is to make art.  Which means there's no way to practice your craft without sinking in at least SOME money.  Which you do.  You do for the joy!  You do for the love!  You do for the satisfaction!

But sometimes you look at your art supplies (of which you have a vast plethora and still not the thing you really need to do the latest piece that is obsessing you at the moment) and you wonder if art really loves you back, or if it's just in it for the things you buy.

Artists Don't Make Money

FFS YES, #NOTALLARTISTS, MKAY?

But, statistically speaking, artists don't make money.  I've already established that materials are expensive.  But, on top of that, artists don't work for a big art company.  They don't get health care, or dental, or 401k's, or work spaces, or paid time off, or ANYTHING.  There are none of the support things that come with a regular job, which you can supply yourself, but all cost money.

So, that really, really, really expensive painting that's hanging on your wall that cost $400?  Well, your artist probably spent at MINIMUM $50 on supplies.  Then they spent a week working on it.  And $350 a week for fifty weeks a year is a whopping salary of $17,500.  That's below the poverty line.  AND they're covering all the things normally covered by a regular job.  

And yeah, it's about the art, not about the money.  But it's about the money if you want to live long enough to keep making art.  So, forgive my mercenary moment here, but REALLY YOU AREN'T PAYING ENOUGH FOR YOUR ART.

All of Which Is to Say:

Appreciate your artists, folks.

Art is important in our lives and culture.  And the people who make it often do it despite how emotionally taxing it can be, and how it's generally a path to lifelong impoverishment.

Hug an artist.

Pay their asking price without blinking.

And once in a while buy them some nice art markers, okay?

They totally deserve it.