The Doctor’s Visit. A Scene From My Life

*This script is based on real-life events from the year 2018

Int. Neurologist Office – Day

Morning Appointment with Kerri, Dave, and Mitchell to discuss Mitchell’s seizures and increased behavior/emotional outbursts. The office is new and brightly lit. It is clean with a mural of a child in a tiger costume playing in the grass covering the wall above the chairs for parents. The energy is quiet and tense. Kerri and Dave sit in chairs facing the door, waiting for the doctor. Kerri is lost in space picking her lips, and Dave is on his phone. Mitchell sits on the checkup table slumped against the wall with his IPad.

The Doctor enters. Kerri stands to hug her. Dave looks up and smiles. Mitchell barely says hello.

Cut to the end of the appointment. Close up on Kerri and Doctor who are standing close together by the door. Dave is in shadow behind Kerri. We do not see Mitchell. Kerri is upset, frustrated, and scared. The appointment has provided no answers to Mitchell’s worsening condition. We see Kerri’s shoulders slump and her body droop. Kerri has just, once again, told the doctor that Mitchell can’t even get out the door without a meltdown, that he’s not living a “real” life and she doesn’t know what to do, that she is “losing” it.

DOCTOR

Kerri, you should not be getting him ready for the day, you shouldn’t even be getting him dressed.

KERRI

What do you mean? I’m his mom. That’s literally my job.

DOCTOR

Yes, you’re his mom. But right now your job should only be to love him. You should not be helping him with homework, and you should definitely not be the disciplinarian,

KERRI

(Dead Silent, then stuttering, then shaking, suddenly silent again with tears beginning to escape down her cheeks.)

I don’t even know what that means? That’s not real life. Dave has to work, or we have no health insurance. I’m it, and I’m supposed to be able to do this. How is he going to live a “real” life? He can’t function, He’s coming apart at the seems. And it’s tearing him apart too. It’s my job to make sure he’s OK! He can’t live like this, what’s going to happen to him?! We can’t live like this? How do I do this?

DOCTOR

Take care of yourself so you can be what he needs you to be right now. Just love him. And maybe right now, you’re asking too much of him and yourself. It’s not your job to save him.

KERRI

That’s exactly my job. I’m his mother! He hates me. He’s sad all the time. And these…episodes?! He has to learn that it’s not OK to be mean and violent, no matter what he’s feeling. But he can’t control it, and no one knows what’s causing it. Is this just him now? He hates me, and we’re both at each other all the time.

(Breaking for a second)

I have to help him. I want him to love me again. He gets further away from me every day. I want my little boy back!

DOCTOR

I know. But you can only take so much, Kerri.

KERRI

What if this gets worse? What if he grows up and hurts himself? I have to prevent that! (closed mouthed suppressed sobbing) If he’s not OK, then what the hell do I matter? I can’t take care of myself until I take care of him. That’s what I supposed to do, take care of him! (voice rises in desperation) He still needs to be a kid; He has no life. But he needs to go to school! If he falls too far behind, he’ll never catch up. And this behavior! (throws hands up in frustration and panic.)

DOCTOR

(With tremendous kindness but also firm. )

Kerri, this is happening. You have a very sick child, and all we can do right now is go through the process.

(puts hands up in a sign of making peace)

I know we’ve been through this before, but we have to keep trying. Daily life routines will help, but you shouldn’t be the one to put them in place, Kerri, he can only do what he can do right now, and so can you. It’s too much, and if you fall apart the whole ship goes down!

KERRI

(Hopeless and angry. Feeling faint and weak, but at the same time feels like shoving the doctor. Speaks in a low raw whisper.)

It’s my job to teach him to become a functioning person! I can’t work, I don’t have a life. This is the only thing I’m supposed to be doing, and I’m failing!! I’m failing my little boy. He’s so sick!

(fully sobbing)

It shouldn’t be that hard to get through the day. I’m his mother!

DOCTOR

So be his mom and love him. Take care of yourself so you can be there for him through this. We don’t know how, but it will change. Nothing stays the same forever. Get someone to help you! You can’t be head of the house and be his mom right now. They aren’t the same job. Be his mom and love him. Let someone else be his caretaker and help take care of you too.

KERRI

(Silent. Head Down. Crying. Defeated)

END SCENE:

Except, it wasn’t a scene. It was real.

I don’t remember leaving that appointment. I don’t’ remember what tests or referrals we got or what else we discussed. I don’t know what Mitchell was wearing or where he was when his doctor and I had this conversation. I know Dave was there, but I don’t remember that either.

I do remember my mom was in town because it was Thanksgiving weekend. I do remember thinking about how much I wanted a regular holiday weekend like a regular family and feeling resentful that one of my favorite holidays was being ruined by epilepsy and my inability to cope. I remember feeling frenzied trying so hard to force the festivities, and exhausted from the futility of it all. I remember Mitchell having his bazillionth “wonky place” episode as we were getting ready to go the Thanksgiving Day Parade. He was hitting me and yelling and telling me he wanted a new mother, among other horrible things. Buddha was not himself; hadn’t been for months. I remember wondering if the Mitchell we knew and loved might be gone for good this time; if he could ever come back. Between the meds and the seizures and everything else, there was never an answer. It’s always just trial and error, and I remember wanting to scream at the sky, or anyone for that matter, just to give me an answer. One way or another, I needed an answer. The fear was killing me. The pain was too much.

I remember thinking, This is it, this is our life now. It had already been months of this, just me and Buddha going round and round between seizures and fights, and tears. I remember sitting down in his little blue beanbag chair under the grey loft bed we had no business buying him, totally defeated. I remember the physical feeling of not being able to get up from that chair for hours. I remember crying and feeling empty and stuck. I remember the family leaving for the parade and then coming back and me still in the same beanbag chair feeling as if no time at all had passed. I remember my mom saying that if I didn’t get someone to help me with Mitchell, she would see about getting me into a hospital.

I remember breaking.

And then, I remember thinking I would die before I would let anyone take me from my son. The thing is, I wasn’t sure I could do it. I wasn’t sure I could be what he needed me to be. I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to be his mom.

But thank God, I wasn’t alone even if that’s how I felt.

A few weeks later, I remember Dave found Alex and I agreed to see yet another therapist.

That was the day; things began to change again. But this time towards self-care and healing instead of defeat.

Alex came in to get him ready, keep him fed, and do my dishes. She helped him with homework and created a routine and point system for every action of his day, including a cooldown system for his wonky place episodes. She was the one who encouraged him to name the episodes, and that’s what he liked “wonky place.” Before then, it was just terror and aggression. We didn’t know what to call them.

I remember crying alone in my room…alot…for weeks, as Alex got him to do things I never could.

I remember Mitchell’s breaking point in February when we finally had him admitted because of his erratic, aggressive behaviors. We were at Lucky Strike, and he didn’t want to leave. After screaming in front of everyone, running away and almost out into the street, it took two of us 20 minutes of holding him down to get him into the cab and to the ER. We were finally admitted, and they were beginning to talk about some pretty severe measures. I remember being so deeply scared. I remember him crying. He was sad, and sorry and angry and so so very lost.

I remember feeling a little bit more able to handle the situation.

That’s when we pulled him off the latest med even though his seizure control was the best it had ever been. I remember deciding to give him a better quality of life over his improved physical health. I remember the weight of that decision but knowing it was the lesser of two evils and what we had to do. I remember the seizures ramping up full force all over again.

I remember being better able to handle the situation. I remember slowly letting Alex bare the brunt of the bad times so I could finally be the good guy.

I remember trying so hard, through so much pain, to accept the help I needed so that I could be the mom Buddha deserved. I remember all of a sudden having time and emotional space to concentrate on working through my fears and control issues.

I remember realizing how much of a toll this was taking on my husband and that he needed me too. My poor husband was a shell of himself at that point. He had a new job and needed to focus on that, and he was trying to be there for me. I realized we both had to be well to be there for each other. And so I let go a little more while Alex worked on Mitchell and my therapist helped me begin to process the trauma and grief. I was starting to accept compassion from my friends. I began to take care of me. And slowly, I began to like the way it felt to take care of me. I wasn’t feeling as guilty for what I couldn’t do, but grateful for what I could. I once again began to feel grateful to be Mitchell’s mom instead of fearful that I was the last thing he needed.

Then, all of a sudden, it was summer, and I remember feeling a little relief. I was relishing the happy, and I was feeling gratitude and love. I remember so many fun days from that summer. Fun days that were still interrupted with wonky place times, but were manageable. Or rather, I remember feeling like they were more manageable because I was stronger in myself. I remember the first time I didn’t have a big emotional reaction to one of his episodes and could walk through the steps with him calmly. I remember Alex standing up for me. I remember getting a little more sleep. I remember the warmth of the sun on my face and more peace in my heart. I began to feel proud of myself as a mom.

We got to be OK with defining a new normal, and I had more and more strength to be what Mitchell needed me to be. I wasn’t just recovering from my break, but I was building myself up stronger than before, more confident than before.

I remember beginning to get more snuggles and focusing on the love and connection rather than the daily charts and behavior control. I remember thinking how hard this was but how blessed I was (and am) to have this amazing, brave, loving boy, and to be his mother.

I remember Mitchell being happy and feeling proud too. And what a boost that was!!

I remember starting to work out again, and I remember the day I woke up and didn’t dread what the day might bring. I remember the day Alex and I started Lost and Found Moms and my amazement that I could not only be Mitchell’s mom but work again too. I remember Dave and I started going on date nights. We even spent the night away without Mitchell, over a year later, of course, but we did. It was the first time since before Mitchell was diagnosed that we had done that. And I remember sleeping like I hadn’t in years…and not feeling scared or guilty.

I remember starting to forgive myself for not being able to save my son. And I remember Mitchell being able to look at me with brighter eyes and telling me he loved me.

It was a very long year, but I made it through stronger than ever, and Mitchell did too. I remember feeling like I wasn’t failing at being his mom. It felt like I was beginning to let go of some of the control I needed to have all the time, the control I thought I needed to have to save my son, and I remember feeling more able to go through the changes of this crazy life with more acceptance and gratitude.

I remember telling Mitchell, “Buddha, I love you more than anything,” and him saying it back!

END

*This was, of course, not the end, but a moment in time. The moral of this play for me is to remember that accepting help is not a weakness, but a sign of strength. That I am more able to be the person, the parent, I want to be when I accept what I can and can not do. And that I am the mom Mitchell needs me to be, because I will never give up on him…or me.

 

Expectations-Kerri’s Take

It’s a flukey miracle that expectations haven’t been my downfall from humanity. I expect too much, too often, from too little, and it bites me in the ass every time.

I expected my father to love me unconditionally and always be there for me, I expected my mother to support us, spend every afternoon with us, and make me a star all on a single mom, teacher’s salary. (Which she pretty much did.) I expected my brother to always do what I told him, I expected my boyfriends to simultaneously father me, love me, and rock my sexual world, and I expected to be everyone’s saver girl while being adored and admired for my selfless efforts.

Obviously, I was young, scared, and naive. Obviously, I was left disappointed more often than not. And, obviously, I left many of the people I loved disappointed because I couldn’t accept them for who they were.

I understood, even at a young age, that expectations were a lose-lose proposition for me. I didn’t understand why people couldn’t just be kind, helpful, and loving…in exactly the way I want them to be, and I knew that attitude was keeping me from really growing up. It was keeping me from becoming less naive, less scared, and ultimately less hurt. It was certainly keeping me from healthy relationships. But I couldn’t figure out how to stop myself from falling prey to everyone else’s opinion, from expecting others to let me down.

You know what’s amazing for expedited personal growth? A very sick child. It is crazy how quickly you can get your shit together if, of course, you survive, which no one was sure I was going to do, when your child gets sick.

One day, I was absorbed in my own dreams, working too much, and planning on setting my kid up to become a pro hockey player. Then, the next day? I was just praying my son would live. It’s a steep learning curve, a sick child, but an effective one. When that happens, you “shit or get off the pot” as my granddad used to say. And I? Well, I…

I survived, and I learned. And I am grateful in a Thanksgiving times infinity kind of way. And although it’s still a work in progress, I am so much better at setting expectations. 

I’m much less judgmental of people but I also don’t take crap anymore. No one person can wound or leave me begging for mercy as much as watching my child slip away did. Helpless. Powerless. Those moments are not something you ever unsee and they change you. Permanently.

I won’t lie. The wounds are still there, ready to freshly pop. But damn if I don’t have a whole new outlook on expectations. I now have a realistic perspective of what I can expect from the world and other people, mostly, and the courage to ask for what I need. And because of that, I am stronger, happier, and feel love more deeply than ever before. Truth be told, I was never great at declaring my needs properly before operation epilepsy.  But, I get it now.  

The virtue of expectation done right is the time and effort I save dealing with crisis and disappointment. Once I had the courage to set appropriate expectations before the fact, I no longer had to clean up the mess of responsibility and hurt I used to when I was waiting for the world to abandon me or bend to my whims.

It’s a total win-win.

Well, setting and declaring more realistic expectations and living better because is a win-win, not epilepsy.

Epilepsy can bite me! And that is an expectation I am fully prepared to manage!

I had to let go of my ego, the part of me determined to outshine everyone else, to save everyone, and come to terms with the fact that more was not better, faster, not cooler, and that making things complicated did not make me smarter.

Understanding and knowing are two separate steps in the process of any growth. When I’m teaching I know exactly how to direct through those steps. I see the separation and have steps to help them build a muscle memory bridge that connects understanding to knowing. But damn, no matter what I did, I couldn’t build that bridge for myself. I needed something more dramatic than my own baggage to open my eyes. And, ironically, I needed to be the best person I could be if I was going to help save my son. Well, if I was going to not get in his way and help him live the life he was destined for. Obviously, I learned that lesson pretty quickly. His life is not mine to control.

I know I can’t control epilepsy and I’ve accepted that. So, I’ve grown up a lot in the last four years.

It’s not always easy, but I am so much better at setting expectations. Most of this change has come from experience. But I always love good direction. So even though I am in a better emotional place to set and manage my expectations, I still use these steps. I hope they might help you too!

  1. Read the Room.
  2. Decide how to state expectation in a way the person receiving it will hear.
  3. Think before the fact about how to respond if the expectation isn’t met.
  4. State expectation directly. Speak lovingly but firmly, looking the person in the eye. Be aware of your tone, it says more about your message than your words.
  5. Do not expect the expectation to be met.
  6. Do not take it personally if it isn’t met.
  7. If the expectation is met, cheer like crazy!
  8. If the expectation isn’t met, decide whether what you needed was too much or be ready to walk away.
  9. Go into your bathroom and cry and scream into a towel.
  10. Go back and try again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tone.

Everyone’s spiritual journey is perfect. At least according to Deepak and Oprah. I guess it’s true, I certainly like to think so. God knows I’m always looking for answers to explain life’s pain.

Though my spirit has pockets of doubt, there is something about its journey I am certain. My trip is largely made up of tonal experiences. I am body and soul.

Tone, for me, is everything. it guides me, shapes me, and alerts me to the dangers of the world. Maybe more than it should, but for me, it’s a center point around which I can more confidently live.

Tone dictates how a message is conveyed and it determines how I am perceived. We live in community with ourselves, with each other, with our thoughts, with our pain, and our joy. Tone will always decide on which side of the emotional coin we land.

Here’s the catch. There is no pure tone. There is pure heart, spirit, essence, intention, however, we name it, but there is no pure tone. At least none we can take in with traditional anatomy. We hear and see subjectivity with perception. We feel frequency and sense intention.

We don’t hear ourselves in the same tone that others hear us, or as, say a microphone does. We don’t see ourselves as others do, as a camera does, as does a mirror. But, without a device to filter our tones, whether that be awareness, lessons, feedback, or a simple app, we can not get an idea of the tone of our messages. We can not really know how we live in community with each other or with ourselves, how we hear or see our own tone without a bounce back. Without a reflection.

We’ll never experience ourselves as others do. And that’s OK. I guess I just wish we could all pay a bit more attention to our tone.

I have spent most of my life listening to, analyzing, considering and teaching tone. It’s my job. It’s an organic part of how I live and witness the world. First, I was a professional child of emotional trauma, subconsciously attuned to the intonation of those around me in order to gauge if I needed to be afraid or not. Afraid for my heart or my person. And then, as a student, performer, and teacher of voice, dance, and acting, I honed my skills. Because tone is not only audible but physical and visual, I wanted total immersion into the sensations of tone. I thought it might make me feel a little safer, help me understand others and find a connection with them. As I amplified these skills, I began to understand them. But the answers unraveled more questions, leading me down an endless depth of listening that I continue to explore, I must continue to fine tune their meaning, their placement, their inception. That is how I feel my place in the world, that is how I know to trust, to love, to let go, and to run or to fight.

I have been a teacher of these arts longer than I’ve been an emotionally well-balanced person. I know that sounds dramatic and a bit gothic, but my point isn’t to spotlight my emotional journey as much as it is to give a foundational background in my experience with tone. I have listened on many frequencies and heard from many perspectives, and that gives me an interesting point of view, if not an expert one.

I am careful not to manipulate tone because it is ultimately important to me to be as authentic as possible. Except, of course, for the scary times when authentic is an honesty I can not bear to endure and I try to hide, to make up, to change the script, the image, the sound. My mind says, run and hide, protect yourself. By my damn heart has a mind of its own and is determined to pin me to what is real, even if I don’t want to be exposed to it’s tone. So, the times of new social encounters, doctors appointments, conversations about money with my husband, a conflict between myself and a mom of one my son’s friends,  IEP meetings, Psychiatry appointments? These are moments try to manipulate my tone so that I am heard and taken seriously. I am not always cared for in these moments, and that is hard for me.  But if I can’t be cared for, then I try to be heard.

I am rarely successful at this. As usual, my heart betrays my mind and my fear comes riding out on a black horse draped in defenses, kicking up weaknesses with every stride. My pulse races, my speech flutters in fits and spurts, my breath is rapid and gives me away.

My tone can not be missed.

If my spiritual journey is, in fact, perfect but still tone essential, then it all goes back to the balance of not caring what other’s think of me while still being aware of the frequency they’re sending out, and finding comfort where there is none to be given.

Inside myself. It all goes back to the tone I use toward myself.

For me, it always goes back to tone.

 

A Med for You. A Med for You. A Med for You.

We are no stranger to meds.

Want to know how anti-epileptics work? Give us a call.

Want to know how they metabolize in children? Yeah, we’re pretty much experts in that.

Want to know about reflux and constipation, cramps, and how to mitigate all versions of pukiness? We’re your go-to family.

Want to know which meds have a short half-life or a long half-life? Just ask us.

Want to know how anti-epileptic meds interact with each other? Done.

Want to know about adverse side effects? Here let me show you the book I’ve written on the subject. It comes with pictures and stories and a vial of endless tears.

Want to know about mood stabilizers?

Oh, wait. Gimme a minute, we’re just getting to that one.

For almost a year, we’ve been trying to decide between an antidepressant, a stimulant, or an anti-anxiety med…for my eight-year-old.

It’s taken four years of growth and mental development, anti-epileptic trials, and countless Vanderbilt tests to try and flesh out if Buddha’s behavior and emotional IQ is rooted in epilepsy, ADHD, anxiety, depression, or side effects from his anti-epileptics. It’s impossible. Because of course, it’s probably all of the above.

The question is, what do we medicate and what do we leave alone?

I told Buddha’s psychiatrist, “I just want to make his life easier”.  “I just want it to not be so hard for him to get through the day. And we’re at a point now where the tricks and tools aren’t enough.”

We have so many tricks on hand to make his life easier we should have a Vegas Show, and I should be walking around in sequence, Vanna Whiting all over the place with Dave pulling rabbits out of hats. Seriously, we will try almost anything to ease this kid’s daily challenges. And we have some damn good tricks.

Meds are serious. But so is mental health, and we are performing our due diligence. We have been considering these mood meds for almost a year. For our eight-year-old! We’ve been collecting data, weighing the pros and cons, and consulting other parents. We have monthly follow-up appointments with his neurologist, his psychiatrist, and his psychologist to talk through the options. We are trying to foresee all outlier possibilities and be aware of all the pitfalls. Mostly, we just want him to have it a little easier. Isn’t it enough that he seizes every day?

Until recently I didn’t think there would ever be a scenario in which we would add one more med to this poor kids’ already overloaded system. But then, of course, life is harder at some moments than others and answers can present themselves before the questions have fully formed. So when second grade with more demands and fewer friends happened, developmental stepping stones ramped up, a new antiepileptic drug with major adverse side effects was tried and tried again, we started to open our minds to the idea. Then three trips to the ER, one admission, and one intervention in which they spoke of taking him to the psych ward…or whatever they call it nowadays, hit us over the span of just a few months we were more than ready to pull those magic mood shifters out of a hat.

It’s hard enough to diagnose ADHD, anxiety, or depression in children, but add epilepsy and four other meds into the mix and it’s a downright, ‘your guess is as good as mine, let’s just try it and see how it goes’, Frankenstein experiment.

On an eight-year-old!! My eight-year-old!!

The cruel irony is that it’s very common for kids with neurological disorders to suffer from other neurological disorders. I guess it all goes hand in hand, or synapse to synapse, as the case may be.

So, here we are. Lit up for the world to see on a stage I could never previously imagine standing, and I have stood on many many stages. We’ve hit our mark and we’re getting ready to experiment again in the hopes that this time we might create a life without thoughts of death, high-cost impulsivity, or major emotional dysregulation. Mostly though, we don’t dream that high anymore. Mostly, we just want to ease his challenges and help him get through the day with some moments of emotional freedom that aren’t scheduled, measured, timed, or earned.

So, we’re waiting to check a few more boxes before we add another bottle to the already filled pill drawer, and then we’ll capture some lightning and flash it through the audience to see what we get.

Please hold, for Act II.

 

To-Do List or Not To-Do List…Do!

I used to hate making to-do lists. Oh sure, I loved the promise of a job well done, the enticement of items ticked off and completed. I’m a sucker for success. But I hated the pressure I felt from the ominous list of shoulds. I should be doing this, I should be doing that. Oh crap, I forgot what I was doing and now I’m not doing what I should be doing. Or, what the hell was I supposed to be doing and where did I put that damn list? Etc. I hated feeling like I was being directed by an omnipotent, bossy list that I was also responsible for creating. Hell, I can’t remember why I come into a room most of the time, how am I supposed to be responsible for breaking down big goals into doable steps each day? I clearly did not think I was up to that level that of accountability.
Because I don’t like to fail I would save myself the shame of guilt and regret by simply not writing a list to begin with. Then those judgey unchecked “done” boxes could never get the best of me. Ha! Yeah, ha. Jokes on me.
I used to think it was because I was a free spirit who did her best work in the moment. Organic and impulsive is when I’m at my peak. Or so I thought. I liked the panic of crunch time, the impending doom of missing my mark. That’s when I felt most empowered. Yes, I was ultra productive when I pushed it to the last minutes, reacting off of pressure rather than planning. Picking the red or blue wire with my career and self-esteem seemingly riding on the line led me the to success and an awesome high. Or so I believed.
But that risk got too high when my son’s wellbeing was on the line. And now I see how the risk was too high for my wellbeing too. I see now, in my chronic disease wisdom world, that if maybe I got lucky and paid the bills or did the laundry, or even ran a business without a list, I never really got to everything I needed to or dreamed of. I never really gave life my all.
I never saw what I was missing until epilepsy. I didn’t see the limits I was fabricating until real-life limits slammed down hard and stopped us in our tracks. That’s when I realized how deep my history of self-sabotage goes. That’s when I was afforded a new perspective and able to look honestly at how powerful I actually am. I was able to own that making the choice to set steps for the day is not a trap but a liberation.
Funny how making a to-do list is kind of the same thing as setting an intention. Setting your dreams, your goals in motion.
No wonder I hated them. They are always unfinished.
But now I know how tenuous life is. I don’t mean the created soap operas I like to create I mean real life actually ending. For real.
So now I know, in my bones, in my cells, in my heart and in my mind, life is always unfinished. It’s not about what you don’t get done, it’s about what you do! It’s how you chose to live that matters. And it is our choice how we want to live, even if epilepsy isn’t.
Life has a funny way of making you face yourself. And when it came down to actual life or death for my son, I wasn’t going to fail!  It first I had to admit I couldn’t do it alone. That took about a year. Then we had to find Alex. That took almost six months. But then, I knew I could survive and I was open to anything! And that’s when I awakened to the magic of a to-do list. That’s when I awakened to the power of choice.
And now my life and Buddha’s life is better. In a way, it’s better than ever. We’ve reached heights we didn’t dare dream for. He hits milestones previously out of reach and we celebrate them as never before. No, they are not typical milestones but they are magnificent. And they count! He is self-aware and responsible and he is more confident than ever. And our days? Oh! They are so much better. So much less stressful. There is less crying, less reacting, less anger, less fear. Our days are so much more fulfilled.
In a way, we owe it all to the to-do lists. In a way, they helped save us. I realized, by the grace of God and the indemnifiable Alex, that is wasn’t to-lists that weren’t working for me. It was me that wasn’t working for the to-do list. And now our life is working for what matters. Living!

“Should I Stay or Should I Go Now”…Love Part III

“Should I stay or should I go now?
Should I stay or should I go now?
If I go there will be trouble
And if I stay it will be double
So ya gotta let me know
Should I cool it or should I blow? ”
The Clash

A funny thing about living past my 20’s and 30’s is that I can’t help but notice trends in my coping style. I can’t help but gather data that paints a picture of who I’ve become. I suppose, on one hand, it’s another way of saying, “the choices you make define you.” But I think it’s more than that. In my 20’s, despite my best intentions and attempts at self-awareness, I thought I was breaking patterns. I thought I was defining myself. I did try, and that counts for something. I believe it was part of the process, and I’m not un-proud of who I am. It’s a boon for me that I love big and I love hard. It’s an emblem I am not ashamed of. But I spent much of my life loving and leaving fast and I see now how it’s led me here. I’m good. I’m where I am in the moment, and it’s OK. I guess I just wonder if I was meant to be or could have been someone or something else. If I could have been more. I wonder if there is still time.

Mostly I’m just surprised by how much I thought I was creating of myself when in fact I was simply responding to programming and becoming.

Despite my most deliberate efforts, I lived my defining years through a set of experiences I had very little choice in making. My childhood imprinted the belief that told me who I was so the choices I made were choices I was bound to make.

Should I stay or should I go was my subtext and I didn’t even know it. In a way, should I stay or should I go determined the course of my life. It certainly determined who and how I loved.

I wasn’t able to see how I had internalized my childhood life until after I had made choices based on it. It was only through reflection of that “lack of choice” that I was able to finally begin becoming the person I wanted to be. I suppose that too was a process in the making, and part and parcel of being a person, so it’s OK. I guess I just wish I hadn’t taken so long.

Nevertheless, here I am, not too much worse for the ware. I’m still standing. I haven’t given up. I’m happy. I’m not happy in the way I thought I would be in my twenties. But deep in my being, I know happiness because of what I’ve lived through. I know a new happiness because of the love of people who stood by me, including love I’m learning to give myself. I guess at the end of the day, that’s pretty impressive.

“No one’s gone till they’re gone”.
Fear the Walking Dead.

I find this idea of “becoming’ endlessly fascinating. And I always wonder how “being” applies to love.

I want to know, realize, and become everything I possibly can. I want to see, really see, who I am. I want to be the best version of myself. Mostly, though, I want to help guide my son’s childhood with as enlightened a hand as possible. I want to know I did my best to help him walk a path where he makes better choices in his defining years than perhaps I did. At least less desperate choices.

I live by gut and heart…and then the brain. I love my passion and my drive, I’m OK making my way through the heart first. That being said, I was smart enough to marry a computer developer and inventor who lives by data. Also, Buddha’s diagnosis has proven impossible to survive without data and logic So, luckily, I have also come to appreciate, if not love, data.

I can be taught.

This sentence, I love data, if you knew me when, is a complete juxtaposition of who I was or wanted to be many years ago. But there it is. Life and experience that lead to a choice where I am now an avid gawker of data. (Just for the record, I don’t have a spreadsheet or anything. I write I think, I reflect. Some systems just don’t need to change.)

With new wisdom, experience, love and forgiveness, fault and failure I use this data not only to understand myself but how I define love. Because to me, it all boils down to love. How I love myself determines how I love others. The better I love others the better I love myself. Round and round it goes until purpose, contribution, peace, and happiness all collide. At least that’s my theory.

I want love to be what defines me. Big love.

Collecting four decades of data on my personality, partner choices, jobs, achievements, and relationships I found some interesting trends. Trends that help me understand what love means to me and how to love better!

Here are my 10 most common trends based on this data.

1. I am loyal to a fault
2. I crave affection and soothing in atypical amounts. Meaning I need more than a lot of love to make up for love taken as a child.
3. Justice is subjective unless you’re cruel to others. Then your just an asshole.
4. I am an addict, therefore, until my 40’s, my life was seen in stark black and white.
5. I want to save the world from loneliness and unworthiness. I want to be saved from loneliness and unworthiness.
6. I believe in hard work and purpose. The search for the meaning of life.
7. I am a good leader, not a great employee.
8. I believe I am good enough for success but don’t really believe I deserve it.
9. I have judgment for people who have children that aren’t willing to become what they need you to be to raise them without loneliness and unworthiness.
10. Perfectionism is a blessing and a curse but not something I’m entirely willing to give up. It’s a mark of my coding.
11. If you hurt me, you are dead to me…forever. Without even a goodbye. You are erased.

And here lies the rub. Number 11: If you hurt me, you are dead to me…forever.

“Should I stay or should I go?” Most likely, I will go.

Not very enlightened.

My subconscious definition of love is equal to abandonment or enmeshment. So, I believe that if you love me, you will leave me or assimilate me. In attempts to hold my own boundaries, to be myself, I leave people as fast as I fall in love with them. At least I used to.

I am learning that’s it’s allowed, even right, to redefine love as we go along defining ourselves. I didn’t believe that as a child and think it’s why I’m happier now. I have given myself permission, more and more each year, to chose love that works for me rather than let love just happen to me.

If you hurt me enough, you will be dead to me. But if you keep trying to communicate, to understand me as I try to understand you, I won’t run anymore. I will stick it out.

Your path isn’t mine to decide. You have the choice. I don’t want to run. I don’t want to be a runner. I just want to know I’m worth more than tolerating abuse. I want a big love that’s real love.

I’m not entirely healed so if you love me, please don’t fuck with me. I will go and that will be that.

I want to choose to stay instead of go. I want to see who I can be, how much better I can love when I stay instead of go.