Don't be a Victim of the Holidays

I'll be the first to admit that the holidays stress me out. Coming into November this year, my depression and anxiety went through the roof. Just the anticipation of the holidays being around the corner freaked me out. And since I had been doing relatively well over the summer, I didn't have any standing appointments with my therapist or psych nurse. Oops! Anyone that has had a taste of the mental health scene knows that getting in ASAP is comically unrealistic. Too bad I can't anticipate the downfall of my mental stability at least three weeks in advance. So that's my first bit of advice- if you see a therapist or have meds monitored for your mental health, always have that just-in-case appointment on your calendar. You'd be better off not needing it than being stuck in a crisis with no one to turn to. Here are some other bits of advice to make sure your holiday season goes off without a hitch:

Allow room to feel all those yucky feelings. It's okay if you are stressed, sad, disappointed, mourning, irate, irritable, or whatever else you are unhappily overflowing with. Give yourself permission to let all that out- Preferably not to the minimum wage seasonal employee at your local retailer. Try a more healthy venue to vent- a trusted friend or relative, a journal, have a good cry, scream in the privacy of your own house, throw light weight unbreakable objects (I guess tables, chairs, and valuable advent displays would probably not be a healthy option. Been there, done that.). Lay off the booze if you are in an emotional state, don't get behind the wheel of a car if you are a blubbering mess. Let's stay safe here, people!

Self care is always most important. This is a no-brainer. It's been drilled into your noggin since the beginning of time. You need to get enough sleep, eat well (yeah right, you won't get me to eat vegetables unless a wreath cookie counts!), and get your groove on to get moving so you have lots of happy chemicals flowing through your brain. When I need some "me" time to chillax, I listen to some meditation music, crank on the aromatherapy difuser, and do a quiet activity like reading, a puzzle, coloring, or a sticker-by-number book (it's the next "big thing," trust me!). If I'm at someone else's house, I don't hesitate to step away for a break now and again. Sometimes with crowds or people I don't know well, it can get overwhelming and suffocating, so I try to have an "escape plan" in those situations. It could be going for a walk or slipping into a guest bedroom for a while.

Change your expectations. Lines will be long, packages will get lost, planes will be delayed, crappy weather will happen, the coolest gift ever will be sold out, people will get sick, recipes will get burnt or taste disgusting, your dog will eat a whole bag of dark chocolate Kisses (yeahhhh, that has also happened), the car won't start, and your furnace will break. So why would you expect any differently? You'll experience a heck of a lot less misery if you just roll with what is. But, at the same time, go back to the top there and "allow room" to feel the feelings that come when things don't go your way. I learned this lesson best with a dear friend of mine who was notoriously late to everything. It drove me nuts! I like to have a plan and stick to it. I was constantly miserable! Yet I lead myself to believe that it was all my friend's fault. Wrong-o! It was my own stinking fault! I refused to accept my friend for who she was and kept hoping she would change. Once I started accepting lateness as an expected component of our relationship, I felt a heck of a lot better.

Own your decisions. This is a great piece of advice I learned from my therapist. I was constantly feeling like a victim of stuff I "had" to do. One of which was the times that my mother-in-law wanted the whole family to go to church together for holidays. When I did go, I hated it. I was cranky, I didn't want to be there, I was bored, I didn't share a lot of the (in my opinion) archaic beliefs, and (let's be honest) I wanted to sleep in! I allowed myself to believe that how I felt was my mother-in-law's doing. She was "making" me go after all! No sirree! I made the decision to go to church with everyone. That was my choice. My therapist said that I needed to weigh the pros and cons of going and not going, then from there I needed to make my own choice and live with it. Own it. So I did, and it was freeing to think of it in a different light. So the next time you think you "have" to go to a Christmas party or a church service or a charity event or gift shopping, take a moment to weigh whether you really want to do it or not. If you decide to go through with it, then have a good attitude about it- you decided to do it, not anyone else. And also on the flip side, if there is something you decide you don't want to do, then don't feel obligated to offer any sort of justification. Do what's right for you.

Let go of tradition. I like things a certain way, and it's nice if things stay constant. Isn't that what makes holidays so special? There is the candlelight Christmas-Eve evening service, spending time with your family, the decorations, the baking, and all the other things that happen every year that we've come to expect. The first time a wrench was ever thrown into tradition was the year my sister didn't give me a Valentine's Day gift. She doesn't remember it one bit, but I was heartbroken and in tears. My mom told her and she ended up getting me a gift. In retrospect, like a decade late now, I find my reaction rather humorous. More recently, my sister and wife moved several hours away and we had our first Christmas without them. The distance between us along with unpredictable winter weather was going to make doing holidays a permanent change in the norm. I was devastated. I had to rethink what was important to me and what made the holidays special (I would also like to note that they "owned" their decision to stay put for the holidays that year. So props to that.). It took some adjustment, but now I've gotten used to the idea and have even seen the good in the situation.

This year a wrench is also being thrown into Christmas tradition by spending it out of town, somewhere I've never been before, stuck in a house full of in-laws. No, it's really not that bad. Haha My husband's family is super awesome and kind and generous and fun, but the idea of doing something different still has me on edge. My immediate concern was Christmas Eve- I would be spending most of it in an airport, on an airplane, or in a car. FUN! What about my Christmas Eve candlelight service? Christmas Eve would be wasted traveling all day! Ugh! Here I go again, making a victim of myself. So here comes the pros and cons list that needs to play out, then the decision that yes, I am going on this trip of my own free will and no one is "making" me. The next step is "changing my expectations." Christmas won't be the same this year, so how can I roll with it instead of being a victim of it? Well, for one, I am going to think of "Christmas Eve travel day" as a spectacular opportunity to read lots of awesome books, spend a whole day with some pretty cool people, see what cool shops and food the airport has to offer, listen to my iPod, and whatever else I can think up that's fun to pass the time. I am just going to plan on spending hours waiting in the airport, plan that there could probably be some crappy weather delays, plan that parking will be a nightmare, and by not expecting everything to be perfect, it will reduce that suffering. Maybe I'll even have a good time!

I hope some of these ideas will help you out in the midst of the holiday season right now. Also, I can't talk about the holidays and not plug my support of mental health. Something near and dear to my heart, as many of you well know, is the work that NAMI does for the mental health community and their support of the family and friends who love those struggling with mental illness. During the holidays, oodles of people will be spending it in a psychiatric unit at a hospital for any number of reasons including but not limited to suicidal thinking, medication monitoring, or addiction. I have spent time in the hospital during holidays before and it really does suck. During any nationally recognized holiday or weekend, hospitals tend to stand still. The regular resources available during weekdays and non-holidays are meager. And for patients on a required "hold" (being legally required to stay at the hospital for their own safety, such as after a suicide attempt), time seems to stand still as weekends and holidays don't "count" in the required time of stay. Something that NAMI does in my area (here in Minnesota, so go check your local chapter if you're not from 'round here) is host a holiday gift drive for both children and adults who are being cared for in psychiatric units over the holidays. It is a little slice of the population that we tend to not really think about as needing a little holiday cheer in an otherwise unpleasant situation. Visit the link below for more information, and remember that safety is very important in your gift selections as patients can potentially harm themselves with anything sharp or stringy in nature.

http://www.namihelps.org/nami-holiday-gift-drive-2017-suggested-gifts.html

Merry Christmas!

"In Recovery"?

After graduating my DBT group in August, I've spent the past four months trying to define that term- What does it mean to be "In Recovery"? I thought I would have some profound blog to wrap up my two-decade long journey through the mental health system and coming out the other end a new and improved person. Although (in some ways) I am certainly a new and improved person, my journey is anything but over. I wish there were more clear parameters. I mean, am I ever really "cured" of depression and anxiety? It's all something we will experience to some degree or another in our lives. So where is that line between a "normal" amount of depression and anxiety and a severe amount? I don't think there are actually answers to those questions. Perhaps the answers vary from one person to another. I hate how vague mental health is. You either have cancer or you don't; you have a broken limb or you don't. Maybe it's a spectrum, like autism, myself being a point on a line that's moving to the more functional end of that spectrum over time. Who knows.

I still have many struggles that I face everyday in a battle between myself and my annoying brain. I still cry quite a bit. I still feel like a lost balloon floating through the atmosphere with no direction or purpose. I still feel like a very intelligent, wise, and talented person trapped in a being that won't allow those traits to shine. I've still missed two days of work since my graduation, a combination of emotional pain and the coinciding physical manifestation of it. I still sleep hours longer than necessary. I'm still tired a lot. I still self medicate with an overabundance of sweets and sugary drinks. I still feel guilty that other people can do it all- the kids and the careers and the travel and the hobbies and the cooking and the cleaning- and my biggest accomplishments are not taking a nap, making dinner all by myself, or cleaning something without being asked. I kind of feel like I am not allowed to feel overwhelmed by the mundane, because I should be able to do the basics without struggle. I don't even have kids, so that should make life extra easy for me, right?

I have still met with my therapist occasionally since graduation, and when I met her last week, I cried for most of the session. I felt (and still feel) trapped in a world that doesn't make room for me. You are either held to the expectation that you can and will do it all, or you are on disability because you can't do anything. I feel like I fall somewhere in the middle- I can't do it all, but I have to so we can pay the bills and get my much needed health insurance. Maybe it's fantasy to think ONE small change would solve all (ok, a few) of my problems, but the flaw in our country that the quality and quantity of your healthcare is directly linked to your profession is a debilitating reality. It's a fact that I feel trapped by, a fact that I feel limits my options. I bet there are a lot of other people out there with long-term chronic medical issues that feel those same chains. It's a gamble- will today be the day that pesky illness roars it's nasty head? Will a few days in the hospital rack up a several thousand dollar bill that you will be shoveling out every month for years to come? It's those fears that keep me from moving forward, taking a chance, and making a change. Therapy, psychiatry, and medication are the trifecta essentially keeping me alive. I now have other "tools" to keep me afloat including all the skills I have learned through therapy and the support of my family and friends, but there is still no denying the necessity of proper medical care that goes into managing a mental illness. Even ONE day of missed medication can tip the balance in a potentially deadly way. Maybe it's a bit dramatic to say it that way, but would you really want to take that chance?

And so I feel at a crossroads- I'm at a point in my mental health journey where I think I am probably capable of more than I think I am. I want to be doing so much more. I want some change in my life. But instead of asking myself what my calling is, my passion, my heart's desire, I ask myself what I can do that will give me good health insurance. And that sucks. I hate it. I'm outgrowing this safe little life I've created, longing to burst forth and do something great. But I don't know what that is, how I will create it, or the avenue to get there.

Being Mortal: A Reflection

I recently read a non-fiction book by surgeon Atul Gawande called, Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End. As someone who reads around 100 books every year, I can say that this is probably the most powerful book I have ever read. We will all get old and/or sick and die and so will our loved ones. It's not something we talk about much and are likely to avoid, but this book faces it head on. It asks and answers the tough questions. I highly recommend that everyone read his book. Here is my reflection in response to reading it:

I hadn't had a lot of experience with elderly care until I met my husband 6 years ago. My own grandparents had either died at home or passed away after only a relatively minimal stay in a nursing home-type setting. I was also in the neighborhood of 21 years old when the last of them passed on, so I can't say I was very present towards the end- preoccupied with college, dating, and being an emotional wreck.

I still remember one of the first times I visited my grandfather-in-law-to-be. It was a big dining hall full of lifeless beings, slumped over in their wheelchairs. My future husband and I were one of the very few visitors in the room. There was very minimal staffing, so if someone needed assistance eating (which was most of them), they simply sat there waiting until it was their turn, as the food grew cold. One elderly woman wailed loudly for God to please take her. No one seemed to take notice of this poor woman.

Now rewind a few years prior to that visit: Having worked a couple years in what was deemed "the Cadillac" of all group homes in the area, I had very strong feelings about how vulnerable people should be treated. "Bibs" were called "Shirt Savers," "Diapers" were called  "Briefs," and for a house of four residents, there were always at least two staff present. During my time there, we had all sorts of fun! I would bring over my record player (which my mom took home after her elementary school discontinued using them) and play soundtracks from my favorite musicals- South Pacific, The Sound of Music, and Fiddler on the Roof, to name a few. I would also read aloud classic children's literature like the Newbery Award winners, The Giver and Holes. We also went on field trips to the park, movies, bookstores, and restaurants (Places equipped with a blender were happy to puree meals for us). These people couldn't express themselves verbally, use the bathroom on their own, walk without assistance (if at all), hold jobs, or go to school. In spite of all those "disabilities," there was no doubt in my mind that we were creating a life worth living for these people. They laughed, they smiled, they touched our lives, and they became our friends. Employees actually fought over who got to work holidays, because it was always such a pleasure to make them special for the people in the home.

Back to Grandpa's nursing home: In the beginning, I would constantly scold my husband as to how he treated his Grandfather. He never meant harm, but he was still inadvertently treating him a bit child-like. I trained my husband on some alternative vocabulary that steered away from babyish language. I also urged him to explain to his grandpa what he was doing or going to do, so that he wasn't just shoving unrecognizable food into his mouth unexpectedly. Even though Parkinson's Disease had rendered him completely dependent, he still deserved respect and dignity.

The first time I saw that Grandpa's bed rail was zipper-tied in the "down" position, I was immediately alarmed and questioned the nurse on it. In my group home experience (and later, my x-ray experience), falls were a big deal and a huge liability. Bed rails were always up if the person was left alone or a fall risk. Unless you were young, able bodied, well balanced, had not fallen before, and were completely conscious and aware, then you were a fall risk. In my group home, that included everyone. In my hospital rotations in x-ray, that covered a majority of patients as well. So you can imagine that seeing a bed rail not only not being used, but tied down so that it couldn't be used, was alarming to me. Grandpa's nurse gave me some non-committal non-answer explanation, and I essentially dropped it. I convinced myself that I wasn't around for the past 80-something years of this man's life- so who was I to know anything about what was good for him?

When Grandpa later moved into a brand-spanking-new facility, I had high hopes. Finally maybe he could get out of that shit hole straight out of an old folks's version of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. It had large open spaces, private rooms including a bathroom, a ceiling based lift system, and walls with colors I imagined to be called "Forest Moss Green" and "Caribbean Beach Sand." All of it just fancy decorations masking the shit-hole-ness of the same old nursing home model. Staff was still severely limited, the food was still questionable, and my blood would boil every time I would see that Grandpa's false teeth or hearing aids were forgotten (yet again) to be put in. Whenever we came to visit, there was no one playing a game, doing a puzzle, listening to an audio book, or playing music. No one was ever walked (or rolled) outside. No one was ever doing anything except sitting or lying down in isolated silence.

I told myself that I would rather die than live like that. I was full of terror that someday I wouldn't be able to voice my opinion, that someday I would be trapped in a meaningless existence and there would be nothing I could do about it. If I was Grandpa, what would I want? Did he have any say in how he ended up living the way he lives now? If he could talk again, what would he say? Would he want to keep living? How much would he be willing to sacrifice to Parkinson's before he felt like it would be just too much? What would make life worth living in the first place? When is it okay to say enough is enough and let go? How did simply the act of "being alive" become the ultimate goal instead of "creating a life worth living"?

That line is different for everyone. I may not, in this life, know what Grandpa's feelings on the subject are, but I feel it is important for me to be able to answer those questions for myself. And I want to pose those questions to my husband, my parents, and my siblings, too. If anything were to happen to any of them (or myself), I want to be sure that our lives can end well, according to our wishes.

As someone who has experienced suicidal thinking and has attempted suicide on several occasions, I recognize that there is a line (or more of a vast grey area) between wanting to die out of depression and wanting to die because your body is falling apart and the suffering becomes unbearable. No, I don't want to get into an assisted suicide debate. That's not really what this is about. But there is a time when we all will have to decide: full code or DNR? ventilator or feeding tube? Medication or not? Chemo or nothing? At what point do the costs outweigh the benefit?

I'm not as scared about getting older anymore, because now I know that I do have choices and I can make them now.

Note: This topic will be continued in the next blog, "An Open Letter to my Nursing Home"

Holding on to Mental Illness

With only a month left to go, my year-long commitment to weekly DBT group and individual sessions is nearing an end. Part of me is desperate to be finished. I am eager to have more time to do the things I want instead of devoting it to therapy twice a week. I'll read tons more books, see more friends, go to movies, do more puzzles. However, that is where the excitement ends.

Depression and anxiety have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. The therapy, the pills, the hospitalizations, the panic attacks are all constants that have followed me through life. They are this big squishy teddy bear that I keep near me everywhere I go. I feel comfortable with it in my arms. I don't know life without it. I don't understand how my life could ever be without it. What does that look like? Who does that make me? I wish it was clear cut: you either have cancer or you don't. There's no such thing as "sort of" having cancer. The ambiguity of mental illness frustrates and confuses me.

I've returned to weeping through therapy sessions, scared and unsure of the future. Desperate to have control over something in my life, I've amped-up my skin picking. Driving to therapy today, blood dripped a steady stream down my cheek, after I gouged out the sores that had barely begun to scab over from the last picking session.  Then before going in to my therapy session, I doused on the make-up to hide the aftermath. This version of ME I know and understand. I know how to pick and cry and panic and rage and alienate and sleep. Being a happy, healthy, awake, independent, active, involved individual is foreign and I am scared of it. I'm not sure if I can handle it. What if I try to take on too much and end up suicidal, back in the hospital, and starting again at square one? I am afraid that I will always be one step away from total destruction, but I don't know which step will hold the landmine.

If I take a higher level position in my career, will I crack under the pressure? If I start playing bass again and join an orchestra, will I feel crushed by the weight of the commitment? What am I capable of? Why should I believe that NOW I can handle life's challenges, that NOW will be different than the past?

Maybe I've gained more life skills than I give myself credit for. I know I need to trust in the skills I've been taught. I often chuckle to myself after a coworker faces a bitchy customer and I say something along the lines of, "You can't control other people's reactions, only yourself." I find myself parroting the life lessons I've acquired through this whole mental health journey.

I guess I don't have to figure it all out now. I still have a month left. And even after that, it's not like I have to quit cold turkey. I'll be able to hold on to the security blanket of periodic individual sessions for a while. I'm not sure how it's going to happen, but I need to let go of "mental illness" feeling like a defining feature of who I am, and allow myself to move on from that. If I didn't hold on to that label, what would I replace it with? Who would I want to be?

Faster than a Speeding Train

I sat in my car in the parking lot of my mental health clinic, crying and debating. Finally, at the very last second, I decided. I called up my therapist and left a message: I can't come to group today. I just can't do it. Within moments, she called back, but I sent it straight to voicemail. I drove back home, sobbing the whole way. My heart was heavy with guilt. It was a gorgeous sunny day, not too hot. My 2pm group therapy would have been the first time I'd ventured out of bed for the day. No surprise there. I'd already wasted half the day as it was. How could I justify spending the next two hours in a windowless, climate controlled room at a conference table?

When I got home, I grabbed the dog and started walking. And walking and walking. I looked at the time on my fitbit: right now my sister and her wife would be sitting down at a teen-aged boy's funeral who had committed suicide. I never met him. I barely knew anything about him. I didn't even live anywhere near him. But through "three degrees of separation" I felt connected to him. Maybe even felt a mild sense of responsibility for the outcome. Through a quasi-game of "Telephone," I shared snippets of my experience and advice, racing against the clock. A clock I know all too much about.

The boy's situation immediately took me back to when I was a teenager. My family was clueless. No one knew what was going on or how to help. But that's the trouble with depression: in the beginning, it can be an out of control freight train ready to careen off a cliff. Not therapy, nor medication, can catch up in time to throw the breaks on. It's scary for everyone involved. Recovery is a journey; it takes time- time that might not exist.

Lately, as I've become more mentally stable, I've felt a bit of a responsibility to help others. The trouble is that I have no idea what the best outlet is for that little voice inside me pushing me to act. When I found out about this troubled boy, I was ecstatic that I could offer up something valuable to his family. Due to the outcome, it was obviously not enough. Even though I know it's not rational, a tiny piece of me feels like I should have done more. Maybe if I tried harder or was more persistent, all this wouldn't have happened?

I could make a list of people that I know who have committed suicide. But I don't know any of them, really. It's a boy I had a crush on, who played a wicked dentist in Little Shop of Horrors. I just about floated off the ground that one time he passed me in the hall, completely oblivious to my existence. It's my high school sweetheart's "baby" brother who now lies in a grave many years later as a teen. It's my sister-in-law who I hoped to become closer to, but never had the guts (or apparently, the time). I knew she also struggled with mental health, and I had hoped we could both find comfort in that commonality. I put together a "care package" one time, thinking the effort to reach out to her might help. Later, after her death, I found that shoe-box in a closet in my house- unsent. Bath crystals, lip balm, a candle, a funny romantic novel, and some other things that I can't remember now. For a long time, I saved that box. Every time I looked at it, it was a reminder of what I had failed to do. If I had sent it, would she still be alive? Would it have been the grain of rice that tipped the scale in the other direction? After awhile, I dismantled the box and its contents- I had tortured myself enough; It was time to move on.

As the flies keep dropping around me, I feel more frustrated at my seemingly powerlessness. People that are just fingertips away, wishing I could help, but not knowing how. I put so much weight on myself to save the world from mental illness, so to speak. I know the responsibility is not all mine. I know I can't keep telling myself, "If I would have done X, this person would still be alive." I suppose it's just as silly as saying, "If I would have brought dinner over to that neighbor suffering from cancer, then maybe they wouldn't have died from it."

And so, I will continue my search for an outlet for this need to help others bursting inside of me. A need more ferocious than that damn freight train. Maybe "Super Bex" can stop that fucker. Or maybe lots of us regular ol' people joining together.

The Post Vacay Fall

I recently went on a weekend retreat, and it was pure heaven. "What kind of retreat?" you might ask. Well, a whatever-the-heck-I-want-to-do retreat. Weird, huh? No workshops or classes or lectures. Just an abundance of free time in the company of about 50 other women. Not like those other vacations people go on where they come back and feel like they need a vacation from their vacation because it was so jam packed full of "stuff." No, this was a real vacation. There were trees, a bubbling stream, and a mini farm complete with a very amusing camel. I did jigsaw puzzles, painting, sticker books, and reading while in a beautiful lodge with spectacular views. I never had to worry about meals, because it was all provided. I never had to feel lonely, because there were always others around. I never had to feel suffocated, because there were little nooks to escape into. I could have stayed in this storybook land forever.

Coming home from this retreat seems to have triggered a bit of a plummet into a dark hole- yet again. From the moment I walked back into my own home, my heart just sank. Back to real life. For whatever reason, I kind of hoped that after three days away, my home would miraculously transform into the perfect environment for me. Not very realistic expectations for my husband to accomplish over a weekend, I know. But somehow I was still shocked and disappointed that everything was the way I had left it. I could change my surroundings, I know that. How hard could it be? Do dishes, laundry, clean hamster cages, file papers, play with the dog, etc. Why is that so hard? Just do it! But I can't. It's like I am paralyzed. I just look at all that there is to be done, and it suddenly transforms into a vast unscalable mountain. And thus, nothing changes. Every day I tell myself I am a bad fur-momma and how I still need to clean cages and give the dog more attention, but I change nothing. My surroundings stay in a constant chaos, and I feel powerless to change without someone holding my hand like a child. As I write this, my dog lays beside me, bored, completely given up on having any expectations of me aside from a good cuddle.

The loneliness also sets in again. I live in a big empty 4 bedroom house with just my husband. There are billions of people on this planet, so I am frustrated and angry that being lonely would even be an issue. With all the homeless people in the world, I look at my home as a constant reminder of how wasteful and selfish it is to have 3 extra bedrooms, complete with beds, vacant. I severely loathe my time alone. It is uncomfortable to the point that I would rather not exist than continually have to tolerate it. Some people say that I need to get used to being alone. I think that it bullshit. I want to be around people, even if they are simply near me and not interacting with me. I don't think there is any shame in that. What makes tolerating lonesomeness a value? You might as well tell an introvert that they need to get out more, interact more, socialize more. That's not who they are, and I don't see why I need to learn to be comfortable alone on a regular basis.

Then there is the sleep issue. I can't seem to get enough of it. If I have a reason to get up in the morning like work or other plans, then that's great. But the past three days the only power lifting me from my slumber is me, and I don't really give myself much of a boot. I have my body trained to get up early, eat breakfast, read or watch a show, and then go back to bed. I generally won't get up again until I actually have to be somewhere. I am genuinely tired and sleep great throughout the late morning/early afternoon. Part of me hates myself for it. It's a waste of my time and my life. What's the point of living if this is what it amounts to? Then I look at the alternative- the loneliness. If I were to stay awake instead of going back to bed, I would again be in that dreaded discomfort of being alone. So I guess there are no options that I really like. Either I sleep and feel guilty, or I am awake and uncomfortable. Either way, it sucks, and I hate the feelings that accompany any of my options.

I'd like to say I can wrap this up with some sort of wisdom or life lesson, but I've got nothing. I guess all I can hope for is that my brain will adjust back to the real world at some point after this plummet from the blissful existence of my weekend retreat.

"You Can Be a Victor Without Having Victims"

Every time I go to work, I pass a garage door company that always has some sort of inspirational saying on their sign. The title above is what it reads right now. It felt like a fitting title to the thoughts I am about to share.

Last night, after all the busyness of the day faded away, I sobbed in the quietness of our house. It started as a little thing, really. A couple moths were fluttering around the kitchen. Those damn moths! What are they doing invading my house now, in the middle of winter? I thought we had gotten rid of them several months ago. This is just great! But it's just some dumb moths. The worst problem we have right now is a handful of little moths. Do I feel guilt? Is it shame? Do I cry because I feel bad for myself for having so much that I don't deserve? Or do I mourn all the other people of the world that have so much less than me? We are not entitled to the things we have. We would not have had a debt-free wedding or owned our house without the generosity of our families. Not even just our parents, but generations before them. A legacy of educated minds, wisdom, kindness, frugality, and giving hearts have trickled down into our lives. We are not better than others because of it. Others are not less-than because they don't have that privilege. I feel an overwhelming need to share this privilege, but it isn't something I have in my hands to give, and that frustrates me. I didn't create my own freedom or my right to vote. Complete strangers separated by miles and decades have molded this country for me. I feel powerless. I feel undeserving. I was born into my environment, I am blessed, and it isn't fair. It isn't fair that I can get an education, but others can't. It isn't fair that I can go shopping without a male relative with me, but other women are confined to the walls of their home, inferior, and invisible. And it isn't fair that other people are born into war-torn countries or crime-ridden neighborhoods when I can go out alone at night and be safe. What right do I have to hoard my blessings and keep other people out? The circumstances could just as easily have been turned around. I want to use my hands to tear down walls, not build them. I want to include, not alienate.

Learning how to interact with the world is hard. I've spent so many years avoiding the news and politics. I told myself that I couldn't possibly understand it. I told myself that, as a very emotionally sensitive person, I couldn't handle knowing the struggles of the world. Just the right words from a news channel could spiral my mind into suicidal thinking. There is definitely some truth to that. I think we all have a limit. We all feel passionate about certain issues. This stew of boiling emotions disrupts our sleep, our dreams, our happiness, our sense of progression of the human race. I live in a sense of fear now that my health insurance is threatened to be taken away because I live with mental illness (Before the Affordable Care Act, I was denied it). I fear for my LGBTQ friends and family who have fought so hard for equal rights and now have them threatened yet again. I fear for everyone that is not white and not Christian in my country. I am angry with myself that even though I feel strongly about freedom and equality, I still clutch my purse a little tighter when a black man walks by me on the sidewalk. This feeling completely unjustified. A feeling based on stereotypes, and nothing more.

I have a glimmer of hope inside of me for this country and this world because I believe in something bigger. I do believe in a God. And I believe that this God is much bigger than all the shit that's being stirred up in our world right now. God's love is so big that it goes beyond gender. God's love is so enormous that it spreads to every culture. His love is shown and shared by so many religions in their own beautiful ways. The diversity He has created is stunning. Why would God limit his abundant gifts to just men? Or just white people? Or just Christians? And the rest are cast off to hell? Oh no, he is bigger than all of that. And we need to be bigger, too. We need to cast our net of unconditional love, gifts, talents, blessings, shelter, food, compassion and empathy to everyone. We all have much to learn from each other. After all, the one thing we have in common is all being human. A thread that links us all together.

No, I don't understand how laws are made. I don't understand what all the political parties mean. I don't understand the different jobs I am voting for at the polls. But I do know that supposedly this country is run by one person surrounded by some other like-minded individuals. But I think that is bullshit. This country is run by the millions of inhabitants within its borders. And these millions of people believe in creating and maintaining an environment where love is king. And there is no way one human being stands a chance breaking that down. Love trumps all.