Category Archives: On Being Alive

Damn Hospital Corridors and Mothers

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I’m dabbling in fiction again, which of course is influenced by my actual life, wherein my mother’s health is failing. This piece came from a writing prompt to begin with, “The hospital corridor was dimly lit…”

The hospital corridor was dimly lit, but only because the fluorescent lights on one side of the ceiling emitted partial light, accompanied by a buzzing sound. I wished someone would turn the lights off. One o’clock a.m. was never meant to be lit at all. Sinking to the floor, I checked the exact time on my watch, 1:17.

My mother slept. She’d been sleeping much of the day and night for some five years. Sleeping suited her phlegmatic personality and neurodegenerative disease. Sleeping was familiar.

But tonight, sleep could wander into death at any moment. And so we kept vigil—my brother and I—taking turns at her bedside, watching the face of each nurse who came in to check her vital signs. Did their expression show any hint of surprise or concern? Anything to indicate an imminent ending?

I’d never been this close to death before, and my feelings warred with my philosophies. It’s one thing to say death is natural, a passage as much as an ending, a new experience just like every other milestone in life. But there’s something heavy about a last milestone.

As I stared at the wall, unseeing, questions caught traction in my mind. This grief, is it about loss of the mother I have, or loss of the mother I wish I had? Or is it fear of what will happen to my brother and me when Mom isn’t here? Or am I feeling anger that I have to be here, to witness this, to hold it and see it and feel it and live it—that this dying person not only consumes my time when I’m at the hospital, but consumes my emotions and thoughts when I’m driving, eating, washing dishes? Who gave her permission to be woven into me in this way?

And what does the unweaving look like? Is it a severing, like a guillotine? Is it a careful unstitching, or an impassioned disassembly, tossing parts and pieces here and there? Or will my dead mother remain inside me, and will I like her better that way? What memories will make me smile? How much time will it take for me to internalize a narrative that holds us both gently?—a narrative that’s peaceful, not buzzing and half-lit like this damn hallway.

Forty and (In)secure

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Twenty One Pilots’s song, “Stressed Out,” laments the insecurities of adulthood, noting that fear is still present, and we still care what people think. I turned 40 this month, and yes, I’m still insecure. It’s different than high school. And the same. I want you to like me. I want to be well-dressed and well-spoken, and most importantly, perceived well.

I’m a grown-up—have been for quite some time—and I can tell you what maturity doesn’t mean. Being grown up doesn’t involve control and confidence; it doesn’t mean growing out of awkward traits and social habits; it doesn’t include a clean house and well-kept yard, or a passel of perfect grown-up girlfriends.

I’m less sure what being a grownup does mean. But I’ve noticed I’m softer than I used to be—more flexible, a teensy bit less judgmental, and I know more about cooking and cleaning than I did 20 years ago.

I know less about God, love, and relationships. It’s been said that the more you know, the more you know you don’t know anything. I can confirm this.

There’s a real sense of loss, not landing in adulthood firmly in control and certainty, an expert in the kitchen, the workplace, the bedroom. I get tired of being wrong, confused, ineffective. If knowledge comes from experience, I am an expert in exhaustion, stress, and leaving my cell phone in obscure places.

I know I’m sounding a tad morose. But there is a happy ending. There’s something left after losing control, and the appearance of control, and pretending to have control. What’s left is eyes to see a different life entirely—a life of watching the cat lick his fur, thinking of my three favorite moments from the day just before I fall asleep, fighting less with my kids and husband, knowing there will not be a seismic event when my to-do list is left undone.

And I know myself better. I know I love writing and small groups. I know I like a clean house, but not enough to put in the work. I know I’m scared of the interminable wants and needs of my children. Being quiet and alone—especially in nature—returns me to myself. Banana splits and blended mochas almost always sound good. I try the hardest to be self-sufficient when I’m at my weakest. Animals make me happy. Getting called “a writer” makes me stand a little taller. Synchronicity feels like opening a birthday present.

My birthday, which this year fell on the first Sunday in May, played out like a dream Mother’s Day. My husband cleaned the kitchen, top to bottom. He and the kids cooked breakfast and dinner, and took me out for lunch. I sorted through a large tote, five bags, and an unconstrained pile of children’s clothing I hauled up from the basement, and found most of it could be passed on. I went to the park and watched goslings and ducklings, heard the smack-smack of their webbed feet in shallow water, and marveled at their fluffy bodies. I took a nap. With my parents and sister, I ate fresh-made blackberry pie with “40” cut into the top crust. Michael gave me a gift certificate to have the house professionally cleaned (when the dust settles from our six-month construction project). Like I said, a dream day.

It’s worth noting I couldn’t have planned such a day. All was gift—the generosity of my husband, my children, my sister. Many times I have planned a birthday party for myself, with friends and presents and homemade cake. But for forty, this un-forced birthday felt fitting. The people who love me gave what they wanted to give. And I received. I basked. I rested. And yes, I sorted children’s clothing—one of those things I never can find time to do.

Maybe I’m ready to accept this life I have. Whether I die tomorrow or in another 40 years, I will die complicated—a mix of peace and insecurity, frustration and gratitude, mundane and miraculous. And not at all grown up.

Before the Meeting: A Story About Inner Voices

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Once upon a time, in the midst of a large wood, there stood a smallish cluster of trees hiding a secret meeting place. From the outside, these trees appeared just as the rest of the forest. But underneath the canopy of intertwined branches that formed a roof over the meeting place, a mild summer climate prevailed. The temperature was always pleasantly warm, the leaves bright and shiny, the floor spongy and warm, but never damp. The light inside felt like sunlight, although it did not come from the sun and never changed with the seasons.

Near the center of this cozy clearing stood a tremendously broad tree stump, weathered and gray. There was enough room around the stump for seven or eight chairs, but the only seat was a large stone with a comfortable-looking, moss-lined depression, where Found Girl always sat. Although no one was ever quite certain if Found Girl really did sit, because it looked like she flowed, as if someone had plucked up a small section of a stream and fashioned it into something like a person. Her appendages were more suggestion than reality, and you could almost hear the gurgle of a creek when you came near. Despite her ambiguity of form, she had a most attractive face, with eyes that sparkled like sun glinting off stones in a mountain stream, and a mouth which gave order to her face and conveyed her gentle nature. The others came and went, but Found Girl always stayed on her stone chair, content and natural.

On this particular day, Levee and Bound arrived at the clearing together, though they didn’t look at all as if they belonged together. Levee, a thin, straight-lipped woman dressed like a schoolmarm, carried a ruler. Her hair was pulled back so tightly into a bun that her face looked just a bit stretched. No one can say I’m late, she pondered with pride, and with any luck, my exemplary responsibility will guilt the others into behaving themselves.

Bound was small in stature, the size of a boy ten or eleven, though clearly a grown man. He had short, black hair and wore brass knuckles on both hands. But one hardly noticed his appearance because he was always shouting, and all that uproarious noise was the main thing anyone remembered about him. He carried himself with the foreboding of a lit fuse nearing its explosive target, and a few strides into the clearing, he broke into a series of lunges and air-punches. Truth be told, the noise he generated on the outside was only a fraction of the roaring and explosions happening inside. Stupid. Unthinking. Can’t get their act together long enough to solve some problems, he thought, anticipating a tedious meeting. I can’t stand myself and I can’t stand them! Words stayed inside, as futility spilled out in growls.

Levee laid a legal pad and pencil on the stump and scrutinized the forest floor and canopy. Lost Boy circled the clearing, his large shoulders hunched over. No one had seen him arrive, and even he seemed a little unsure of his presence as he slunk in circles. I don’t think this is going to be okay. I can’t possibly speak in front of Levee and Bound. Nothing makes sense. What can I do. This was a statement, not a question, and his torso rocked forward and back with each repetition. What can I do. What can … What … His thoughts morphed into panic, disguised by his plodding feet.

A few moments passed as Found Girl flowed in her stone chair, Levee took stock with a critical eye, Bound threw punches, and Lost Boy bit his fingernails and wandered.

Fragrant—whom everyone called Fray—a woman of average stature with a fairy-like appearance and delightfully scented hair, entered through a cascade of willow branches on the east side of the clearing and stood beside Levee at the stump, where they waited for Broad. I’m lucky to belong here, thought Fray. This is a lovely group in a lovely place.

Broad soon arrived, looking especially round, his very large and expressive face—almost triangular in shape—resting directly on his shoulders. No one could say for sure if he had a neck, and no one wanted to get close enough to see, because Broad often broke into unrestrained displays of emotion, and his aura oozed despair in such a way that it seemed very likely to get all over whoever might come near. I’ll just stay here at the edge of the clearing. There’s too much energy at the stump, Broad decided. Too tired to stand, he melted onto a bed of thick moss near the base of a crooked evergreen.

The moment Broad arrived, Levee called the meeting to order with a few loud raps of her ruler on the stump. That is, she tried to call the meeting to order. This had no effect on Lost Boy, who continued his distracted circling, but it did throw Bound into a tizzy. “You two get over here!!” he shouted at Broad and Lost Boy. He kicked the stump as he repeated this command. Broad collapsed even further into a fat heap and cried.

At this point, Levee’s thin-lipped smile became so thin it almost disappeared. “We must stand around the stump and be quiet.” Her voice was coated with frustration and disdain, and she glared at Bound. Meanwhile, Fray fell in beside Lost Boy. “Come to the stump,” she invited in her always-pleasant voice. But Lost Boy didn’t reply, only continued in aimless circles, and Fray thought, Poor soul. If only he knew it’s okay to not be okay. She returned alone to the stump.

Levee, hell-bent on a productive meeting and desperate for order, strode over to Broad and dragged him toward the stump. This required no small amount of effort, and a few hairs popped out of her bun. After several exhausting moments, Broad was in a sad, fat heap, closer to the stump. Suddenly, Lost Boy noticed he was the only one still at large and would be Levee’s next target. Just as he moved to hide behind a tree at the edge of the clearing, Found Girl spoke.

This startled everyone, as they had forgotten she was there. Her voice, like her appearance, flowed, yet carried unmistakable strength. It drew Bound’s attention first; he immediately stopped kicking the stump and shouting. Before she finished a sentence, everyone in the clearing was focused on her, curiously enthralled by her flowing body and voice, their individual angst forgotten for a moment.

This is what she said. “Friends, each one of us belongs here. This is our clearing, our stump, our meeting. Levee may bring an agenda and take notes, but she is no more important—or in charge—than anyone else.” At this, Levee’s schoolmarm face relaxed somewhat, though her relief seemed tinged with doubt. I can’t imagine how Found Girl thinks she’s going to bring things to order.

Found Girl continued, “Lost Boy doesn’t have to speak his fears, and Bound doesn’t have to quiet his anger. Fray and Broad can attend to their own thoughts and feelings, which are their gifts in this meeting. We’re in this together. Look around at each other. Smell Fray’s fragrant hair. Admire Bound’s latest brass knuckles, and maybe look for Broad’s neck.” Everyone chuckled at this, except Lost Boy, who had commenced his circling.

Found Girl, having given everyone permission to be themselves, closed her captivating mouth and motioned to Levee. Then the meeting began.

How to Be a Mother

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Breathe. And not just
during the contractions.
You must be well-oxygenated
to care for another human being.

Give up. And not just
once. Keep at it.
You must release your grasp
before your muscles cramp.

Laugh. And not just
when it’s funny.
You must include sadness and shock
and exhaustion in your mirth.

Tell the truth. And not just
to yourself.
You must tell the other moms,
and listen to their tellings.

Accept your new self. And not just
the nurturing and brave parts.
You must accept the anger,
the desperation, the invisibility.

And remember to breathe.

Substance Use or Pain?

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I know next to nothing about substance use. Other than tales of “the alcoholic” family members I never met, the “sinners” in the prodigal-returns books the church fed me, and the guy who beat the tar out of a piñata at his daughter’s birthday party, I live in a substance-use-free bubble. Although, I was offered a drink last week by two guys about my age who came upon me at a local park, where I had stationed myself to watch for beaver activity. I hoped to catch the crepuscular creatures near one end of their habitat, where they had recently felled a large tree.

It became apparent these two fellows had been drinking when they repeatedly complimented my purple outfit, introduced themselves, offered to move my chair for me, asked me to show them the beaver lodge, and kept up a constant stream of friendly banter. Sober people walk by silently and you’re lucky to get a nod.

“If you’re gonna take beer from a stranger, we’re the right people to take it from,” the talkative fellow offered. He went on to explain the virtues of the beer he had in the cooler bag over his shoulder, but it all went over my head. IPA and other alcohol-related terms are Greek to me.

As a child, I was taught to fear alcohol, with the admonition that because alcohol addiction runs in our family, I could become addicted with a single drink. Is there truth to that? I don’t know. Now that I’m an adult it seems beside the point.

Last November, I attended a community education event—“Hidden In Plain Sight,” or HIPS. This event multiplied my slight knowledge of substances by at least ten times. For example, I thought “doing pot” 40 years ago was essentially the same as “doing pot” today. I was wrong. But before I get to that … The whole experience hit me odd—attending a 1.5-hour community event in which I felt the main takeaway was “just say no” (although those words were not used). I thought people who didn’t rely on religious/moral reasons for abstinence just didn’t abstain. Or at the very least, didn’t tell others to abstain. But apparently, given data on brain development and facts about the effects of drugs and alcohol, a whole slough of people agree that—at least for kids and teens—“no” is the appropriate attitude toward substances. And this isn’t about illegal drugs; it’s about nicotine, marijuana, and alcohol.

When I talk to my kids about alcohol and drug use, I notice they are acutely—vehemently—aware that it is “bad”—so much so that it’s easy for them to assume a person who uses is not a “good” person. For that reason, my conversations with them, more often than not, focus on the aspect of numbing pain. I tell them people drink because it makes them feel better. It’s relief from anxiety, loneliness, trauma, and intense emotional pain. And isn’t every human being worthy of relief from pain?

I didn’t know what to expect going to the HIPS event—other than free pizza and a lesson on the paraphernalia of risky teen behavior. But when I left after the event I had a distinct feeling that something was missing—we didn’t talk about the pain these kids are trying to numb. Or the pain their parents are trying to numb. And parental influence means—like it or not—when we as parents use substances to numb our pain, it’s hard to tell our kids not to, and even harder for them to respect and respond to us.

In the state of Washington, where I live, it is legal for a parent to give alcohol to their child at any age, in their home1. And although it’s illegal to give tobacco or marijuana products to your own children, the data in our local community indicates that parents are supplying these items to their children in middle school and high school2—or at least turning a blind eye. Additionally, many websites that sell vapes and other nicotine products simply have a textbox to type in one’s age, making it easier to buy substances than it is to log into your bank account.

Products that were originally marketed as smoking cessation products, such as vapes,3 may deliver more nicotine to users than cigarettes, depending on the product and frequency of use. They’re also cheaper. A carton of cigarettes is $120, and the roughly-equivalent 7,000-puff rechargeable fume vape—which comes in more than a dozen flavors and fits easily in a closed hand—costs only $15. It also conveniently flies under the radar of the Clean Indoor Air Act, since the nicotine is delivered without a cloud of smoke. As you might imagine, these changes rewrite the landscape of nicotine use.

And alcohol is not exempt from the changing landscape. With a disposable water bottle, a wine cork, and a bike pump, a curious teen can vaporize alcohol, conveniently bypassing their digestive system and taking the full impact of a shot of hard liquor directly to their bloodstream.4

Now back to the changes around “doing pot”. Before the turn of the century, marijuana products delivered about 4% THC, or tetrahydrocannabinol, the psychoactive compound found in cannabis. In the 2010s, that number jumped to nearly 20% with the medicalization of marijuana. Today there are products containing up to 90% THC5. This ain’t your grandpa’s weed. Yet in Walla Walla County the Healthy Youth Survey in 2023 reported that 56% of 10th-grade respondents thought trying cannabis/marijuana held no risk or low risk, and 30% thought regular use had little or no risk.6 Are these students thinking of grandpa’s weed, or the expanding menu of available products? There’s rosin, crumble, distillate, bubble hash, dry sift, crystalline, and the list goes on.7

Youth who experiment with substance use are often unaware—now more than ever—of the actual amount of alcohol, nicotine, or THC they are taking in through various products or processes, resulting in an uptake of accidental overdoses.8 Parents seem to be checked out of their kids’ lives, and capitalism is taking advantage of the changing topography of products that deliver substances.

2023 Health Use Survey (askhys.net)
Walla Walla County data

20% of 10th graders reported using marijuana at least once in their life.

50.9% of 10th graders reported using alcohol at least once in their life.

16% of 8th graders had ridden, during the previous 30 days, in a vehicle driven by someone who had been drinking alcohol.

2.7% of 6th graders (my 12-year-old daughter’s grade) reported alcohol use in the past 30 days, as did 3.9% of 8th graders and 13.1% of 10th graders.

19.5% of 8th graders and 33.6% of 10th graders indicated it would be “sort of or very easy” to get marijuana.

In case you got lost in the grade numbers,
all of these statistics are for youth approximately 11-15 years of age.

Not long after attending the HIPS events, my husband Michael and I walked by a smoke shop as we were finishing a pizza-and-ice-cream date night. “Ooh,” I said spontaneously, “let’s go in!” Michael didn’t share my enthusiasm, but he followed me inside the shop. The young man behind the counter welcomed us in and asked if we were after anything particular. I volunteered that neither of us had ever had anything. “If there’s something you want to try, let me know,” he offered.

To the left, behind a long counter, packaged products lined the wall. To the right, blown-glass paraphernalia caught my eye. I didn’t know what any of it was called. “Pipe” and “bong” seemed like terms that probably applied to some of the stuff, but I wasn’t sure. It reminded me of visiting the glass-blowing shops in Oregon’s coastal towns. Rows of shelves showcased the beautiful colors and shapes, and at the back of the store two more large displays highlighted artful drug paraphernalia.

The shop also had knives, samurai swords, rings for body-piercings, incense, an impressive display of fancy cigars, sex paraphernalia, and—based on my newly-acquired knowledge—several items I assumed were for hiding drugs. Michael and I circled the store a few times, commenting quietly to each other. Wanting to be a good customer, I bought a small vaping device.

Just kidding. I bought a pair of cheap earrings.

“Drugs and alcohol” are not the static story I imagined. And my interpretations are one tiny perspective on an issue that is complex beyond any one person’s understanding. Advertising, social influences9, the complex science of the over-400 components of cannabis10, the biology of addiction, stigma, family structure, mental health, and countless other factors impact our youth and their decisions around substances.

Mental health professionals and others, including the renowned Brené Brown, say it isn’t possible to selectively numb emotion. If we numb pain, anxiety, and sadness, we also numb joy, contentment, and gratitude. How will a generation unable to feel things—let alone name those feelings—live whole lives, experience belonging, and effectively walk through the tragedy and triumph of life?

And how will they teach resilience to the next generation?

I am left with more questions than answers. Why did I know nothing of the breadth and depth of new and evolving products and packaging around substance use? Why did only about 20 people attend this HIPS event that was marketed across the Walla Walla Valley? Why does it seem like social workers and law enforcement are the only people looking at this data?

About 10% of 8th graders and 14% of 10th graders surveyed had considered suicide. Over a third indicated a struggle with depression.11 Why are our children in so much pain? And how are we offering relief?

Endnotes:
1 RCW 66.44.270, subsection (4), viewed here.
2 The Healthy Youth Survey fact sheet for Walla Walla County in 2023 reports that 29% of youth in 8th and 12th grades, and 27% of youth in 10th grade reported getting alcohol from home, with permission, in the past 30 days. Additionally, only 5% of youth drink alcohol if their parents think it’s wrong, while 28% drink if their parents don’t think it’s wrong. This data is from a fact sheet created here.
3 https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC10880776/
4 https://www.vumc.org/poison-control/toxicology-question-week/jan-29-2020-alcohol-vaping-friend-or-foe
3 https://medicine.yale.edu/news-article/not-your-grandmothers-marijuana-rising-thc-concentrations-in-cannabis-can-pose-devastating-health-risks/
6 This data is from a fact sheet created here.
7 https://vivosun.com/growing_guide/what-is-crumble-crystalline-sugar/
8 This was covered in the live presentation. I’m still looking for a data source to cite here.
9 https://www.cdc.gov/tobacco/e-cigarettes/why-youth-vape.html
10 https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC4188645/
11 This data is from a fact sheet created here.

Studio of Beginnings

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Studio of Beginnings

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for beginnings,
the admission of something new,
like a chia seed—tiny and shiny,
like childbirth—messy and excruciating,
or silent, like the first pink of a sunset.

Blessed are You
for perpetual newness.
Always You are
making
breathing
speaking beginnings,
and perhaps Your favorite studio
is a human being,
multiplicity of newness.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for the never-stale freshness of beginnings.
Like yeast You expand us,
and we become fragrant.
The bread of You gives us life
for yet another beginning.

What Version of Me Belongs?

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I have chosen between attachment and authenticity a thousand times at least.

What do I mean by this?

I’ll loosely define attachment as a healthy sense of relational connection and belonging. And let’s think of authenticity as the ability to know ourselves and show up in the fullness of who we are, including the little quirks and details.

The choice between attachment and authenticity occurs when we must—or perceive we must—choose one of the two. For example, let’s say you’ve made a new acquaintance and you’re arriving at her house for the first time, with a plan to chat over a cup of tea. You might feel a little anxious, not knowing whether this will be awkward, and wondering about the future of your friendship. When you step in the door, your friend offers to take your coat. You’d rather leave it on until you warm up a bit, but instead you take it off and she whisks it away to a side room. Then she offers you scones, which are obviously hot from the oven and smell delicious. You accept and then notice there are raisins in them. You don’t like raisins. But rather than pick them out, you decide to eat them. In these moments, you are choosing attachment over authenticity. Sharing your preferences feels risky for the relationship, so you keep them to yourself.

Often, as in the above examples, we base our decision not on reality (you have no idea whether your friend would be offended by you picking out the raisins), but on a perception of what would best maintain your attachment—your relational connection—in the moment.

Let’s think about scenarios where the stakes are higher. A teen might have to choose between the authenticity of letting their parents know they’re transgender, or preserving attachment by not sharing that information. A pastor may have to choose between authentically and vulnerably requesting help for an addiction, or maintaining his position and his church relationships—his connection and belonging—because he knows he cannot have both. A person may choose to have sex with their partner because it’s easier to do what they don’t really want to do than it is to say the vulnerable truth and deal with the possible fallout of disconnection.

As children, and even as infants, when presented with a choice between authenticity and attachment, we choose attachment. Our survival depends on it. As we become adults, our circle of resources widens, and our options become more diverse. We don’t have to choose attachment over authenticity every time. Still, there is an element of risk to authenticity, and we weigh this consciously or subconsciously every day.

One of the most challenging environments to navigate this dynamic is religious circles—which in my case extend to my children’s private education, friends past and present, my readers, and even neighbors. Church seems a strange place to make a choice between belonging or being myself, yet I have felt it often there. Christians say, “Come as you are.” But I don’t think we meant it. Or, we mean it with a tag-on—“Come as you are, when you’re ready to change that to be like us.”

I have believed I can’t be me, because whatever improved version of me God has in mind is better than the current version of me—“sinful and selfish” me. Somehow being myself means heresy. I can’t be true to myself and to God at the same time. You know, something about “a house divided,” or how man’s thoughts are “evil continually.”

These days, I’m not sure I belong in church. But it doesn’t matter like it used to. I belong in myself, and that is sweet relief. I belong in the living room of God, who has become both mother and father to me. I am bonded spiritually, and it’s the safest place I’ve found yet to excavate and inhabit my authentic self.

God doesn’t ask Her children to choose between attachment and authenticity. Belonging is a foregone conclusion, and God’s favorite pastime might be holding your hand as you get acquainted with your authentic self. I think God emits joy-sparkles when He gets to witness you noticing yourself and connecting with the fun, complex, messed up, whole and holy person that you are.

Wherever attachment and authenticity occur together is sacred. These holy spaces may be inside us, in marriage or friendship, in nature or a good book. I’ve discovered that in settling into my own self, I can hold the paradox that I am okay and I am not okay. And it turns out God is way bigger than they said She was.

My understanding of these concepts leans heavily on Gabor Maté and Krispin Mayfield. Many thanks to them both for acquainting me with my own inner safety.

P.S. I posted an update today about trauma-informed writing groups. Check it out here.

On My Drive Today

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I saw a tractor throwing dark earth, and
A field of cosmos—pink, purple, white.
I saw a hedge, large and tall and perfectly green, notched at the top like a castle,
And a grave with balloons on it.
I saw a small, black travel bus with the words “my party bus”
In chunky white letters across one end.

Rows of perfectly spaced deciduous trees at a nursery wore fall colors, and
Weeds decorated the aisles between.
Neon-green skeletons perched on a wire fence,
And a navy-blue Tesla followed me for miles.
I crossed a mirror-still river,
And passed under two branches, touching
Like outstretched fingertips above me.

I saw tractor-crossing signs, deer-crossing signs, political signs, and
Line after line of baby trees and shrubs, only a foot tall,
Every shadow in perfect formation across groomed dirt rows.
I saw horses swishing their tails,
And clouds, dressed for a slumber party.

I saw metal buildings, colored by rust, and
Old, wooden farm buildings painted rust-red.
I saw a stream in an overgrown meadow,
Water profuse with delicate, floating plants.
I saw pumpkins combed into rows—no vines, just orange fruit for acres,
And the long shadows of a fall afternoon.

Even a Candle Has Seasons

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Even a Candle Has Seasons

Even a candle has seasons,
A smooth-topped beginning,
Wick white and waxy.
First burst of flame,
First melted pool.

Midlife of a candle
Suggests service.
It is seasoned, available,
Each lighting a faithful burn.

The candle wanes.
It’s fiery moments are numbered.
Uneven wax shows age.
It’s weight is diminished.

Then, the last burn—
The light, the heat, the flicker.
Perhaps it pops and sputters
Until its pulse is gone.
It, too, has passed.

Every lighting was a beginning,
Every extinguishment an end,
Every burning a symbol—
Every thing has seasons.

Reasons for Self-Hatred

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“Many unhealthy behaviors begin as necessary coping mechanisms.”

I hear various versions of this sentiment repeatedly from therapists and psychologists. What may be a harmful habit today, they say, served us well in a previous season of life. I get how this applies to people-pleasing, secret-keeping, anger-stuffing, and high-performing. I’m less sure how it applies to self-hatred which, at first, sounds universally useless to me.

But maybe it did begin somewhere useful. Maybe my self-hatred sprouted when I couldn’t stop big feelings during infancy and toddlerhood, feelings that overwhelmed both me and the people around me. Flooded with emotion and its unwieldy side effects, what could I do but show my disagreement with the outburst by hating myself?

I buried self-hatred under the more acceptable coping behaviors of performing and pleasing. But whenever I couldn’t perform and please—when I showed up in the world in a way I didn’t like—self-hatred jumped out of the trunk to take the steering wheel.

There were more scenarios than I realized, as self-hatred tried every position in the car, from back-seat driver to navigation system, snack hoarder to complainer. Further exploration reveals at least a dozen ways self-hatred has served me:

  • It keeps me small, and being small keeps me from being seen, because being seen is risky.
  • It beats “them” to it. If I can make myself feel bad sooner and more than you can make me feel bad, I’m not vulnerable to you.
  • An excuse to be sad. When I don’t know why I feel depressed, loathing myself makes it seem legitimate … OR maybe I’m sad because I hate myself. Either way, it’s a handy excuse.
  • A layer of protection between you and my pain, and between myself and my pain. During the years of parenting my preschool daughters, hating that I was exhausted, angry, and shut down seemed easier than admitting I felt lonely, empty, scared, and inadequate.
  • A way to belong. When my mom got frustrated with herself, she often said, “I’m such an idiot.” I could fit in at home by thinking and speaking poorly of myself. And the church taught me not to toot my own horn. Apparently it’s not spiritually sound to think well of myself (leave that to God, I guess?), so self-hatred is also a way to fit in spiritually.
  • Keeps me from being perceived as naive as Pollyanna.
  • Protects me from trying to do things I’ll fail at.
  • A way of responding to failure—it spares me the time and energy of taking responsibility. (ouch)
  • A shortcut. It’s faster to process, “I did that because I’m bad,” than it is to process, “I did that because I’m human and humans get depleted and defeated sometimes, and what is depleting or defeating me right now?”
  • A form of power. When I had infants, I “couldn’t” be angry with them. In order to feel some control (power) over my anger, I directed it toward myself.
  • A way to remain in “relationship” with the unwanted parts of myself, even though the relationship is toxic.
  • It proves my loyalty to certain ideals. It allows me to act outside of my standards without confusing myself or anyone else by condoning the behavior. So self-hatred proves I have morals (even if I don’t live them out).

This all sounds so ridiculous.

And familiar.

All of a sudden, it sounds like a lazy way out, but it makes so much sense, and I feel sad, but grateful that I can see it, and profoundly grateful that other options are available to me. I don’t need to dislike myself to belong with people, and certainly not to belong with God. So maybe I can give it a break.

Go ahead, sit down and make your own list. It might be time to break up with one of your coping mechanisms.