Lady, weeping at the crossroads

The major headlines these past few weeks feel like being in a 20-year time warp back to 2001 with the war in Afghanistan, ISIS attacks, and a destructive hurricane causing havoc along the Gulf Coast. Now add to that a global pandemic, social and political unrest, and witnessing the decline of civilization in a post-fact world.

I’ve been learning a lot lately about the imprint trauma makes on our bodies, and how that manifests in everything from the way we physically hold ourselves to how we unconsciously respond to stimuli - be it sounds, smells, tastes, and things we touch and see. When our nervous systems get supercharged, they tend to stay in a constant state of flight, fight, or freeze. While my life has changed in so many ways over the last 20 years, not all of those changes have been for the better.

I wrote last week about being on a journey of healing this past year, and that some of that healing has come from talk therapy where I've been working to process past traumas and the effects they've have had on me, much like the havoc a destructive hurricane can cause. I've experienced a considerable amount of personal trauma, loss, and grief over the last two decades -- some of which I’ve been aware of and have talked about openly, and some which I’ve only just begun to process.

Without realizing it, my sense of self has splintered multiple times with each of these traumas, starting with 9/11. I have great capacity to compartmentalize, which can be a form of resilience but can also be damaging when we don't give ourselves the permission or space to eventually work through things. So in my effort to be resilient, I kept many of these traumas either half processed or not processed at all -- leaving part of me stuck back in all these really dark and lonely places waiting for the light to come, and part of me here in the present trying to give her that light.

I feel numb more days than not, and I often fake happiness, excitement, and tears when I know those are the socially appropriate emotions I’m supposed to be displaying in a given moment. That’s not to say I don’t ever feel anything, in fact when genuine emotions do rise to the surface they often feel like a threatening invader and I completely clam up and go blank or get filled with so much anxiety I unconsciously start stimming - usually by rocking, fidgeting, bouncing my legs, or tapping my feet depending on how strong the emotions are.

I wasn’t always like this, it's been a slow progression over the last 20 years. That said, it's been especially bad these past 5 years, which I think is partly due to the collective trauma we're all experiencing right now. When my therapist senses these physical responses during our sessions, she’ll ask me what I’m feeling and I get so frustrated because I'm rarely able to find the right words to explain it. As someone who works with language and communication for a living, to not have the ability to describe something happening inside of me is maddening. But I’ve come to understand that this is what being emotionally detached feels like -- fluctuating between numbness and unperceived physical responses.

I really want to be able to feel things again. To allow myself to be vulnerable and connect with the people in my life who I love and care about. To feel joy and sadness alike. Music, poetry, and writing have always been my outlets to tap into those feelings, but I stopped immersing myself in all of them about 7 years ago when my emotional tap ran dry after losing my mom. It was the final blow to a long string of unprocessed traumas.

As part of my therapy I’ve been reimmersing myself in these activities, and they’re slowly helping me to process and connect with my emotions. Being able to write not just one, but two blog posts within a week of each other is a testament to that! The title of this post is even inspired from a W.H. Auden poem that really hit home for me on multiple levels this week.

I know poetry isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, just like when I look at abstract art and don’t understand it. So here’s a few good analyses that aren't overly academic or laden with twenty-dollar words. One covers the metaphors of the poem and another it's structure and intended pacing. And if you aren’t into literary analysis, here’s the poem as a song adapted and performed by Carla Bruni.

The reason this poem resonated with me in particular this week, other than it's a narrative of a woman rediscovering her true self, is that it brings me back to 9/11 and full circle through all the traumas that have led me to this emotionally detached place.

When I escaped lower Manhattan that morning and finally had made it back to my neighborhood on the opposite end of the city, the juxtaposition of the setting was a shock to my system. When I stepped off the bus a few blocks from my apartment, the sun was shining bright and birds were chirping. Yet just a few hours earlier I had escaped complete scenes of horror where my life was spared by sheer minutes. When I came to, I was standing in the middle of an intersection with no sense of where I was.

I’ve written different posts and even a poem about that day, so I won’t go into those details here. Instead, I’ll end this post with the W.H. Auden poem that inspired it (just in case the links above ever break, as the internet is wont to do).

Lady, weeping at the crossroads,
Would you meet your love
In the twilight with his greyhounds,
And the hawk on his glove?

Bribe the birds then on the branches,
Bribe them to be dumb,
Stare the hot sun out of heaven
That the night may come.

Starless are the nights of travel,
Bleak the winter wind;
Run with terror all before you
And regret behind.

Run until you hear the ocean's
Everlasting cry;
Deep though it may be and bitter
You must drink it dry,

Wear out patience in the lowest
Dungeons of the sea,
Searching through the stranded shipwrecks
For the golden key,

Push on to the world's end, pay the
Dread guard with a kiss,
Cross the rotten bridge that totters
Over the abyss.

There stands the deserted castle
Ready to explore;
Enter, climb the marble staircase,
Open the locked door.

Cross the silent ballroom,
Doubt and danger past;
Blow the cobwebs from the mirror
See yourself at last.

Put your hand behind the wainscot,
You have done your part;
Find the penknife there and plunge it
Into your false heart.

I’m back! In more ways than one . . .

First, if anyone is still out there checking this blog for updates, thank you.

Where I've been
The demands of a new job and elected duties with the 43rd District Democrats forced me to curb my extra-curricular writing for bit. I’m happy to report though I’ve started to find a little more work/life balance. Something I’ve always failed at doing, but have now committed myself to finding.

During this time away from blogging, I’ve reflected a lot on what I want out of life. There’s nothing like a triple whammy to get the mind thinking. Last spring I was faltering professionally with a seemingly inevitable layoff, and personally in dealing my mother’s ailing health and the unexpected loss of my grandfather.

I pride myself on being a survivor with the ability to rise above when my world starts crumbling. This time things were different. The crumbling never gave way, and soon I found the fight within me being beaten to nothing more than a withering pulp on life support.

I had so much of my self-worth and identity tied to my job that the prospect of losing it made me feel like a complete failure. Combining that with the loss of one of my greatest beacons of support, my grandfather, and preparing myself for the possible loss of another with my mother, heartbreak had been redefined.

In the months leading up to my 30th birthday, I had settled into a pretty deep depression accompanied by a series of mini panic attacks. I was finding it harder and harder to get out of bed, much less out of my funk.

The only other time my emotional perseverance had been tested to this extreme was in the aftermath of 9/11. During a truth-telling reflection over beers with my best friend in Seattle, I examined this period of my life. I discovered there was one solid difference between then and now. I had running as a coping mechanism.

At the time of the attacks on the World Trade Center, I was well on my way toward accomplishing a lifelong dream of running in a marathon. Despite putting my marathon dreams on hold so I could focus on healing, I kept running. I pounded the pavement harder than ever, escaping all my anxiety and depression through a constant rush of natural endorphins.

My pace and endurance eventually started diminishing until I got to the point where I couldn’t even run a mile without becoming completely winded. Severe asthma had set in from breathing six to eight miles a day worth of horrid air at Ground Zero.

Protecting myself from the fierce blow, I shrugged off the loss of not being able to run by telling myself I was luckier than the thousands of others who didn't survive the attacks. I refocused my life and started putting all of my energy into my career. I thought it was a healthy obsession at the time, convincing myself that as long as I was on a path toward a great career nothing else mattered. I could fail at everything else, be it personal relationships or running, and I would still be a success.

When I found myself on the verge of being without a career, reality hit like a crushing wave stinging every inch within me. I had sacrificed time with my family and given up all my personal dreams for nothing.

That’s when my friend, who helped me make this discovery, reached out and gave me a gift that would change everything. She signed me up for a class with Beth Baker of Running Evolution. It was a smart and sneaky move. I couldn’t very well return the gift, and it forced me to not give up on myself at a time when I wanted to the most.

Where I'm going
My first time back on the pavement in almost eight years was terrifying. I felt overwhelmed by how much of myself I had let go, both emotionally and physically, when I was diagnosed with asthma. In facing that fear by putting my running shoes back on, I was able to start rebuilding the fight within me.

My confidence started combing back, and so did my energy for life. Before I knew it, I was filling out job applications like crazy and recommitting myself to making family and personal time a priority.

On the day of my 30th birthday, I started the new decade of my life on a high note, quite literally. I was on a plane flying to a work conference in Washington, D.C., for a dream job as a content strategist with a federal project. More importantly, I was basking in the glow of knowing this job was just the icing on the cake for rediscovering myself, my relationship with my family, and what I wanted out of life.

Jobs will come and go, but how I live this life is what will define me.  I can only hope that by the time I am reunited with my grandfather, my gravestone will read: dedicated public servant; loving wife, mother, and grandmother; accomplished marathoner and writer.

Miles ran: 1.5
Time: 19.5 minutes

(As a side note, I’m going to end every blog post with my miles ran and time for that day to keep myself committed to my goal of running in a marathon. I’ve shaved two minutes off my MPH average since starting to run again, but I still have a lot of work to do in building my lung capacity and endurance.)

one from thousands

eight forty-five am
the morning my life began i stepped outside the gym

BOOM!

papers falling high and trickling in the sky
a parade today we'll see?

no. No. NO!

specs of metal glittering in the sun
i should run, i need to run--are all those people gone?

A bomb? A bomb?!

showers of ash upon my head sped with confusion and fear
my office, to my office, they'll know there

It stings to see. It stings to breathe.

she asks, are you okay
what happened?
a plane, it was a plane
you mean a bomb

BOOM!

my building rumbles and through the windows it's the second tower

a woman screams and a the man on the radio says it's another plane
i gasp, i tremble--are we next?

they gather us to the center of the room and our safety is assured

five minutes later--"An upgrade in your safety has been issued. Please evacuate immediately."

Fourteen flights of stairs
round and down we go--goodbyes and laters as we flee

I'm okay. I'm okay.

but at the bottom there's flying debris
and as i squint to see my breaths become shorter, my panic longer

then a hand, placed in mine

our bodies numb, we run

---

I wrote this poem about month after surviving the September 11, 2001, attacks on the World Trade Center. My mind had been running at a fervent pace trying to put all the pieces together. This was my attempt to gather them in one place.

I meant for the piece to continue as I worked through all the emotions of post-traumatic stress, but until today I hadn't been able to revisit this piece since I wrote it. It's been seven years, and I'm finally finding it easier to process the events of that day. I've written a full article about those thoughts and where our country has come since then.

My alive day - Sept. 11, 2001

I am six years alive today, and there is much to celebrate.

Personally

1. Two of my best friends are celebrating their first full day at home with their new baby boy who was born on Labor Day (funny enough.) They survived a very difficult delivery that came very close to taking the life of the mother this weekend.
   
   
2. My mom is cancer-free and recuperating at home from a painful but successful surgery yesterday - and hopefully her surgery tomorrow will be equally as successful.
   
   
3. I have established a great group of friends and a very active social life in a city I adore (although my heart will always be with New York.)
   

Professionally

1. I have a job that I love for the first time in my life, which is opening many doors for me to continue moving forward.
   
   
2. I am making enough money to not only exist, but also to live.
   
   
3. I still get to wear blue jeans at work every now and then.
   

Politically

1. The Bush Administration is floundering like it should have years ago.
   
   
2. It seems that for the first time in my life I will be able to vote FOR a presidential candidate rather than AGAINST one.
   
   
3. The truth behind invading Iraq and all the Wag-The-Dog trickery the Bush Administration has pulled is finally being scrutinized - forcing all his cronies to resign.
   

"When there is nothing left to burn . . ."

I've been meaning to sit down and write about an insightful conversation I recently had on life and relationships among my generation - but wouldn't you know it - life keeps getting in the way.

So, until I have more time to sit down and write about that conversation in a way that will do it justice, I want to talk a little bit about music.

I've always been a connoisseur of music, which my insane CD collection can attest to. And for some reason lately, music has had an even larger presence in my life, something that is definitely most welcomed and a major reason I wanted to move back to Seattle. (After living in New York for seven years, I can definitely say that Seattle has a FAR better music scene.)

While some people find inspiration in nature, some in faith or religion, and others on the pages of books, I happen to find most of mine in music and lyrics.

I always used to think I was less intelligent and academic than a lot of my friends because of this. That was until I had an editor, who I greatly respected, once ask me if I was a book person or a music person. The answer rolled off my tongue without a bit of hesitation, and a bright light flicked on inside of my head.

While I consider the books I have read to be my friends who I like to keep around, I consider my music collection to be an assortment of spiritual advisers, philosophers, and comedians who keep me thinking, laughing, and dancing.

The reason I chose to write about this topic tonight is that on the way home from work I was struck by the lyrics and rhythm of a song by the band Stars. I discovered this band a few years ago, and they have a sound that would best be described as a lovechild between Death Cab for Cutie and Frente!. (If you don't know any of these bands, I am sorry for you and hope that you can discover their music in this vast universe we call Cyberspace.)

The title of the aforementioned song is "Your Ex-Lover is Dead." Now, despite what your knee-jerk reaction to that title might be, my reason for finding inspiration in it had less to do with my recent heartbreak and more to do with personal survival.

One week from yesterday will mark the six-year anniversary of the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon. I have yet to be able to write about my reflections of that day.

My mind is still processing why it is that a co-worker found me and helped me escape death by mere minutes. Why my life out of thousands of others was spared. Why our country's retaliation has become the forgotten war in Afghanistan. Why hundreds of thousands more have died unjustly in the name of "freedom" in Iraq. Why the American public has forgotten that Bush and Congress work for us, and that we have the right to fire dishonest employees. And why, despite all of this, our lives seem virtually unaffected on a daily basis.

So, perhaps "when there is nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire," to quote the scary old-man voice at the beginning of "Your Ex-Lover is Dead."

(For curious minds, there is a video available of the song on the Stars website.)