The Last Six Months. . .

. . .have been humbling and wonderful and painful and full and empty and. . .and. . .and

Forced to take a medical leave of absence from work, I’ve been working on myself and my relationships. And as I look back over the past few months, as much as anything, it seems that I’ve experienced loss. Relationships that I believed to be important have somehow fallen away, mostly not because I sought that. Facing the loss of relationships we hold dear, particularly those we think we can count on, is a peculiar, particular kind of loss, one that cuts to the bone. It feels like a kind of betrayal. I am shocked an appalled anew, almost weekly, at the ways in which we can so easily betray and walk away from people we thought were so important to us. The friends we thought we could count on just aren’t there any more. It’s just as painful, maybe more so, that a breakup with a lover. But we pick up the pieces and go on.

It seems to me that many people simply do not have the capacity to compassionately witness and be present through the pain of another, even when they do genuinely care about the other person. Maybe it’s that being present during another’s suffering means facing suffering of our own. I’m not sure. But I feel pressure to somehow be “ok” very quickly or at least pretend like I’m ok, because if I’m not ok, that’s not fun for everyone else. People seem to so easily offer platitudes and band-aid, quickfixes because acknowledging the suffering of another human is more than most of us can bear. I’m not any less guilty of this than anyone else.

And to be honest, I’m tired of it all. I’m tired of the sorta-well-meaning but ultimately selfish platitudes. I’m tired of the unsolicited advice. Some days are great. But some days I just feel bad, both physically and emotionally. And I want the people I care about to be present and understanding and supportive, not to offer unwarranted advice simply because it would be easier and more convenient for them if I weren’t feeling so bad. But the fact is, I feel bad sometimes. We all do. Maybe it happens for me more often than most–I’m not sure. But being told some equivalent of, “Oh, buck up!” isn’t helpful.

I am left with the feeling that people I care about, people I trusted, people I thought cared about me, they like me when I’m fun. But when I’m not, they are impatient, have not use for me. Several months ago, I had my feelings hurt when I was sick and a friend didn’t check up on me. Her response was, “Well, just because you’re having a bad day doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t have fun.” And she right. I don’t expect others not to have “fun” just because I’m going through a hard time. However, I do think the right thing, the compassionate thing to do when you care about someone is to simply be quietly supportive and present to whatever degree your loved one will allow. When I am at my most desperate, feeling the most lost, it’s exacerbated by the sense that no one is present for me, not in that way.

I’m very much working through all this, as I try to reconcile my own wants with what I truly need and what I believe to be the right, kind, thoughtful, compassionate thing to do. And yet, what I believe with all my heart is that compassion–thoughtfulness, understanding, empathy–this is absolutely the best thing any of us can do in this world. And the world would be a better place if only each of us practiced this a little more in our day to day lives.

It feels like no one is listening. . .

Lately, things are not going particularly well in my life.  When this happens, I find it painfully difficult to reach out to people, even those whom I believe to truly care about me.  And I think it’s because I so often feel like no one is listening.  I feel like I make myself vulnerable by admitting that things really suck lately, and what I get is a trite response, like, “Everyone feels bad sometimes.  You’re just having a bad day.  You’re great.  It’ll get better.”  And I feel like no one is getting it.  Is it because no one cares?  Because everyone else, even those who really care about me, are just too busy with their own problems to be burdened, even for 20 minutes, with mine?  Because I speak in a low voice, rather than screaming and crying in hurt and frustration, which is really what I’m doing on the inside?

I feel bad lately, both physically and emotionally.  And to be honest, the emotional stuff is not at all overreaction or melodrama on my end–it’s simply an honest, understandable response to the external stuff that’s going on.

What I want is empathy, to just feel like someone is really listening and cares.  What I feel like I get is, “Hang in there” and “You’ll be fine.”  I can only assume it’s well intentioned.  But I want to stomp my foot and say, “No, you aren’t understanding.  I feel like my life is falling apart around me.  Do you know how difficult this is?”

I’m the first to admit that I have a really hard time reaching out to others and asking for help or for support or even for a little attention.  I think it’s because I’m afraid that others won’t have time for me or will simply be dismissive of whatever it is that I’m going through.  And let’s be honest, this has in fact been my experience–that people are unwilling to make time, are dismissive–and it feels like rejection.  I can’t think of anything that feels worse than rejection.  So I tend to keep it to myself.

What I want is to feel like someone I care about has the time to sit down, hold my hand, and listen with compassion.  I almost never get that.

I feel like no one is listening.  And if I feel this way, why would I bother to reach out?

Headaches, Again

I’ve written this before.  It’s the same ol’ song.  Second verse, same as the first.  Only maybe this time, it’ll be different.  Maybe further reflection will bring something new.  Because I believe that the things that happen to us, happen for a reason, that the suffering that comes to us, even if it’s minor as a headache, is there as a teacher.  And so, it’s worth reflecting on.

I suffer from recurring headaches: migraines, tension headaches, none of them is fun.  They happen less frequently than they used to but still more often than I’d like.  I do all the things I know to do to try to combat these headaches or head them off at the pass or to simply be with the dis-ease as gracefully as possible.  Some days, I perform this better than others.  Earlier this week, I woke several mornings with tension headaches bad enough to be debilitating.  I am someone who is particularly prone to nausea, it seems, and the pain in the back of my head combined with the tension in my neck and shoulders upon waking made me both slightly dizzy and nauseated.  Is this a migraine or merely a tension headache?  I don’t know, except to say that it’s debilitating.  My migraine meds help, so my medical doctor says that makes it a migraine.  But my migraine meds put me to sleep; my medical doctor says this isn’t supposed to happen.  Either way, it feels like my day is shot when I wake with this kind of headache.

My head hurts; my neck and shoulders hurt; I feel dizzy and vaguely nauseated; any sensory stimuli feels like too much.  I find myself being aware that it’s a beautiful, sunny day out, but I cannot bear it.  The surface of my skin is overly sensitive, and I am certain that there is no way I can stand to be touched.  Everything is too loud, too bright, too much.  Smells, tastes, all of it is more than I can stand.  So I close the blinds, close my eyes, manage the best that I can while seeking rest and respite.  I am certain that someone who has never endured this particular kind of headache, this unique dis-ease must not understand this feeling that it’s all unbearably too much and must be shut out.  Even in sleep I’m aware of the discomfort and the inability to flee from the over-stimulation that I perceive around me.

And somewhere along the way, I lose perspective.  I cannot think clearly about my life and my place in it.  I become almost inconsolably discouraged, and I know the discouragement will only pass when the headache does.  Of course, these feelings of discouragement are not exactly conducive to ridding one’s self of headaches.  I become certain that everything in my life and more importantly everything about myself is not quite right.  It’s as if the walls and floors are no longer at right angles.  Maybe I’m starting to see the woman trapped behind the yellow wallpaper in Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s story.  Part of me becomes sure that I’m somehow channeling Virginia Woolf and that the birds will soon be singing in Greek and that I will somehow understand their song, and then my sanity will surely be lost.  It is at this point that I’m tempted to pick up Woolf and attempt to read, although my brain cannot quite process anything more than the very lightest reading, if even that.  All I want is to sleep, and yet sleep is fitful, not restful.  And I worry that sleeping during the day will mean I won’t sleep at night, further perpetuating the headache cycle.

And then, suddenly as it came on, the headache is gone.  I may be left quite tired by the experience, but I’m fine.  My head no longer hurts.  Sensory stimuli feels acceptable, even desirable.  And I can see the world and my place in it clearly.  All is well.

And so the question becomes, what am I to learn from this?  Right now, I don’t know, beyond the trite but still true, “This too shall pass.”  It seems like there should be something more.  And as long as the headaches keep recurring, I will keep asking the question.

Crazy Aunt [Insert Name Here]

Crazy Aunt [Insert Name Here].

Sunday Morning Coming Down. . .

Johnny Cash: Sunday Morning Coming Down

One of my all-time favorite recordings is Johnny Cash singing Kris Kristofferson’s “Sunday Morning Coming Down.”  If April is the cruelest month, then Sunday is the loneliest day.  And while all the specifics of Kristofferson’s lyrics don’t necessarily fit with my own experience of Sunday morning–beer for breakfast, wishing I was stoned, “pickin’” songs the night before–there’s something about the tone of the song that so perfectly sums up the sense of knowing that you should be a part of something on a Sunday morning but that you just aren’t and maybe that you just can’t be.

There are the images of the father pushing the daughter on the swing, the songs drifting out from the church, the smells of someone’s Sunday dinner, all images of community and togetherness that the speaker cannot be a part of, reminding him of the “disappearing dreams of yesterday.”  And this is exactly how I often feel on Sundays.  In my heart, it seems like Sundays, Sunday mornings especially, should be times for community, for going to church and family dinners afterwards.  And at least at this point in my life, that’s just not where I am with things, even though I want to be.  And so I have the sense of always being an outsider looking in, like the speaker / singer walking those “Sunday morning sidewalks.”

And I’ve had many a Sunday like this one, getting up, preparing to face the day, walking the sidewalks, either literally or symbolically, only to return home feeling more lonely than when I left.  The speaker / singer here is a viewer, possibly a voyeur, but never a participant, always reminded of “something [he] lost somehow, somewhere along the way.”  And maybe that’s the thing that really gets to me:  the sense of having lost the ability to be a part of whatever it is that Sunday morning is about for everyone else.  It’s that sense of loss that makes the song so exquisitely beautiful and painful all at the same time.  And we are left with the sense that like the bell that “echos through the canyons” the thing he’s lost can never be regained.  The sense of melancholy that pervades the song is really what makes it meaningful, not fighting the hangover from the night before.

And so I write this post today, on a Sunday, dealing with my own Sunday sadness, not exactly the same as what Cash sings about but not entirely different either.  I write partly in an effort to break through or at least own up to the sense of isolation and the sense of having lost that other younger self, the one that did go to church and then family dinners of fried chicken.  I’m acknowledging the “Sunday Morning Coming Down” pain.  But I am also hopeful.  Hopeful that I’ll make my way back, if not to family dinners, at least to church and a meaningful community.  Hopeful because I know that I’ll be seeing much-loved friends for a casual supper this evening.  It’s not the same as family dinner, but it’s a happy substitute.  Hopeful because even though it’s painful to have lost the “dreams of yesterday,” I believe I’m a better person now than I was then.

Changes Are Afoot!

Dear Readers,

I am happy (and a tiny bit frightened) to announce that some changes are on the way for SpitzSpeak.  These changes reflect a kind of change of focus in my work.  While everything is still very much in transition, I want to share what’s going on with all of you.

First, you should know that this blog, SpitzSpeak will continue.  This will remain a space for me to blog about what’s on my mind, what’s going on in my life, an to simply play with various modes of writing.  While you’re at it, check out my other online project, Ladies who Proust.

Second, the really exciting change is this:  I’m introducing a new blog, Speaking of Books.  I envision this as a space for work that is slightly more professional:  book reviews, essays on reading and writing, discussions of what I’ve been reading.  As much as anything, I am trying to build an online portfolio of some of my nonfiction, partly as a way to market myself as a writer.  I do admit that there’s something self serving in this.  But I also want a space dedicated to reflecting on books, one of the abiding loves in my life.  While this site is still very much under construction, I would love for you to visit it.

Now, you, dear reader, are reading this post because you are a valuable part of my life, and I’m going to ask you a favor, ask for your help, as I’m attempting to build my readership.  Please take the time to visit Speaking of Books.  Even better, please consider “following” my new blog; you may do so by clicking the “follow” button at the top of the right column.  It’s easy to do and would mean a lot to me, as someone that (I hope) you care about!  Email links to your friends, if you think they would find any value in it at all.  I really want to build an audience.  I know that many of you love books the way I do, and I’m asking for your assistance as I seek to make my new blog a success.  And even if you don’t love books, please consider reading and subscribing out of affection for me.

Thank you so much!  Love you to you all!

XOXO!

Summer Reading

I’ve been thinking lately about “summer reading” as a concept.  I’m aware that a lot of people tend to maybe read more light kinds of materials over the summer.  We have the image of the woman sitting on her beach blanket breezing through a trashy romance novel (maybe this summer, Fifty Shades of Grey would be the choice, a choice that I’m intentionally avoiding).  But the impression I get, and maybe I’m wrong, is that in the summer people want to read something airy.  Maybe it’s the reading equivalent of eating watermelon, as opposed to the homemade mac-n-cheese and other comfort foods  we crave in the late fall.

I, however, don’t do this sort of summer reading.  Rather, in the summer, I find I’m drawn to longer works, works that require a level of commitment that I can’t seem to find during the school year.  I freely admit that this may simply be a result of my being the English professor who, during the school year, spends her waking hours reading literature and not just reading it but reading and thinking and analyzing in such a way that it can be taught.  Another significant portion of my professional life is spent reading student writing, and those of you who teach understand that this kind of reading presents its own challenges.  The result of it all is that during my down time, I don’t want to read anything too taxing during the school year.  On long winter evenings (and believe me, they get to be very long in Vermont!) I want to read for a break from the kind of reading that my professional life requires.  And it’s not that I don’t enjoy the sort of deep, thoughtful, analytical reading that my position necessitates.  On the contrary!  I actually quite like it and think that my brain is naturally given to doing this kind of reading.  But it’s not what I want for all the time either.

When I get to the summer, however, I find that I’m ready to read something that might be slightly different in terms of genre or time period from what my professional life requires but that requires a commitment in terms of time and mental energy.  I think that what I’m trying to say is that as a reader, I actually have come to appreciate and enjoy works that require a significant commitment of time and energy and imagination.  Don’t misunderstand:  I can certainly enjoy something that can be breezed through quickly.  But there’s something that I find particularly satisfying about making a sustained effort. And for me, summer is the time to do so.

For example, several years ago, I decided I was going to bite the proverbial bullet and make myself read Dickens’s Bleak House one summer.  I went into it convinced A-of-all) that I didn’t particularly care for Dickens and B-of-all) it was somehow important that I become more familiar with Dickens.  And so I did it.  Bit by bit, I plowed through the opening pages.  And as I gathered momentum, it didn’t feel like plowing anymore.  What I discovered to my surprise and delight was that I was actually enjoying the novel quite a lot!  And it was pretty exciting to learn that, in my mid-30s, something I always thought I didn’t like turned out to be something I enjoyed, an important lesson on its own.

But I was also reminded that there is something gratifying about the particular extended reading experience that comes from reading something long, over time.  It’s like the story, the characters, all of it, they work their way into you, as you carry them around with you, day by day, for weeks and even months.  Your conscious and, more importantly, your nonconscious mind work all these things over in a different kind of way, I think, when you are engaged in what I’ve come to think of as a committed reading experience.  It’s a kind of experience that, as a reader, I find particularly moving and valuable.

Now if I could just get started on Anna Karenina. . . 

10 Things I’ve Learned from The Beatles

The Beatles are my favourite favourite (note the British spelling).  They have been since I was about 10 years old, and I suspect they always will be.  I find myself singing their songs in my head and aloud, mostly to myself and the dogs, all the time.  If I had to pick a favourite Beatles song, I don’t know if I could pick just one, but “Let it Be” and “In My Life” would be right at the top of my list.

Before I begin today’s list, I want to give a shout out to Kyle B, because I feel like out of everyone I know, Kyle will understand why this list is important to me.

Here, then, are 10 things I’ve learned from The Beatles:

1.  It’s getting better all the time.

2.  I get by with a little help from my friends.

3.  I’d give you everything I got for a little peace of mind.

4.  When the broken-hearted people living in the world agree, there will be an answer.

5.  I should have known better.

6.  Anyway, you’ll never know the many ways I’ve tried.

7.  Life is very short and there’s no time for fussing and fighting, my friend.

8.  All you need is love.

9.  When the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me. . .I wake up to the sound of music.

10.  In the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.

10 Things. . .

. . .that I really, truly believe

1.  That the pen is, indeed, mightier than the sword.

2.  That maybe, just maybe, love really is all you need.

3.  That kindness and compassion go a long way in this world.

4.  That it’s OK to wear Hello Kitty tee shirts, even to work, if they make me happy.

5.  Talk less; listen more.

6.  Being really honest and open about our own struggles, although scary and even painful, is absolutely the best way to go.

7.  Wag more; bark less.

8.  It’s OK to let your dog sleep with you.  And if you lie down with dogs, you do not necessarily wake up with fleas.  Just sayin’.

9.  Sometimes going to the dive-y, neighborhood bar is more helpful than visiting your therapist.

10.  That a house is not a home unless there are stacks of books in just about every room.

AND BONUS  11. (because this is the really big one):  the right friends make everything, good and bad, better.

10 Things. . .

. . . that (I think) my bff does not [yet] know about me.  Now, I haven’t really planned this list at all.  And I tell Cara almost everything, so this may take some real digging.  In the 10+ years that I’ve known her, a lot has come out.  And I’m not really one to hold things back to begin with.  I am in contact with Cara just about every day, often multiple times a day, depending on what’s going on in our lives, and I don’t know how I’d make it through without her.  You can imagine, then, that it’s a real stretch to list off ten whole things (or at least ten I’m willing to cop to in public) that she doesn’t already know about me.

Cara, if you already know any of these, then I guess you get to call me out and I’ll have to offer up more.

1.  I absolutely HATE licorice.  Can’t stand it.  Naturally, anise biscotti is out.  I will, however, eat fennel.  I acknowledge that this doesn’t make much sense.

2.  I don’t do fried or poached eggs either.  Cara, you love a good poached egg.  I know this about you.

3.  Although I particularly like the color turquoise, it makes me nauseated when I have a migraine.

4.  Not once but twice, when I was in college, I had a roller ball pen that stopped working.  I sucked on the end to try to get the ink flowing again.  And boy did it flow.  Right into my mouth.  This story is significant because, apparently, I didn’t learn my lesson the first time.  Ink doesn’t taste very good.  I have a picture of my inky tongue somewhere.

5.  At least twice I’ve dropped my toothbrush in the toilet and used it anyway.  Ditto with a tube of lipstick.

6.  I once saw the Space Shuttle land at Edwards Air Force Base.

7.  I have a faint birthmark on my left shoulder.

8.  Led Zepplin freaks me out.  And although I kind like the Who’s music, the movie adaptation of Tommy weirds me out completely.

9.  Once in a while, I go through the McDonald’s drive through and get a cheese burger.  It’s kinda gross, really.  I’m not sure what motivates me to do this.

10.  I like those chocolate cordials with amaretto in the middle.