Hello My Dear One,
It was a hell of a Holy Week this year. I found myself pulled as usual in multiple directions, Passover, Easter, the Bipolar I nightmare that is the month of April, excessively high blood glucose levels, and dealing with a school vacation that robs me of my routine as well as a week's worth of pay. Spring has never done much for me, I love summer, but that's another story.
Anyway, as far as the Holy Week issues, I could have defaulted to my old standbys of religious discord as the basis for my current distress, however that would have been a lie. This year I have been more at peace with who and where I am on my spiritual journey than I can ever remember. I watched and listened as the Jewish and Christian holidays and traditions danced, dovetailed, and diverged as they always do. I marveled at their relationship and my relationships with each of them. In reality my problems with Holy Week have far more childish roots, or at least, reasons that are rooted in my childhood.
The angst I experience each year stems from what I didn't get to do as a child, what was not done for me, and how I leap down the rabbit holes of distortion over and over again. Every year I perseverate on the missing elements of the holidays and the ones that I as an adult am now responsible for. There is a deeply wounded place within myself that recoils at the jobs that are now mine. And there is but one reason that underlies my petty unwillingness to participate in a manner befitting an almost 40 year old.
My parents never hid easter eggs for me.
It appears trivial in a way, never having been gifted with the opportunity to seek out plastic eggs filled with jellybeans, candy, or coins. It seems silly, to be sad over children's holiday games that ultimately do not enhance the spiritual meaning of the religious tradition. And it even seems a little pathetic that I, a trained theologian, become morose at the thought of Easter morning because there will be no hidden eggs, no basket, no store bought candy waiting for me when I awake. My desire for religious growth is buried under a heaping mound of missing chocolate bunnies, stringy vinyl easter grass, and those damned plastic eggs.
Now, for sake of transparency, I will admit that I did receive easter baskets in my youth, they did have candy in them, albeit from the fancy candy store from our beachside town, and that there were indeed plastic eggs with goodies in them in the basket itself. Mind you, the coins within the eggs suffered from a dirty, sticky, cough drop infused coating that made the money seem more like a scrounge through the bottom of my mother''s purse than a special treat. The amounts weren't even clever, just assorted clumps of change that my mother had in fact fished out of her purse that afternoon. Oh, and the dreaded black jellybeans were in other eggs.
But these childhood slights are not about the traditions themselves, not the actual hunting for eggs, or shrink wrapped, toy filled, plastic baskets from the local department store, but rather what they represent. They represent the normal that I longed for that was never achievable in my nuclear family. I wanted adults to be adults and hide the Easter eggs for me to find, just like my neighbors' families did. I wanted to believe in the Easter Bunny, but just like Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and every other childhood fantasy staple, that desire was crushed on a yearly basis. My parents were people unwilling or unable to play the magical roles that create a foundation for playful innocence and joy in a child. Instead, they chose to explain how the magic tricks were done, leaving behind no mystery for me to be amazed by.
So, I hid the easter eggs for them. I was the Easter Bunny. I was the magician performing for my parents. At the tender age of 9, I secretly hid the eggs and ensured that each one was found. I hid those stupid plastic eggs for people who should have been hiding them for me.
So, like most years, Easter morning arrived this year and once again there were no eggs to be found. In fact, because there is often a hectic rush to church on Easter morning, the Easter Bunny visits our house while we are at church. Translate this statement to mean that when the church service ends, one parent must rush home, hide the eggs all over the lawn, make sure the baskets are ready, and display the handwritten note from the Easter Bunny himself stating how many eggs he has left for the boys to find. This final touch ensures that each child will have an equal number of eggs at the end of the affair.
It was my parental turn this year, so I came flying home to be the Easter Bunny again, 30 years later, this time as a father attempting to perform the magic for his children. And as my stomach turned, I hid the plastic eggs, and did my best not to fall into the rabbit holes of my mind, where the sadness, unworthiness, and fear reside. I tried to hide the eggs skillfully and with joy, but most of them just ended up barely hidden in obvious places. And in retrospect this lax effort was not a mere fall into the rabbit holes, it was a knowing leap.
As I squeezed into the darkened tunnels that twist and turn, creating a never ending maze of fear and disappointment, I willingly stayed in the confinement of distorted thinking and behaviors. It is not a truth I want to disclose, but I wasn't the parent I wished that mine had been. I didn't bring my best that day, and I didn't miraculously evolve into a better, richer, more fully actualized version of myself. No, I limped along, tried to make the best of it, and still managed to be an unpleasant fool to be around for the rest of the day.
At the end of the day I had still done more than my folks ever did, and I knew that my boys were happy with whatever magic I had managed to create. And in the days since then, I have realized more and more that I can see the rabbit holes before I fall flailing into them. It doesn't mean that I won't fall or leap into one, but it does mean that I don't have to, and that I can climb out before I get sucked down further. Just like the disappointing plastic eggs of youth, those rabbit holes are not filled with what I need, want, or even desire anymore.
What I need, want, and desire is to be a man of integrity, dignity, and inherent value, and I want that for my sons as well. I want them to know that they are loved. And maybe, if I can watch where I'm going, I can lead them away from the rabbit holes that I've fallen into too many times. Maybe, I can lead them to the hidden eggs where the treasure is in the finding, and not what is inside.
Thanks for joining me along this crazy bunny trail of a journey.
Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.
- Ari
Hello My Dear One,
Happy New Year. Happy New Beginning. Happy January. Welcome 2014, welcome to the hope that comes with the replacement of the old calendar covered with marks, tears, and dirt, with an unblemished shiny twelve new months. Say adieu to the old year and bonjour to the new one. But let's make sure that we don't lose the lessons learned from the last year. Let's remember what was, and envision what might be, but let's keep an eye on the short term before and after now, thinking of what has just been and what might come.
Ok, so I'm not really that optimistic and flowery, not to mention I celebrate Rosh Hashanah as a more accurate New Year for myself. But still, I look forward to the upcoming months and the inherent belief in the possibilities for change, renewal, and rebirth. It is Winter, and therefore, we must suffer the dark and the cold with the hope that Spring will eventually come. But before those first tiny buds of growth appear we must suffer the holidays of December, the potholes, and the problems that come with Winter.
Last month, much as it is every year for me, was a doozy. It was once again the "Holiday Season," the time of year when a merchandising and marketing blitzkrieg of overpriced, unwanted, and unfairly produced stuff occurs, a bombardment of things that could have defeated the Third Reich itself. It was a commercial assault that aimed to blanket us with the insidious belief that "wants" are really "needs," and that you may not survive if you don't get what you "need." Yes, it was December in the United States of America, a month devoted to obsessively and compulsively shopping at all hours of the day and night, both prior to Christmas, and afterward for the big sales that follow. It was the time of year that can bring out the best and the worst in people, as the act of giving becomes a battle to profess one's love through the quantity of gifts that can be bestowed. Often, it is a losing battle for both the givers and the receivers, as added debts of money and guilt are placed upon each person, like necklaces made of millstones rather than pearls.
It was near. The neon lights within the darkness. The hope that the ice would eventually melt. The candles that are the prayers for renewal were about to burn. The time was very near.
Yes, even within the monetary battle for supremacy there is still a glimmer of the root truths of the winter holidays. For all the glittery trinkets that surround us, there is a need for marking the darkest day of the year and the light that will follow. Chanukkah, Christmas, Solstice, Kwanzaa, New Year's Eve are all celebrations that incorporate light into the darkness, both literally and figuratively.
But what if one is overstimulated by too much light? What if the promises of hope are greater than the possible realities? What if the darkness can blot out the light?
Unfortunately for me, and for my family, the beast of my mental illness has a particular nearness and problem with the issues of light in the darkness. The beast becomes so engrossed in the mania of the holiday season itself, that the complimentary anxiety, depression, stress, anger, and overall dis-regulation strengthen into an all encompassing break with reality. That horrifying moment of collapse and meltdown comes pouring out of him, out of me, creating pools of dark, gooey, urine soaked, and blood filled nightmares across the wooden floors of the world around me. The pools ooze out further, seeping into the cracks between the boards, and contaminating every surface they touch. It is like watching my own soul bleed out, and lying helpless as it happens. And as the pools continue to spread, my loved ones cannot help but be touched by the mess I am creating as it rushes around their feet, their ankles, and their own souls.
This is what the Holiday season has so often been for me.
And over the years I have lived in the shame of my beast's behaviors. I have lived in the shame of feeling out of control, unable to contain the madness as I damage the life around me. I have lived in the shame of feeling as though beyond the obvious mental illness that is wrong with me, that I am a cultural failure as well, hating Christmas, not out of my faiths but out of some deeper darkness.
So, I decided to do two things about it. First, I decided to get the professional psychological and medical attention that I needed to rebalance the neurochemical disaster in my brain. Luckily, or perhaps divinely, I was able to schedule an appointment that happened within 24 hours with my trusted provider. This gave me an almost immediate respite from the chaos that had been encircling my day to day life. It also gave me the opportunity to explore some of my Christmas angst in a safe and supportive space. I was able to gain new insights, and some of that led to a direct change in how I approached Christmas this year.
Secondly, I have decided to share a piece of myself that I have until now kept hidden within its own tomb of deconstruction. For the first time, I am willing to share two of the names of my Beast. I say two of the names, because there are other names I cannot speak, that cannot be spoken, that even I haven't discovered or yet myself named. But as J.K. Rowling, through the character of Albus Dumbledore said, "Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself."* And so, I must name the thing that has caused some of the greatest fear in my life.
Let me tell you about Dave and Steve.
One of the parts of my Beast is a mellow dude who brings the party with him wherever he goes. He is a fun, relaxed, easygoing person who enjoys the unexpected happy moments of life. He appreciates adventures, challenges, and travel. This is the guy you want to go to the beach with, go out to eat with, watch a game with, frankly, do anything with that would be a stress free and delightful experience. I like him. Heck, everybody likes him. He's a great guy.
This is Dave. Yep, Dave will attend events that I myself would rather spend hiding under a heavy rock than actually going to, graciously accepting invitations to things that I run screaming from. Dave doesn't ramble about the elegance of ancient Hebrew scripture and how to parse each word apart to ascertain truer meaning of texts. He can simply shoot the breeze, talk about cars, sports, and even "guy stuff." Like I said, Dave is a great guy.
But for all the fun of Dave, there is another part of my Beast, and his name is Steve. He is another of the anthropomorphic understandings that is my experience with Bipolar Disorder 1. Steve is the screaming maniac who has the ability to traumatize, batter, break, destroy, and horrify anyone and anything in his rage driven path. Steve has a darkness to him that can blanket out each candle of hope, each star shining down, each lamp along the way, and the sun itself shining its brightest on this floating sphere we call home. Like Bipolar Disorder itself, the burning self-exaltation and the inkiest darkening of the world at large, these two identities of Dave, and Steve coexist in a state of constant competition for attention. They battle a never ending game of Tug-O-War, where the losing side is always me, or the people around me.
And Steve has left a lasting mark on everyone in my family, my wife, my in-laws, and in particular on my sons. Christmas this year brought out the worst of Steve, with a gory meltdown a few days before the 25th, filled with angst and angry words. It was traumatizing for all of us and I myself was horrified by the magnitude of the psychological earthquake that rocked our home in a way that will need repairs both physical and emotional. All I can say is that I am sorry for this and that I have been dealing with the fallout as best I can, combined with new medication and therapeutic sessions.
Dave and Steve originated over 35 years ago, and I suspect they were actually varying male identities of myself that I could name when I was a very young child. And I could this while still being told how to act like a girl. I needed to keep my split sense of self together by having inner male counterparts to exist even when the world around me attempted to make me conform to the body on the outside.
But the truth of the matter is, Steve is and was sexually open, fearless in conduct and behavior, and an alcoholic. That guy is really an immature pit of illness made manifest as an excuse to relinquish personal accountability, and I regret most of my actions and behaviors while under the unmedicated influence of him. And I'd like to atone and make right all that which I can.
So, in this is the time of year, when we make resolutions, often to lose weight, exercise, quit smoking or drinking, have more money, or somehow be a "better" form of ourselves than we were last year, I am resolving to be less intimidated by Dave and Steve. I have decided that in this new Western calendar year to stop and listen when I hear the low growls of Steve, or the all too exuberant musings of Dave. I have decided this year to be a "better" version, not of Steve or Dave, but of myself. I have come to learn that for all their chatter, I am a completely valuable and worthy human being. Regardless of my past actions, and the sins - the separations from G-d and my fellow humans - that I have committed, I am a man of integrity, dignity, and honesty. I cannot be anyone but myself, even when my Beast tries to tell me otherwise.
As I reflect over what I have experienced these past few years, I find myself in a new and different place. The Beast that I was unable to acknowledge, has become the Beast that I can name. An with his names comes my own ability to call him out directly, to say, "Dave, I'm good enough," or "Hey Steve, SHUT UP ALREADY!" And I will be able to say to them both that I am the one who runs the show, and when they try to, I will be ready for them.
And this time, this time, I was more ready for them. I was able to call them out for what they were, what they were trying to do, and even why they were trying to do it. And instead of letting their madness overtake me, I ran to the professional help I needed, rather than running away and attempting something hurtful to those I love.
I know that I will always have to battle them. I know that my Beast is a lifelong war that will never truly end. I know there will be pain, suffering, and harm in all forms throughout the coming years. And I know that as long as I have faith in G-d, faith in myself, and faith in the support that I receive, I will lessen the blows from my Beast.
Thank you for being there with me as I do battle.
Be well. Love your neighbor as you love yourself. And remember to actually to love yourself.
-Ari
*Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
