It is almost Shabbos and I am feeling anxious and disconnected.
I have finally identified the feeling I was trying so hard to name in my post, Seeking. I don't know if it has a name, but it has a description. It is the feeling of being completely, totally vulnerable and knowing, trusting without reservation, that you are loved. No dark secrets, no white lies, no closet skeletons.
It is a type of intimacy but having nothing to do with sex. It is someone seeing every part of me, every secret I want to keep hidden, every action of which I am ashamed, and that someone still loving me, valuing me, unconditionally.
Perhaps that is part of the very nature of our relationship with G-d.
Once I identified this, I had to call D, who thought that this also ought to be the essence of a parent-child relationship and a marriage, though too often it isn't.
I told D that sometimes I have these intense feelings like what I describe above and then there are other times that it is so very hard to feel connected. I said that it is sometimes like a smoldering--I can't bring myself to think that the light ever goes out--and sometimes like a bonfire. When the light is buried, how can I reignite it? And when it consumes me, how do I tame it?
D suggested I go light a fire and see for myself. A fire, I asked? A real fire? D laughed and said I was the one who started the fire analogy in the first place. So I did (outside) and then I called D back with the results.
Paper burns quickly but not for long. Cardboard takes longer to catch but burns longer and each of the layers pulls away from each other. Wood takes the longest to catch but burns the longest. A smoldering requires paper, not wood. A bonfire is tamed by spreading out the wood so it isn't so concentrated.
D said very nice, now finish the analogy. I said paper is only a single layer, cardboard is a few layers, and wood is many layers, very dense. When I'm feeling the smoldering and I want more ignition, I have to add to my life things with only one or a few layers. I can't expect to take on something very layered and dense and have it reignite that fire. And when I'm feeling overwhelmed, too much feeling, too much fire, I have to spread it out, do fewer things, take it slowly, allow more air (oxygen) to tame the burning.
D liked my answer and then asked, what is the paper in your life? What is the cardboard? What is the wood?
Fixing Shabbos dinner for family plus guests is wood, for me. Going to shul and hoping for intense is wood. But the little things, maybe they are paper. Taking a relaxing bath. Using some nice moisturizer on my hands. The little self-care things that are in my anti-anxiety kit. I'm not sure what else.
Cardboard might be listening to music that I can sing and dance along with. Going for a long walk. Getting together with a friend, or a small group of friends.
I will have to think about this more, identify the things that help me feel more connected and happier and less anxious, and figure out which ones are paper and cardboard and wood. Because if I am trying to restart a smoldering ember with a piece of wood, that would explain a lot. And if I am expecting paper to keep the fire going for days or weeks or months, that would explain a lot too.
And I cannot help but wonder if this is the right analogy after all, because if it is, what does it mean in real life, then, to get burned?
Showing posts with label Judaism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Judaism. Show all posts
Friday, February 1, 2008
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
One step forward but how many back?
I am not doing so well today.
I tried to stay with the feeling I wrote about on Monday but it was elusive and by night time I was simply too tired. Yesterday I woke feeling even more tired and by last night my anxiety was really high. I managed to stop pulling hair and got out the brush from my anti-anxiety kit and proceded to work on pulling bristle hairs out. I should add it is not as easy as it sounds.
Then I felt the old familiar icky feeling, criticizing me for pulling bristle hairs out, that I was destroying this perfectly usable brush, commiting myself to destructive actions, and wasting the money spent on this brush just to tear it apart. Hairs at least, the feeling said, would grow back and wouldn't cost me anything.
I tried the self-talk I've been working on in therapy against the feeling: everyone else would rather see me pull bristles out of a brush than pull my own hair out; this is what I bought the brush for; better I hurt the brush than hurt myself.
And the feeling returned with images of my torturing this poor brush when I was the one who deserved the pain.
I told my husband I wasn't doing so well, about my anxiety. He thought it was due to exhaustion and he had a point. I had slept maybe 12 hours in the past 4 days. So I took my Lunesta and went to bed and fell asleep quickly.
While sleeping, I dreamed. I dreamed that I had a conversation with one of the Rabbis quoted in the Talmud. He expressed great concern over my urge to hurt myself, even to harm a single hair.
And then somehow in the dream I knew that he was quoted in the Jerusalem Talmud but not much if at all in the Babylonian Talmud and how the BT is generally considered more complete and consequently more authoritative than the JT and I wondered in the dream what it meant that I was visited by someone less prominent and if that was a reflection on me. And before he left he said something about how this was concerning that even in my sleep I was looking for ways to put myself down.
I woke groggy and still very tired and with a tremendous headache that encompasses the entire left side of my head. It is hard to concentrate. I think I should not be driving. I fear I am wasting time by not accomplishing anything productive today.
I was certain I was doing better, improving. Using my brush instead of myself. And on Shabbos I used my plan again. I was feeling a bit fragile and rather than invite opportunities to feel marginalized, I went up to a woman I know well, who knows what's going on with me, and said, I'm feeling a little fragile right now; can I hang out with you for a little bit? She said of course and included me in her conversations with others and about 20 minutes later I felt much better and was able to stand on my own again.
If I am doing better, making better choices, managing better, then why do I feel this way? Why do I search for a negative in what would otherwise have been a very intriguing dream? Does this increase in anxiety have anything to do with the overwelming feeling I had Monday? Am I expecting too much too soon? Why am I still convinced I have wasted today because I didn't get anything "done"?
And why does the thought of tomorrow bring with it more fear than hope?
I tried to stay with the feeling I wrote about on Monday but it was elusive and by night time I was simply too tired. Yesterday I woke feeling even more tired and by last night my anxiety was really high. I managed to stop pulling hair and got out the brush from my anti-anxiety kit and proceded to work on pulling bristle hairs out. I should add it is not as easy as it sounds.
Then I felt the old familiar icky feeling, criticizing me for pulling bristle hairs out, that I was destroying this perfectly usable brush, commiting myself to destructive actions, and wasting the money spent on this brush just to tear it apart. Hairs at least, the feeling said, would grow back and wouldn't cost me anything.
I tried the self-talk I've been working on in therapy against the feeling: everyone else would rather see me pull bristles out of a brush than pull my own hair out; this is what I bought the brush for; better I hurt the brush than hurt myself.
And the feeling returned with images of my torturing this poor brush when I was the one who deserved the pain.
I told my husband I wasn't doing so well, about my anxiety. He thought it was due to exhaustion and he had a point. I had slept maybe 12 hours in the past 4 days. So I took my Lunesta and went to bed and fell asleep quickly.
While sleeping, I dreamed. I dreamed that I had a conversation with one of the Rabbis quoted in the Talmud. He expressed great concern over my urge to hurt myself, even to harm a single hair.
And then somehow in the dream I knew that he was quoted in the Jerusalem Talmud but not much if at all in the Babylonian Talmud and how the BT is generally considered more complete and consequently more authoritative than the JT and I wondered in the dream what it meant that I was visited by someone less prominent and if that was a reflection on me. And before he left he said something about how this was concerning that even in my sleep I was looking for ways to put myself down.
I woke groggy and still very tired and with a tremendous headache that encompasses the entire left side of my head. It is hard to concentrate. I think I should not be driving. I fear I am wasting time by not accomplishing anything productive today.
I was certain I was doing better, improving. Using my brush instead of myself. And on Shabbos I used my plan again. I was feeling a bit fragile and rather than invite opportunities to feel marginalized, I went up to a woman I know well, who knows what's going on with me, and said, I'm feeling a little fragile right now; can I hang out with you for a little bit? She said of course and included me in her conversations with others and about 20 minutes later I felt much better and was able to stand on my own again.
If I am doing better, making better choices, managing better, then why do I feel this way? Why do I search for a negative in what would otherwise have been a very intriguing dream? Does this increase in anxiety have anything to do with the overwelming feeling I had Monday? Am I expecting too much too soon? Why am I still convinced I have wasted today because I didn't get anything "done"?
And why does the thought of tomorrow bring with it more fear than hope?
Monday, January 7, 2008
Seeking
Now I must address the feeling I have been trying to avoid since the last post.
My mind wants to find easy origins: not enough sleep, going without Lunesta for one night, hormone changes, no view of the sun in the sky today. But none of these seem right because this is a pervasive, encompassing feeling. It led me to select certain books over others from the library this morning. It determined which articles and blogs I've read today. It has kept me from wanting to answer the phone when it rings, even when the caller is a friend.
I feel it in my shoulders and upper arms, like a physical longing for a hug or the need to cradle a baby. I feel it in my chest, tight and compressed like I know something is looming on the horizon but I can't see it yet. I feel it in my stomach, a sort of dread as if I know the truth is going to be dragged out of me one way or another but it will ultimately be a relief. I feel it in my legs, wanting to run from this but knowing there is nowhere to go.
It isn't a sadness, exactly, but I can feel tears nearby. It reminds me of the way I feel sometimes when I see a TV ad like this Hallmark commercial.
It isn't depression. There is definitely hope there, not hopelessness.
It isn't loss, I don't think. I haven't lost anything recently, big or small, but it does feel like I sometimes do when I remember someone close who is no longer living.
It isn't gratitude, but there is an element of thankfulness. I read today something my rabbi wrote recently (not to me specifically) about accepting each other's humanity--rabbis and congregants--and all that entails, and I was so overcome with this feeling that I momentarily felt weak.
It isn't fear, but there's definitely something there that I'm afraid of.
It is a feeling that flares up when I think about friendship and the sacrifices we make willingly--even eagerly--for those close to us. It is similar to how I feel when I hear about a police officer losing his life while protecting someone else.
It is how I sometimes feel--if I am lucky--in shul, davening and suddenly overcome with a need to convey through my prayers, Thank you, and I'm so sorry, and I miss you when I'm not paying attention.
I hear others around me, the whisper of silent prayers, and I know there are others here in pain and in mourning, those experiencing gratitude and relief and the realization of long-held dreams. And everyone has brought these parts of themselves to this one place on this one day to share, however privately or publicly, with G-d.
And I see glimpses of this humanity in action: one man trusting enough--or hurting enough--to weep openly and consoled by the man next to him. One woman surrounded by others, some of whom are offering comfort and others who are supporting her simply by being present. One exhausted mother relieved temporarily of her active children by a few teens who offered to help. One elder repsectfully helped to a seat. One rabbi passing by a congregant on his way to somewhere else, then stopping, returning to the congregant, and asking, are you okay?
I see this and I am humbled and moved beyond words. It occurs to me that this is what it's all about. Whatever it is, it is present here, now.
My husband called me as I was writing this post and I answered the phone and the display said CONNECTING before I put it to my ear.
What I am feeling has something to do with connection. Something deeper than community, more complex than love. It is seeing that connection, knowing that connection, having experienced that connection and also the loss of it when I needed it. It is wanting a constancy of that connection. It is recognizing that I need this connection in my life and knowing all too well what it's like to not feel it. It is hoping, struggling, craving, longing, physically and spiritually yearning.
I still don't know exactly what I'm feeling. But apparently it has something to do with seeking G-d.
My mind wants to find easy origins: not enough sleep, going without Lunesta for one night, hormone changes, no view of the sun in the sky today. But none of these seem right because this is a pervasive, encompassing feeling. It led me to select certain books over others from the library this morning. It determined which articles and blogs I've read today. It has kept me from wanting to answer the phone when it rings, even when the caller is a friend.
I feel it in my shoulders and upper arms, like a physical longing for a hug or the need to cradle a baby. I feel it in my chest, tight and compressed like I know something is looming on the horizon but I can't see it yet. I feel it in my stomach, a sort of dread as if I know the truth is going to be dragged out of me one way or another but it will ultimately be a relief. I feel it in my legs, wanting to run from this but knowing there is nowhere to go.
It isn't a sadness, exactly, but I can feel tears nearby. It reminds me of the way I feel sometimes when I see a TV ad like this Hallmark commercial.
It isn't depression. There is definitely hope there, not hopelessness.
It isn't loss, I don't think. I haven't lost anything recently, big or small, but it does feel like I sometimes do when I remember someone close who is no longer living.
It isn't gratitude, but there is an element of thankfulness. I read today something my rabbi wrote recently (not to me specifically) about accepting each other's humanity--rabbis and congregants--and all that entails, and I was so overcome with this feeling that I momentarily felt weak.
It isn't fear, but there's definitely something there that I'm afraid of.
It is a feeling that flares up when I think about friendship and the sacrifices we make willingly--even eagerly--for those close to us. It is similar to how I feel when I hear about a police officer losing his life while protecting someone else.
It is how I sometimes feel--if I am lucky--in shul, davening and suddenly overcome with a need to convey through my prayers, Thank you, and I'm so sorry, and I miss you when I'm not paying attention.
I hear others around me, the whisper of silent prayers, and I know there are others here in pain and in mourning, those experiencing gratitude and relief and the realization of long-held dreams. And everyone has brought these parts of themselves to this one place on this one day to share, however privately or publicly, with G-d.
And I see glimpses of this humanity in action: one man trusting enough--or hurting enough--to weep openly and consoled by the man next to him. One woman surrounded by others, some of whom are offering comfort and others who are supporting her simply by being present. One exhausted mother relieved temporarily of her active children by a few teens who offered to help. One elder repsectfully helped to a seat. One rabbi passing by a congregant on his way to somewhere else, then stopping, returning to the congregant, and asking, are you okay?
I see this and I am humbled and moved beyond words. It occurs to me that this is what it's all about. Whatever it is, it is present here, now.
My husband called me as I was writing this post and I answered the phone and the display said CONNECTING before I put it to my ear.
What I am feeling has something to do with connection. Something deeper than community, more complex than love. It is seeing that connection, knowing that connection, having experienced that connection and also the loss of it when I needed it. It is wanting a constancy of that connection. It is recognizing that I need this connection in my life and knowing all too well what it's like to not feel it. It is hoping, struggling, craving, longing, physically and spiritually yearning.
I still don't know exactly what I'm feeling. But apparently it has something to do with seeking G-d.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Musaf as therapy
I think there is a lot to be said for sacrifice.
Let me explain that. I'm not saying it's time to fire up the altar, and I don't want to go anywhere near the political ramifications of rebuilding the Temple. I'm not even saying that sacrifice has to involve death. Not like it used to.
Rabbinic Judaism has replaced the Temple offerings with our tefillot, our prayers, which require an investment of time and effort, and if you count synagogue membership and other annual contributions, also money. Musaf is the additional prayer service that represents the additional Temple offering on Shabbat and holidays.
I think about this and I am not certain it is enough. Because nearly everything in life today requires an investment of time and effort and money. What makes our offering to G-d any different than our offering to a political cause or a social cause or a few hours of Internet shopping?
To me, it should be different. It should be special. And so when I reach Musaf and I'm contemplating the role of the Temple in our collective history, I take a moment to reflect on a different sort of sacrifice, my own "addition."
What do I personally need to sacrifice that is standing in the way of my connection with G-d?
What obsolete defenses, inaccurate fears, faulty assumptions have cluttered my life and made it harder to reach my potential? Which of those need to "die" and make room for new life?
Lately I've worked on my fear of loss, my tenuous trust in the universe, my fear of not belonging, not deserving, not having the right to be.
It isn't easy. It isn't painless. Sometimes this blog is part of that sacrifice because there's safety, it seems, in silence, in never bringing these things to light.
Speaking up means I have to think about it, put words to it, talk about it. Hear others' opinions and ideas. Learn from it. Change it. Allow myself to be changed for the better.
It seems to me that is at the heart of Judaism itself.
Let me explain that. I'm not saying it's time to fire up the altar, and I don't want to go anywhere near the political ramifications of rebuilding the Temple. I'm not even saying that sacrifice has to involve death. Not like it used to.
Rabbinic Judaism has replaced the Temple offerings with our tefillot, our prayers, which require an investment of time and effort, and if you count synagogue membership and other annual contributions, also money. Musaf is the additional prayer service that represents the additional Temple offering on Shabbat and holidays.
I think about this and I am not certain it is enough. Because nearly everything in life today requires an investment of time and effort and money. What makes our offering to G-d any different than our offering to a political cause or a social cause or a few hours of Internet shopping?
To me, it should be different. It should be special. And so when I reach Musaf and I'm contemplating the role of the Temple in our collective history, I take a moment to reflect on a different sort of sacrifice, my own "addition."
What do I personally need to sacrifice that is standing in the way of my connection with G-d?
What obsolete defenses, inaccurate fears, faulty assumptions have cluttered my life and made it harder to reach my potential? Which of those need to "die" and make room for new life?
Lately I've worked on my fear of loss, my tenuous trust in the universe, my fear of not belonging, not deserving, not having the right to be.
It isn't easy. It isn't painless. Sometimes this blog is part of that sacrifice because there's safety, it seems, in silence, in never bringing these things to light.
Speaking up means I have to think about it, put words to it, talk about it. Hear others' opinions and ideas. Learn from it. Change it. Allow myself to be changed for the better.
It seems to me that is at the heart of Judaism itself.
Monday, October 1, 2007
It's back
This year I had questions I've never had before. I wanted to run from Rosh Hashanah, hide from Yom Kippur. And now the old feelings have crept back into my life and as much as I try to stand strong against them, I have had to increase my meds and I still fight anxiety that several times a day is nearly debilitating.
It's a question my counselor would say is ridiculous. G-d doesn't work that way. Yet here it is. In writing. We daven it. Do we say the words but not mean them? Or do we mean them and if we do, how do I take them? When does prayer move from metaphor to the literal?
I visited my baby's grave site twice during the ten days. Two friends who had wanted to be with me when she was buried, I took them each separately and we paid our respects. I could not cry.
How can I do teshuva more than I can do it? How can I give tzedaka more than I can give it? Can I possibly pray harder than I can pray?
There are some who would of course say yes. There are those who claim the Shoah happened because Jews were not religious enough. Without a doubt they would blame my illness on my failings. But theirs is not the voice I want to hear. Extremism is never the answer, no matter what the question.
Would it make any difference if I did my own Vidui?
I gave my rabbi two weeks worth of available times when we could meet again, but I have not heard from him. I fear he is angry with me or disappointed because I could not face the crowds at shul. I could not stay. That may have been the first red flag and I missed it.
I noticed it when the first signs of hoplessness returned, the sense of being overwhelmed, of fearing attack from every side. Every e-mail, every phone call, every knock at the door I fear is someone unhappy with me. I couldn't possibly confess enough to satisfy the yetser hara's depression inside of me.
This is not how I wanted to start the year. On New Year's Day the decree is inscribed and on the Day of Atonement it is sealed. Have I already been assigned some horrible fate because of my anxiety over the Days of Awe? Has my next baby's death warrant been signed (G-d forbid) because of my depression's timing?
I don't know how to come to terms with the liturgy. I have no answers.
Is this why my baby daughter died four months ago? Did I not pray hard enough last year?On New Year's Day the decree is inscribed and on the Day of Atonement it is sealed; how many shall pass away and how many shall be born; who shall live and who shall die...
It's a question my counselor would say is ridiculous. G-d doesn't work that way. Yet here it is. In writing. We daven it. Do we say the words but not mean them? Or do we mean them and if we do, how do I take them? When does prayer move from metaphor to the literal?
I visited my baby's grave site twice during the ten days. Two friends who had wanted to be with me when she was buried, I took them each separately and we paid our respects. I could not cry.
...who shall have rest and who shall go wandering; who shall be tranquil and who shall be disturbed; who shall be at ease and who shall be afflicted...The question comes naturally, is my depression, my panic attacks, my distorted lens through which I see the world the result of some divine decree? If I were a better Jew, would I get past this? And what would that mean? Whose definition of a better Jew?
How can I do teshuva more than I can do it? How can I give tzedaka more than I can give it? Can I possibly pray harder than I can pray?
There are some who would of course say yes. There are those who claim the Shoah happened because Jews were not religious enough. Without a doubt they would blame my illness on my failings. But theirs is not the voice I want to hear. Extremism is never the answer, no matter what the question.
Would it make any difference if I did my own Vidui?
It didn't even wait until October. I saw the first signs nearly a week ago. The red flags, the things that alert me to another onset of anxiety and depression, they started coming quickly and went from nonexistent to frequent in 24 hours. On the third day, I increased my meds from 30mg to 40mg. I see my counselor and the psychiatrist's assitant this week.I have raised my voice to my children; I have raised my voice to the heavens and doubted I would get an answer; I have lost faith in humanity when reading the news; I have lost faith in G-d when my depression tosses me into the depths; I have blamed others for not doing enough to help; I have blamed
G-d for giving me this challenge in the first place; I have berated myself for all the weaknesses my illness makes acute; I have berated myself for not being stronger...
I gave my rabbi two weeks worth of available times when we could meet again, but I have not heard from him. I fear he is angry with me or disappointed because I could not face the crowds at shul. I could not stay. That may have been the first red flag and I missed it.
I noticed it when the first signs of hoplessness returned, the sense of being overwhelmed, of fearing attack from every side. Every e-mail, every phone call, every knock at the door I fear is someone unhappy with me. I couldn't possibly confess enough to satisfy the yetser hara's depression inside of me.
This is not how I wanted to start the year. On New Year's Day the decree is inscribed and on the Day of Atonement it is sealed. Have I already been assigned some horrible fate because of my anxiety over the Days of Awe? Has my next baby's death warrant been signed (G-d forbid) because of my depression's timing?
I don't know how to come to terms with the liturgy. I have no answers.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
126 reasons to read Jewish blogs
It is Tuesday already but it is still very worth pouring over Jack's presentation of Haveil Havalim, and I thank him very much for the link.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Credibility, expertise, authority, esteem, respect--what am I looking for?
I decided to write about this because it's on my mind a lot and because it's been an issue for a long time, yet one I've rarely ever talked about.
I wrote just a bit ago about who is the expert on fringe Jews. I am interested in what others think about that. Do you go to the source to understand an issue, or do you trust the doctor who has studied it but never known it with the intimacy the source has? Or is it that the topic of mental illness in general automatically discredits anyone with one?
But this is part of a larger issue. RWAC wrote in a comment on one of his posts that "people with titles are taken seriously - and it makes sense that someone who has put in the time to study and work in a given field should be taken seriously, until proven unworthy. But at the same time, people who don't have the degrees should still be taken seriously, to whatever degree they have expertise and are able to communicate it."
This seems like complete, respectful, common sense to me. If everyone practiced this, there would be a lot fewer people who feel invalidated in this world.
That said, I'm still not quite sure what I'm looking for. This all came about because I felt that being female and title-less restricted me from accomplishing much of anything other than birthing and raising Jewish children.
But that's not exactly true either. I said I didn't have a title or initials after my name, but I do, technically. I just don't have the sort of initials to put after my name that wouldn't look pretentious. I have earned several degrees, though none of them in Jewish topics. I can't explain further without compromising myself, but the feeling I get in my community is that unless I hold specifically a PhD, JD, MD or semicha, none of the rest of it matters. And I don't have any of those four, for all sorts of obvious and not so obvious reasons.
At the same time, I can't help but think that the loudest most powerful force standing in my way is me, though I do not believe the entire problem resides in my head. My own lack of confidence, my hesitation in thinking I could be helpful to anyone at the very same time I want to be helpful with what I know and have learned and experienced, my fear of ever being anything close to arrogant.
My counselor thinks that I could allow myself a little arrogance, that my boundaries against that are so strong and so far out that what would seem to me to be slightly arrogant (in myself) would likely appear to everyone else as simply self-confident. That scares me a bit but I'm working on it.
Meanwhile I feel ineffective. Unheard, unseen, not taken seriously, without credibility despite initials I've earned and experiences I've lived, something.
I can't be the only one. Can I? Do others ever feel like this? What do you do? How do you deal with it?
I wrote just a bit ago about who is the expert on fringe Jews. I am interested in what others think about that. Do you go to the source to understand an issue, or do you trust the doctor who has studied it but never known it with the intimacy the source has? Or is it that the topic of mental illness in general automatically discredits anyone with one?
But this is part of a larger issue. RWAC wrote in a comment on one of his posts that "people with titles are taken seriously - and it makes sense that someone who has put in the time to study and work in a given field should be taken seriously, until proven unworthy. But at the same time, people who don't have the degrees should still be taken seriously, to whatever degree they have expertise and are able to communicate it."
This seems like complete, respectful, common sense to me. If everyone practiced this, there would be a lot fewer people who feel invalidated in this world.
That said, I'm still not quite sure what I'm looking for. This all came about because I felt that being female and title-less restricted me from accomplishing much of anything other than birthing and raising Jewish children.
But that's not exactly true either. I said I didn't have a title or initials after my name, but I do, technically. I just don't have the sort of initials to put after my name that wouldn't look pretentious. I have earned several degrees, though none of them in Jewish topics. I can't explain further without compromising myself, but the feeling I get in my community is that unless I hold specifically a PhD, JD, MD or semicha, none of the rest of it matters. And I don't have any of those four, for all sorts of obvious and not so obvious reasons.
At the same time, I can't help but think that the loudest most powerful force standing in my way is me, though I do not believe the entire problem resides in my head. My own lack of confidence, my hesitation in thinking I could be helpful to anyone at the very same time I want to be helpful with what I know and have learned and experienced, my fear of ever being anything close to arrogant.
My counselor thinks that I could allow myself a little arrogance, that my boundaries against that are so strong and so far out that what would seem to me to be slightly arrogant (in myself) would likely appear to everyone else as simply self-confident. That scares me a bit but I'm working on it.
Meanwhile I feel ineffective. Unheard, unseen, not taken seriously, without credibility despite initials I've earned and experiences I've lived, something.
I can't be the only one. Can I? Do others ever feel like this? What do you do? How do you deal with it?
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
The power of prayer: is it time to come clean with the rabbi?
I wrote recently,
Today I saw the psychiatrist's assistant for my monthly check-in. My meds continue to work at 30 mg/day. My anxiety is minimal and related to actual stressors. There is still no hint of mania, reinforcing their decision to scrap the bipolar diagnosis. My only problem is sleep disturbance. I continue to wake for 1-2 hours in the middle of the night. Lunesta is not working to keep me asleep and I risk morning panic attacks. She prescribed Ambien for me to see if it will help. I have been managing on about 5 hours of sleep a night for the past month.
I decided to ask her what she thought would be appropriate to ask the rabbi for. When he asks, what can we do, how should I answer? Especially knowing that October and the next major depression cycle is looming.
Ah, she said, pastoral care can be very important. She approved that I was asking now, before things got bad. She did say that the worse October/January depressions were almost certainly Seasonal Affective Disorder. She said exercise and being outside, getting even a little sunlight, would be extremely important for me. We might need to increase my meds during the winter, she said. I might have to wait until spring to try and get pregnant again, since she believes the increase in meds carries an increased risk of miscarriage.
She said what I should tell the rabbi is that I need his support. That I need him to understand what I'm going through, that the depression and anxiety may be lessened by medication but would likely never go away completely. That I may have to deal with this for the rest of my life. She said I should ask him for healing prayers, that I should not underestimate the power of prayer. I had to smile at that. She does not know about this blog.
I asked her if there were tangible, specific things I should ask him for and she said yes. Because shul is so important to me, because my depression and anxiety attack my Jewish identity, I should ask to meet with him regularly a few times a year, preferably before the anticipated depressive cycles. Just to check in. Just to see how things are going, how I am coping in shul, if there are things I feel I need while I am there.
Her answer helped but it scared me too. It scared me because it means I would have to be more honest with him. I'd have to be more open with him.
I might have to tell him about this blog.
I'd have to tell him that explaining my depression by using a 2000-year-old Talmudic theological world view makes more sense to me than any modern medical or psychiatric description.
I'd have to tell him that I have difficulty trusting him.
I'd have to tell him about the hurt that continues to accumulate.
I'd have to tell him about periodically feeling Unseen.
I'd have to tell him about how my illness affects my perceptions and social interactions with others at shul.
I'd have to tell him that I see quite plainly others' demands on his time, his energy, his attention. I'd have to tell him how my problems seem insignificant in comparison to others who need him, and how that leads me to not even ask in the first place. How I don't want to add to the demand.
I'd have to tell him that even telling him all this is risky because there is a precedent for lack of support within our shul, that even he does not always follow through.
I'd have to tell him that when we do meet and talk, it means the world to me, but it also raises my hopes and I can't always afford to do that.
I don't know if I can do it, tell him all that.
I'm afraid of hurting him. I'm afraid of criticizing him. I'm afraid of destroying whatever relationship we currently have.
I'm afraid of his reaction, that he'd be angry with me, whether it was for keeping all this from him all this time or for feeling it in the first place.
I'm afraid of being so vulnerable when I'm half-expecting that any meeting with him will result in my getting hurt, if the meeting even happens in the first place.
I don't know if I would be opening the door to more pain or opening the door to a more complete healing.
...for the sin which we have committed before Thee in speech; ...and for the sin which we have committed before Thee in presumption or in error...
I had a dream the other night about having a meeting with my counselor and my rabbi and my husband and me. Sort of like a team approach to helping me cope when things are bad, and even when things are okay, or dare I say, good. But then I am back to what is appropriate to ask for.I cannot stop thinking about this idea of a team approach. At the same time I know it cannot be done as I dreamt it, for logistical reasons. I began thinking about how I could achieve the same effect without us all in the same room.
Today I saw the psychiatrist's assistant for my monthly check-in. My meds continue to work at 30 mg/day. My anxiety is minimal and related to actual stressors. There is still no hint of mania, reinforcing their decision to scrap the bipolar diagnosis. My only problem is sleep disturbance. I continue to wake for 1-2 hours in the middle of the night. Lunesta is not working to keep me asleep and I risk morning panic attacks. She prescribed Ambien for me to see if it will help. I have been managing on about 5 hours of sleep a night for the past month.
I decided to ask her what she thought would be appropriate to ask the rabbi for. When he asks, what can we do, how should I answer? Especially knowing that October and the next major depression cycle is looming.
Ah, she said, pastoral care can be very important. She approved that I was asking now, before things got bad. She did say that the worse October/January depressions were almost certainly Seasonal Affective Disorder. She said exercise and being outside, getting even a little sunlight, would be extremely important for me. We might need to increase my meds during the winter, she said. I might have to wait until spring to try and get pregnant again, since she believes the increase in meds carries an increased risk of miscarriage.
She said what I should tell the rabbi is that I need his support. That I need him to understand what I'm going through, that the depression and anxiety may be lessened by medication but would likely never go away completely. That I may have to deal with this for the rest of my life. She said I should ask him for healing prayers, that I should not underestimate the power of prayer. I had to smile at that. She does not know about this blog.
I asked her if there were tangible, specific things I should ask him for and she said yes. Because shul is so important to me, because my depression and anxiety attack my Jewish identity, I should ask to meet with him regularly a few times a year, preferably before the anticipated depressive cycles. Just to check in. Just to see how things are going, how I am coping in shul, if there are things I feel I need while I am there.
Her answer helped but it scared me too. It scared me because it means I would have to be more honest with him. I'd have to be more open with him.
I might have to tell him about this blog.
I'd have to tell him that explaining my depression by using a 2000-year-old Talmudic theological world view makes more sense to me than any modern medical or psychiatric description.
I'd have to tell him that I have difficulty trusting him.
I'd have to tell him about the hurt that continues to accumulate.
I'd have to tell him about periodically feeling Unseen.
I'd have to tell him about how my illness affects my perceptions and social interactions with others at shul.
I'd have to tell him that I see quite plainly others' demands on his time, his energy, his attention. I'd have to tell him how my problems seem insignificant in comparison to others who need him, and how that leads me to not even ask in the first place. How I don't want to add to the demand.
I'd have to tell him that even telling him all this is risky because there is a precedent for lack of support within our shul, that even he does not always follow through.
I'd have to tell him that when we do meet and talk, it means the world to me, but it also raises my hopes and I can't always afford to do that.
I don't know if I can do it, tell him all that.
I'm afraid of hurting him. I'm afraid of criticizing him. I'm afraid of destroying whatever relationship we currently have.
I'm afraid of his reaction, that he'd be angry with me, whether it was for keeping all this from him all this time or for feeling it in the first place.
I'm afraid of being so vulnerable when I'm half-expecting that any meeting with him will result in my getting hurt, if the meeting even happens in the first place.
I don't know if I would be opening the door to more pain or opening the door to a more complete healing.
...for the sin which we have committed before Thee in speech; ...and for the sin which we have committed before Thee in presumption or in error...
Monday, July 16, 2007
Rasslin with the rabbi issue
I went to shul last Shabbat. I was horribly anxious but I knew I needed to go for me. As it turned out, the (shul) rabbi was not there and another rabbi who is usually a fellow congregant (and whom I like very much) was leading services. This helped a lot.
While I was there, I talked with another woman who knows the rabbi better than I do. While I did not go into detail about how I felt or my recent struggles, I did ask in a very roundabout way about the prominent member's comments regarding the rabbi's commitment to the individual's Jewish life.
She rolled her eyes at that and said something unrepeatable about shul politics. But the bottom line is that I should take what that member had to say with an entire jar of kosher salt. She then said that the (shul) rabbi is very understated in how he supports people. To him, a great deal is communicated through a handshake or a hand on one's shoulder or greeting someone with a smile rather than a scowl. He is not overt in his support, but that does not mean he is not supportive.
She also said that he shows his satisfaction or delight in what someone has learned or accomplished by asking them to do more of it or to take on a responsibility that would use their new knowledge. The fact that he has, on quite a few occasions, asked me to teach a class or lead a minyan or write something for the shul to distribute should be, she said, interpreted to mean he is quite pleased.
This helped me feel a lot better.
I talked to another friend about being visibly Jewish versus not, meaning something like when I wear my Magen David necklace versus when I don't. She laughed and said that I was always visibly Jewish and that even she (a non-Jew) could recognize Jewish values and ethics and my commitment to Jewish law in the words I chose and how I dress and how I raise my children and even the friends I choose. I didn't think it was that obvious. She thinks it is glaring but in a good way. When I told her about feeling like maybe I wasn't Jewish enough yet, she said that just wasn't possible.
My friend D called me after Shabbat and we talked for a while, too. D asked me how I was doing and how the medication was helping and about my anxiety, because that always shows up before the depression does. I told D about my anxiety around shul, around the rabbi, and D asked if any of the things I was afraid of had ever happened.
Once, I said. There is this woman at shul who, years ago, angrily told me that I'd never be truly Jewish because I'd converted. I was horrified then and a friend stepped in and defended me. But I never forgot it and that woman still glares at me when she sees me.
After saying this was clearly this woman's issues and not mine, D said if anyone at shul suggested something like that again, I should simply ask if they trust the rabbi, because if they do, accusing me is tantamount to questioning his judgment, since the rabbi is the one I learned with and he brought me before the beit din for my formal conversion. I felt not quite so alone then. I liked the idea of the rabbi's status backing up my claim to Jewishness.
D also suggested gently that much of my anxiety seemed to be as if others had very high expectations of me and I wasn't measuring up. When asked, I really couldn't point to anyone who has high expectations of me. Except me.
Might I be projecting my high expectations onto others, believing that's what they expect of me? Could this be a part of my anxiety? D knows this is certainly part of my history, my childhood. It is maybe a good topic to pick apart in therapy.
And then before I went to bed Saturday night, I picked up my book of Tehillim--Psalms--again. I thumbed through, skimming, and then stopped short. The words seemed to almost leap off the page at me.
Chapter 91:
4. With His wings He will cover you, and under His wings you will take refuge; His truth is an encompassing shield.
5. You will not fear the fright of night, the arrow that flies by day;
9. For you [said], "The Lord is my refuge"; the Most High you made your dwelling.
10. No harm will befall you, nor will a plague draw near to your tent.
11. For He will command His angels on your behalf to guard you in all your ways.
12. On [their] hands they will bear you, lest your foot stumble on a stone.
I hold onto this, the words of my friends, and the support for this blog. And I hold tight to my belief and trust in G-d, because that is my center and my foundation.
While I was there, I talked with another woman who knows the rabbi better than I do. While I did not go into detail about how I felt or my recent struggles, I did ask in a very roundabout way about the prominent member's comments regarding the rabbi's commitment to the individual's Jewish life.
She rolled her eyes at that and said something unrepeatable about shul politics. But the bottom line is that I should take what that member had to say with an entire jar of kosher salt. She then said that the (shul) rabbi is very understated in how he supports people. To him, a great deal is communicated through a handshake or a hand on one's shoulder or greeting someone with a smile rather than a scowl. He is not overt in his support, but that does not mean he is not supportive.
She also said that he shows his satisfaction or delight in what someone has learned or accomplished by asking them to do more of it or to take on a responsibility that would use their new knowledge. The fact that he has, on quite a few occasions, asked me to teach a class or lead a minyan or write something for the shul to distribute should be, she said, interpreted to mean he is quite pleased.
This helped me feel a lot better.
I talked to another friend about being visibly Jewish versus not, meaning something like when I wear my Magen David necklace versus when I don't. She laughed and said that I was always visibly Jewish and that even she (a non-Jew) could recognize Jewish values and ethics and my commitment to Jewish law in the words I chose and how I dress and how I raise my children and even the friends I choose. I didn't think it was that obvious. She thinks it is glaring but in a good way. When I told her about feeling like maybe I wasn't Jewish enough yet, she said that just wasn't possible.
My friend D called me after Shabbat and we talked for a while, too. D asked me how I was doing and how the medication was helping and about my anxiety, because that always shows up before the depression does. I told D about my anxiety around shul, around the rabbi, and D asked if any of the things I was afraid of had ever happened.
Once, I said. There is this woman at shul who, years ago, angrily told me that I'd never be truly Jewish because I'd converted. I was horrified then and a friend stepped in and defended me. But I never forgot it and that woman still glares at me when she sees me.
After saying this was clearly this woman's issues and not mine, D said if anyone at shul suggested something like that again, I should simply ask if they trust the rabbi, because if they do, accusing me is tantamount to questioning his judgment, since the rabbi is the one I learned with and he brought me before the beit din for my formal conversion. I felt not quite so alone then. I liked the idea of the rabbi's status backing up my claim to Jewishness.
D also suggested gently that much of my anxiety seemed to be as if others had very high expectations of me and I wasn't measuring up. When asked, I really couldn't point to anyone who has high expectations of me. Except me.
Might I be projecting my high expectations onto others, believing that's what they expect of me? Could this be a part of my anxiety? D knows this is certainly part of my history, my childhood. It is maybe a good topic to pick apart in therapy.
And then before I went to bed Saturday night, I picked up my book of Tehillim--Psalms--again. I thumbed through, skimming, and then stopped short. The words seemed to almost leap off the page at me.
Chapter 91:
4. With His wings He will cover you, and under His wings you will take refuge; His truth is an encompassing shield.
5. You will not fear the fright of night, the arrow that flies by day;
9. For you [said], "The Lord is my refuge"; the Most High you made your dwelling.
10. No harm will befall you, nor will a plague draw near to your tent.
11. For He will command His angels on your behalf to guard you in all your ways.
12. On [their] hands they will bear you, lest your foot stumble on a stone.
I hold onto this, the words of my friends, and the support for this blog. And I hold tight to my belief and trust in G-d, because that is my center and my foundation.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
What would I want my rabbi to know? Part II
I wrote about this first six months ago in I cried at shul and then in Shul, and of course I wrote about it in What would I want my rabbi to know? Part 1.
I'm still dealing with it. And I still have no answers.
I'm not even sure I have questions and maybe that's part of the problem. Back in Part 1, I wrote
Is what I want from my rabbi something that would fall in his job description, so to speak, or am I looking for what I need in the wrong place?
I want to trust him. I want to trust that when he says he'll do something, he does. Right now that doesn't exist. Sometimes he follows through and sometimes he doesn't, and I never know which it will be. Last winter, he offered to give me some referrals to Jewish counselors for the religious piece of my depression and I said yes that would be very nice, but then nothing happened. And I got worse before I got better and it seemed pointless to ask later.
Besides, I was afraid that asking again, or bringing up that he'd offered, would be taken as a criticism of him. I can see that happening all too well. I think it's realistic. And I know for a fact that he hates criticism.
I want to understand how to reconcile being Jewish and living with depression. I talked with a friend today who remarked how the Scandinavian trait of holding one's emotions in was so foreign to Jewish culture. Yet it's not okay to be open about depression in Jewish culture either. So which is it? How open can I be? Should I be? Can I be any more honest with other Jews than I can with everyone else?
I don't know if these are questions a rabbi can help me answer. I only know that I don't have the answer and am not qualified to answer them.
I want to feel like I matter to the shul, like I help make a difference, like I contribute in some way to the congregation.
I want to feel like he'd notice if I stopped coming to shul. I want to feel like he'd care whether I disappeared off the face of the earth or not. The last time I saw him was when I said Kaddish the first Shabbat after my baby daughter's burial at the end of May. I haven't been able to get up my courage to go to shul since. I miss it horribly but it is too hard to go. It is the one place where I am forced to confront myself, my pain, my anxieties, my resentments, my hopes, my fears.
When I talked with him after shul at the end of January (in I cried at shul), I told him that having this illness somehow makes me feel less Jewish. He rolled his eyes, clearly dismissing that as an absurd idea. I've also written in that same post that my depression makes me just feel less.
I want to feel like I've learned enough about Judaism in the past twelve years of off-and-on formal learning and twenty-three-plus years of informal learning to be considered--by him--as reasonably knowledgeable for a lay person. Like I finally qualify to really be called Jewish. Like I earned the trust he placed in me when he brought me before the beit din at my conversion.
I want to feel like I really belong, that I'm not still an outsider looking in. I want to feel like I can and should stop questioning my authenticity as a Jew. I want to feel like I'm good enough.
Two years ago I came up with an interpretation of the Four Children in the Passover haggadah that really excited me. I told my rabbi about it, explaining my interpretation. He said he'd never heard anything like it before, but he liked it a lot. He asked me to write up what I'd just explained to him and the shul would include it in the Pesach handouts they make available each year. But I didn't trust it would actually happen and I didn't want to deal with the letdown of submitting it only to have it left out, so I didn't send it in.
I want to hear these things from him and yet I am not sure I can always believe him. I know he means well but the many times there has been a lack of follow-through just hurts too much.
A prominent member of our congregation recently lost his mother, aleha hashalom. He wrote an article distributed to the congregation that read in part
All I can think of is, what does this prominent member have that I don't? Why does he get what I felt I needed, both when my father died and just recently when my baby died?
He is able to donate a generous amount of money to the shul.
He is born Jewish.
His brain chemistry is normal, not wacky.
I have none of these things, since the whole thing with my maternal great-grandmother still meant I needed a conversion. Is that why? Is that why I don't count as much? Does my individual Jewish life not matter as much?
I never say these things out loud, never tell anyone especially the rabbi for fear I would be labeled too needy. But these things are in my head anyway. I don't know if it's the depression talking or my history or reality.
And it's why I don't know what's appropriate for me to ask for. Or if the rabbi is even who I should be asking.
I'm still dealing with it. And I still have no answers.
I'm not even sure I have questions and maybe that's part of the problem. Back in Part 1, I wrote
I wish I could just schedule an appointment and tell him all this. Tell him what I need. But I don't trust that what I want, what I think I need, what I wrote at the top of this post, is appropriate.I know that I have to ask. I know that I need to voice what I need. I know that the more specific I can be, the better. But I'm stuck on the appropriateness.
Is what I want from my rabbi something that would fall in his job description, so to speak, or am I looking for what I need in the wrong place?
I want to trust him. I want to trust that when he says he'll do something, he does. Right now that doesn't exist. Sometimes he follows through and sometimes he doesn't, and I never know which it will be. Last winter, he offered to give me some referrals to Jewish counselors for the religious piece of my depression and I said yes that would be very nice, but then nothing happened. And I got worse before I got better and it seemed pointless to ask later.
Besides, I was afraid that asking again, or bringing up that he'd offered, would be taken as a criticism of him. I can see that happening all too well. I think it's realistic. And I know for a fact that he hates criticism.
I want to understand how to reconcile being Jewish and living with depression. I talked with a friend today who remarked how the Scandinavian trait of holding one's emotions in was so foreign to Jewish culture. Yet it's not okay to be open about depression in Jewish culture either. So which is it? How open can I be? Should I be? Can I be any more honest with other Jews than I can with everyone else?
I don't know if these are questions a rabbi can help me answer. I only know that I don't have the answer and am not qualified to answer them.
I want to feel like I matter to the shul, like I help make a difference, like I contribute in some way to the congregation.
I want to feel like he'd notice if I stopped coming to shul. I want to feel like he'd care whether I disappeared off the face of the earth or not. The last time I saw him was when I said Kaddish the first Shabbat after my baby daughter's burial at the end of May. I haven't been able to get up my courage to go to shul since. I miss it horribly but it is too hard to go. It is the one place where I am forced to confront myself, my pain, my anxieties, my resentments, my hopes, my fears.
When I talked with him after shul at the end of January (in I cried at shul), I told him that having this illness somehow makes me feel less Jewish. He rolled his eyes, clearly dismissing that as an absurd idea. I've also written in that same post that my depression makes me just feel less.
I want to feel like I've learned enough about Judaism in the past twelve years of off-and-on formal learning and twenty-three-plus years of informal learning to be considered--by him--as reasonably knowledgeable for a lay person. Like I finally qualify to really be called Jewish. Like I earned the trust he placed in me when he brought me before the beit din at my conversion.
I want to feel like I really belong, that I'm not still an outsider looking in. I want to feel like I can and should stop questioning my authenticity as a Jew. I want to feel like I'm good enough.
Two years ago I came up with an interpretation of the Four Children in the Passover haggadah that really excited me. I told my rabbi about it, explaining my interpretation. He said he'd never heard anything like it before, but he liked it a lot. He asked me to write up what I'd just explained to him and the shul would include it in the Pesach handouts they make available each year. But I didn't trust it would actually happen and I didn't want to deal with the letdown of submitting it only to have it left out, so I didn't send it in.
I want to hear these things from him and yet I am not sure I can always believe him. I know he means well but the many times there has been a lack of follow-through just hurts too much.
A prominent member of our congregation recently lost his mother, aleha hashalom. He wrote an article distributed to the congregation that read in part
what I have learned is how deeply [our rabbi] is committed to our congregants, particularly to their individual Jewish lives. [His] attention and consolation and advice was precious to me and my family.I do not feel that I received much of anything in the way of attention and consolation and advice from my rabbi--the same man praised by this other congregant--when my father, alav hashalom, died three years ago. Or when my daughter died in May. Once my conversion was over and I had no reason to meet every two weeks with my rabbi, I am not at all sure that there is much of any commitment on his part to my individual Jewish life. If there is, how do I find it? How do I see it? Feel it?
All I can think of is, what does this prominent member have that I don't? Why does he get what I felt I needed, both when my father died and just recently when my baby died?
He is able to donate a generous amount of money to the shul.
He is born Jewish.
His brain chemistry is normal, not wacky.
I have none of these things, since the whole thing with my maternal great-grandmother still meant I needed a conversion. Is that why? Is that why I don't count as much? Does my individual Jewish life not matter as much?
I never say these things out loud, never tell anyone especially the rabbi for fear I would be labeled too needy. But these things are in my head anyway. I don't know if it's the depression talking or my history or reality.
And it's why I don't know what's appropriate for me to ask for. Or if the rabbi is even who I should be asking.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Why, G-d?
I must announce at this time the birth--and death--of our beautiful daughter at 18 1/2 weeks gestation. I am heartbroken.
There is so much to say but the words won't come. I am exhausted and sore and empty. There is little in the way of Jewish ritual to deal with this.
I miss her. I miss feeling her kick inside me. I miss dreaming and thinking about welcoming her into our family. I miss the security of knowing we would at last have our long-prayed-for third child. I am sad I will never get to know her, never learn her hopes and dreams, never watch her find her own way, never hold her little hand in mine, never kiss her sweet face.
We do not know yet what happened, other than that when I went into the doctor's because I had the stomach flu, they could not find a heartbeat. Three ultrasounds and two hours later it was confirmed. There was no heartbeat. She had died, as much as a week or two earlier.
Labor was induced the next day and I labored for 9 1/2 hours and with one push she was out. We held her tiny body and marveled at how developed she was. Her hands were the size of my little finger's nail. Her knuckles and fingernails were exquisite. She had long slender fingers.
We will have a short private funeral/burial tomorrow. I don't want to say goodbye. I want to still be pregnant.
It is not fair. This pregnancy helped me out of my depression last winter. It was a promise of hope, that life goes on, that it's worth going on. And now? Now it's taken away. It feels like a cruel joke. I worry that this will send me right back into depression.
My meds have been adjusted to deal with this and whatever postpartum depression might follow. My care team is in place. We know we will try again.
But this doesn't change the fact that my baby is dead. And I am heartbroken.
There is so much to say but the words won't come. I am exhausted and sore and empty. There is little in the way of Jewish ritual to deal with this.
I miss her. I miss feeling her kick inside me. I miss dreaming and thinking about welcoming her into our family. I miss the security of knowing we would at last have our long-prayed-for third child. I am sad I will never get to know her, never learn her hopes and dreams, never watch her find her own way, never hold her little hand in mine, never kiss her sweet face.
We do not know yet what happened, other than that when I went into the doctor's because I had the stomach flu, they could not find a heartbeat. Three ultrasounds and two hours later it was confirmed. There was no heartbeat. She had died, as much as a week or two earlier.
Labor was induced the next day and I labored for 9 1/2 hours and with one push she was out. We held her tiny body and marveled at how developed she was. Her hands were the size of my little finger's nail. Her knuckles and fingernails were exquisite. She had long slender fingers.
We will have a short private funeral/burial tomorrow. I don't want to say goodbye. I want to still be pregnant.
It is not fair. This pregnancy helped me out of my depression last winter. It was a promise of hope, that life goes on, that it's worth going on. And now? Now it's taken away. It feels like a cruel joke. I worry that this will send me right back into depression.
My meds have been adjusted to deal with this and whatever postpartum depression might follow. My care team is in place. We know we will try again.
But this doesn't change the fact that my baby is dead. And I am heartbroken.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
I do not remember it being this hard
the last time I was pregnant. I don't remember constant morning-noon-night sickness and fatigue that won't let up. I don't remember only being able to walk from the parking lot to the store entrance and then needing to sit and rest before continuing my errands. I don't remember bouncing from elation to fear about having another child.
My husband does. According to him, this is the only way women are willing to go through this all again to have more children, if we forget the day to day difficulties. I can understand that.
My depression seems to be completely gone, but the odd concurrent problem is that I'm frequently so nauseous that it's hard to take medication, including my depression meds. I am under medicated right now but trying to get back on track. Maybe if I hid the pill in a spoonful of chocolate frozen yogurt?
Pesach has me completely freaking out. I don't have the energy to clean the way I should and my husband is doing what he can, and quite willingly, but I'm afraid it's just not going to be the same this year.
One of my favorite Pesach dishes is called Turkish Pie and is a wonderful mixture of ground beef and onions, cooked for an insanely long time, like three hours, and then placed into a shell made of softened matzo so you have something like a meat/onion pie. I look forward to it every year, and it takes pretty much all day to make. This year, I can't stand to be around the smell of cooking meat or onions of any kind. I guess I will have to wait until next year.
I'm very worried about controlling my morning sickness with kosher l'Pesach products. Saltines are my best friend right now, and I just worry that matzo won't do the trick. My previous pregnancies never took place over Pesach, so this is a first.
On a much more positive note, I have had some strange cravings at various times:
Maybe I should call myself the new improved Rivka. No longer (for now) depressed. Just hormone-enhanced. ;)
My husband does. According to him, this is the only way women are willing to go through this all again to have more children, if we forget the day to day difficulties. I can understand that.
My depression seems to be completely gone, but the odd concurrent problem is that I'm frequently so nauseous that it's hard to take medication, including my depression meds. I am under medicated right now but trying to get back on track. Maybe if I hid the pill in a spoonful of chocolate frozen yogurt?
Pesach has me completely freaking out. I don't have the energy to clean the way I should and my husband is doing what he can, and quite willingly, but I'm afraid it's just not going to be the same this year.
One of my favorite Pesach dishes is called Turkish Pie and is a wonderful mixture of ground beef and onions, cooked for an insanely long time, like three hours, and then placed into a shell made of softened matzo so you have something like a meat/onion pie. I look forward to it every year, and it takes pretty much all day to make. This year, I can't stand to be around the smell of cooking meat or onions of any kind. I guess I will have to wait until next year.
I'm very worried about controlling my morning sickness with kosher l'Pesach products. Saltines are my best friend right now, and I just worry that matzo won't do the trick. My previous pregnancies never took place over Pesach, so this is a first.
On a much more positive note, I have had some strange cravings at various times:
- Pineapple
- Caesar salad
- Poultry
- Potato salad
- Chocolate frozen yogurt
- Orange juice
Maybe I should call myself the new improved Rivka. No longer (for now) depressed. Just hormone-enhanced. ;)
Thursday, February 22, 2007
It's Adar; reconciling happiness and depression
I never really thought about this until this year, but how do we reconcile the fun and good-natured wish of, be happy--it's Adar! with the fact that some people have really good reasons for being unable to be happy and are not necessarily in control of whether they are happy or not? When I'm in the midst of a depression, I simply cannot just be happy.
It's everywhere now, on signs and emails and web sites and mailings from the shul. I so want to be happy, whether it's Adar or not, but there's only so much I can do. And I dread walking into shul and being met with a cheery smile and a why aren't you happy? It's Adar! Be happy!
I'm not saying we shouldn't encourage the increase of happiness, or that we should ban the signs and the greetings out of some politically correct concession to those who have every reason to be unhappy. Not at all. At the same time, I'm wondering if we're asking everyone to fake it 'til you make it. Just what do we mean by, be happy--it's Adar!
I just wonder how we reconcile it. Or if we do. And if we don't, why not?
It's everywhere now, on signs and emails and web sites and mailings from the shul. I so want to be happy, whether it's Adar or not, but there's only so much I can do. And I dread walking into shul and being met with a cheery smile and a why aren't you happy? It's Adar! Be happy!
I'm not saying we shouldn't encourage the increase of happiness, or that we should ban the signs and the greetings out of some politically correct concession to those who have every reason to be unhappy. Not at all. At the same time, I'm wondering if we're asking everyone to fake it 'til you make it. Just what do we mean by, be happy--it's Adar!
I just wonder how we reconcile it. Or if we do. And if we don't, why not?
Thursday, February 15, 2007
A priceless treasure
I've written a little bit about my mom. I do acknowledge that this was almost three years ago and was probably the worst time in her life. We had never gotten along and this was just one of the worst times for me.
When I told her as a teenager that I had found my place, had found where I belonged in Judaism, she went ballistic. She searched my room while I was in school for any sort of Judaica and anything she found she threw out or burned. I had to sneak books about Judaism home from the library and read them by flashlight in the middle of the night. A high school friend had given me a mezuzah with the scroll inside. I don't know if it was kosher or not but I guarded it like a priceless treasure.
My depressions in high school were bad enough that it came to the attention of the principal who called social services who threatened to have me removed from my home unless my parents got me into therapy. They denied there were problems. They denied all of the abuse. They set me up with a psychiatrist who wanted to drug me and when I refused they demanded I tell them about each of my sessions. When I refused to do that as well because the psychiatrist said anything I said was confidential so long as I wasn't a threat to myself or anyone else they refused to pay his bill. Therapy ended before it could do any good.
My track record with my mom is not good. So please allow me some shock and surprise in response to the email I received from her tonight. I wrote to her and told her about this latest depression, about maybe having to be hospitalized, about adjusting my meds. The times I've told her about previous depressions she's told me many of the things I suggested were not good choices for someone who's depressed. I expected more of the same but decided honesty in telling her what was going on with me was preferable to ignoring her.
I got nothing of the sort. I got an email that sounded genuinely concerned and supportive. She even asked what she could do long distance. She has never asked that before. I know people can change but I am stunned. I wonder if it has something to do with her having a new relationship. If so I hope he stays forever. Her email left me feeling like I wanted to call her and not just email back. I'm a little scared that she might not be the same way on the telephone but it may be worth the risk.
Like the mezuzah from all those years ago this is an email I will treat like a priceless treasure. My mom reaching out to me in a loving way. That really is priceless.
When I told her as a teenager that I had found my place, had found where I belonged in Judaism, she went ballistic. She searched my room while I was in school for any sort of Judaica and anything she found she threw out or burned. I had to sneak books about Judaism home from the library and read them by flashlight in the middle of the night. A high school friend had given me a mezuzah with the scroll inside. I don't know if it was kosher or not but I guarded it like a priceless treasure.
My depressions in high school were bad enough that it came to the attention of the principal who called social services who threatened to have me removed from my home unless my parents got me into therapy. They denied there were problems. They denied all of the abuse. They set me up with a psychiatrist who wanted to drug me and when I refused they demanded I tell them about each of my sessions. When I refused to do that as well because the psychiatrist said anything I said was confidential so long as I wasn't a threat to myself or anyone else they refused to pay his bill. Therapy ended before it could do any good.
My track record with my mom is not good. So please allow me some shock and surprise in response to the email I received from her tonight. I wrote to her and told her about this latest depression, about maybe having to be hospitalized, about adjusting my meds. The times I've told her about previous depressions she's told me many of the things I suggested were not good choices for someone who's depressed. I expected more of the same but decided honesty in telling her what was going on with me was preferable to ignoring her.
I got nothing of the sort. I got an email that sounded genuinely concerned and supportive. She even asked what she could do long distance. She has never asked that before. I know people can change but I am stunned. I wonder if it has something to do with her having a new relationship. If so I hope he stays forever. Her email left me feeling like I wanted to call her and not just email back. I'm a little scared that she might not be the same way on the telephone but it may be worth the risk.
Like the mezuzah from all those years ago this is an email I will treat like a priceless treasure. My mom reaching out to me in a loving way. That really is priceless.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Jewish culture versus personal comfort
I saw my counselor today and things are underway to get me in to see the physician's assistant who is supervised by a psychiatrist. It could be a few weeks, but it's a good recommendation from my counselor who has known me for four years, and the two of them can work together to make sure my treatment is appropriate. I do believe my counselor is an excellent advocate for me.
I talked to her some about being Unseen at shul and about my hopes for our shul's future. While she is not Jewish, she had a perspective I had not considered.
She suggested that it may be cultural. Not like Jewish culture versus Christian culture, but like geographic culture, how people are socially different in New England than they are in the Pacific Northwest than they are in the South than they are in America's heartland. She said it sounded like it had a lot to do with their comfort level.
This is my personal space, she said making a kind of boundary around her. I immediately thought of the Talmud's concept of a personal courtyard. Then she said, people believe anything outside of their space has nothing to do with them. They are focused on what is immediate and in their comfort zone.
This would explain the shul kiddush turned high school cafeteria. People see someone crying, think oh, that's not comfortable, let's go back over here to people I know who are happy and up. It's comfortable, I know them, and they can be in my personal space/courtyard.
I personally do not believe this is what Jewish community is all about. I actually do not believe this is what my rabbi thinks Jewish community is all about, though I cannot speak for him. My observations of his behavior and the issues he is passionate about and the words he speaks from the bima tell me that he would prefer we care a little more for one another. I have no idea why I never heard back from him about meeting last Friday, but I do know it was a very busy week and a lot of unanticipated demands of his time and maybe he didn't even get that last email. Or maybe he was just overwhelmed with everything else going on and I slipped through the cracks again. I don't know.
Although I have thought more than once about making Aliyah, it is not something my family can do right now. Maybe in the future. So I do not have the different sort of community in Israel. I am limited to the Jewish community in which I live, and if it is a cultural behavior then people are probably going to have to want to work hard to attain a different level of comfort and community that is within their personal space.
But the alternative is that people like me continue to cry for help and wonder if anyone other than G-d hears them.
I talked to her some about being Unseen at shul and about my hopes for our shul's future. While she is not Jewish, she had a perspective I had not considered.
She suggested that it may be cultural. Not like Jewish culture versus Christian culture, but like geographic culture, how people are socially different in New England than they are in the Pacific Northwest than they are in the South than they are in America's heartland. She said it sounded like it had a lot to do with their comfort level.
This is my personal space, she said making a kind of boundary around her. I immediately thought of the Talmud's concept of a personal courtyard. Then she said, people believe anything outside of their space has nothing to do with them. They are focused on what is immediate and in their comfort zone.
This would explain the shul kiddush turned high school cafeteria. People see someone crying, think oh, that's not comfortable, let's go back over here to people I know who are happy and up. It's comfortable, I know them, and they can be in my personal space/courtyard.
I personally do not believe this is what Jewish community is all about. I actually do not believe this is what my rabbi thinks Jewish community is all about, though I cannot speak for him. My observations of his behavior and the issues he is passionate about and the words he speaks from the bima tell me that he would prefer we care a little more for one another. I have no idea why I never heard back from him about meeting last Friday, but I do know it was a very busy week and a lot of unanticipated demands of his time and maybe he didn't even get that last email. Or maybe he was just overwhelmed with everything else going on and I slipped through the cracks again. I don't know.
Although I have thought more than once about making Aliyah, it is not something my family can do right now. Maybe in the future. So I do not have the different sort of community in Israel. I am limited to the Jewish community in which I live, and if it is a cultural behavior then people are probably going to have to want to work hard to attain a different level of comfort and community that is within their personal space.
But the alternative is that people like me continue to cry for help and wonder if anyone other than G-d hears them.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Tell us what more we can be doing
My rabbi said that yesterday. At the time I didn't know how to answer.
I talked with my husband at greath length this morning about yesterday. We talked about whether expecting true community, people caring about one another, was unrealistic. We talked about the fact that this was not an isolated incident, for me or for others.
We know people who have left the shul entirely because they did not feel supported. We know people who no longer stay for the kiddush luncheon because no one talks to them unless they initiate it. We know people who never receive invitations to Shabbos dinner or a Seder.
I don't know if the rabbi knows this or not. I don't know if he knows that new members are welcomed and embraced in proportion to the amount of money they make, what they can offer the shul, or their ties to long-established members of the shul. We have been members here for almost twelve years and we would not be considered long-established members.
I don't know if he knows that during the kiddush luncheon or any other social time, people gravitate toward their own social circles and tend to ignore everyone else. I don't know if he knows that if you are not wealthy or not politically connected or not related to someone popular in the shul, it is easy to be marginalized.
I don't know if he realizes that social events, including after shul on Shabbos, is just like high school all over again. But whether he knows it or not, I think he needs to hear it from us. I think we owe it to him, to the congregation, to all those who have left, are considering leaving, and those who have yet to be disappointed and cast aside, to tell him.
He cannot legislate community. He cannot force others to care. No one can. But I am sure there are ways, inexpensive easy ways to drive home the point that we all have an obligation to one another. Even if we ourselves are not in a position to help right now, we have an obligation to find someone who can.
A commenter asked, Do you usually stop to comfort someone who is crying and upset? The answer is yes, I do. And if for some reason I am hurting too much myself, I will--and have--found others who I know can do something. I am not particularly extroverted, even in the best of times. I find it very hard to trust people. But I know what it's like to be in pain and be Unseen. So I do my best to See people.
I see people who want to join a conversation but don't know how and so I ask them a question to include them. I see women nursing their infants in a special sitting area next to the women's restroom and looking like they need something but don't want to bother anyone. I always ask and in particular offer to get them a glass of water. I know how thirsty I got when I was nursing. I see people who are sitting by themselves at a table and I ask if they would like some company. I make a point of looking for new faces, people who are not already engaged in conversation, people who are looking a little lost, and I ask if they are visiting or new members. I often offer to introduce them to a dozen other people I know.
Even as shy as I am, it is not hard to do this. The questions are easy: can I get you something? Would you like some company? Are you new here? But one has to See these people first.
The same commenter said that a more likely reason for not saying anything is not knowing how to proceed and how to offer comfort. This is a problem that has a solution. This is something more that the shul can be doing. We have offered classes in bikkur cholim, how to visit the sick. Why could we not offer information, even from the bima, about how to care for one another? How to ask? What to ask?
If the congregation simply does not know, we can fix that. If they do not care or do not want to see, then we have a bigger problem.
My husband and I are going to try to see our rabbi about this in the next week. This is bigger than just my not being seen. This is about much more than me. This affects all of us. It may not be me who is Unseen next time. I want to spare them the pain I am going through now.
I talked with my husband at greath length this morning about yesterday. We talked about whether expecting true community, people caring about one another, was unrealistic. We talked about the fact that this was not an isolated incident, for me or for others.
We know people who have left the shul entirely because they did not feel supported. We know people who no longer stay for the kiddush luncheon because no one talks to them unless they initiate it. We know people who never receive invitations to Shabbos dinner or a Seder.
I don't know if the rabbi knows this or not. I don't know if he knows that new members are welcomed and embraced in proportion to the amount of money they make, what they can offer the shul, or their ties to long-established members of the shul. We have been members here for almost twelve years and we would not be considered long-established members.
I don't know if he knows that during the kiddush luncheon or any other social time, people gravitate toward their own social circles and tend to ignore everyone else. I don't know if he knows that if you are not wealthy or not politically connected or not related to someone popular in the shul, it is easy to be marginalized.
I don't know if he realizes that social events, including after shul on Shabbos, is just like high school all over again. But whether he knows it or not, I think he needs to hear it from us. I think we owe it to him, to the congregation, to all those who have left, are considering leaving, and those who have yet to be disappointed and cast aside, to tell him.
He cannot legislate community. He cannot force others to care. No one can. But I am sure there are ways, inexpensive easy ways to drive home the point that we all have an obligation to one another. Even if we ourselves are not in a position to help right now, we have an obligation to find someone who can.
One of the basic fundamentals of Judaism is that Kol Yisrael arevim zeh lazeh. A Jew does not live isolated from the rest of the world, nor can he be concerned merely with his own existence and survival. Jews must reach out and give of themselves to their fellow Jews.
A commenter asked, Do you usually stop to comfort someone who is crying and upset? The answer is yes, I do. And if for some reason I am hurting too much myself, I will--and have--found others who I know can do something. I am not particularly extroverted, even in the best of times. I find it very hard to trust people. But I know what it's like to be in pain and be Unseen. So I do my best to See people.
I see people who want to join a conversation but don't know how and so I ask them a question to include them. I see women nursing their infants in a special sitting area next to the women's restroom and looking like they need something but don't want to bother anyone. I always ask and in particular offer to get them a glass of water. I know how thirsty I got when I was nursing. I see people who are sitting by themselves at a table and I ask if they would like some company. I make a point of looking for new faces, people who are not already engaged in conversation, people who are looking a little lost, and I ask if they are visiting or new members. I often offer to introduce them to a dozen other people I know.
Even as shy as I am, it is not hard to do this. The questions are easy: can I get you something? Would you like some company? Are you new here? But one has to See these people first.
The same commenter said that a more likely reason for not saying anything is not knowing how to proceed and how to offer comfort. This is a problem that has a solution. This is something more that the shul can be doing. We have offered classes in bikkur cholim, how to visit the sick. Why could we not offer information, even from the bima, about how to care for one another? How to ask? What to ask?
If the congregation simply does not know, we can fix that. If they do not care or do not want to see, then we have a bigger problem.
My husband and I are going to try to see our rabbi about this in the next week. This is bigger than just my not being seen. This is about much more than me. This affects all of us. It may not be me who is Unseen next time. I want to spare them the pain I am going through now.
Support exists on the Jblogosphere
I want to say a very sincere thank you to Jack who said last week he would include me in this week's Haveil Havalim without my having to submit a post. It really means a lot to me that he offered support.
And thanks also to all those who have commented, who read regularly whether they comment or not, and who take what they read here to make the world a little less painful for themselves or others.
And thanks also to all those who have commented, who read regularly whether they comment or not, and who take what they read here to make the world a little less painful for themselves or others.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
What would I want my congregation to know? Part III
An anonymous letter to my congregation:
I write to you today as one of the Unseen. It hurts to not be seen. It hurts even more to suffer alone and in silence.
I have a mental illness, depression in particular. I hide it well most of the time.
Today I did not hide it. I cried openly in shul. I trembled from the sheer pain of it, surrounded by some two hundred people, during the kiddush luncheon that followed, and still you did not see me. I stumbled out of the social hall, blinded by tears I could not control and sobs that left me unable to breathe, and still no one saw me.
I took refuge in the chapel and sobbed aloud. In the past I would hide in the bathroom, taking great pains to silence my tears when anyone came in. Today I did not. I sought solace, but I did not hide. People came into the chapel for various reasons: to look for a lost tallis, read the newspaper, find a book in the library. Even still, I remained Unseen.
When my sobs exhausted themselves and I found my peace in emotional numbness, I rose to leave the chapel, falling onto a chair in my weakened state. One man remained in the chapel, facing me. He did not even bother to look up. I left the chapel, Unseen.
I made my way to a class. At one point I was standing in the middle of a crowd. Two dozen or more people were close enough to me that accidental contact was inevitable. I was crying, wiping tears, choking through my breaths. I was in your midst, and still I remained Unseen.
Two women who already know me and know I've been struggling with this for the better part of a month did stop me on my way and expressed concern. After being surrounded by my congregation for four hours by then, I was finally seen. But only by those who already knew of my condition. And as a side note, every single of one of those are converts. What does that say?
My rabbi called after me. I was shaking and doing everything possible to hold back the tears. I was not successful. He said while hospitalization was not an attractive option, the results I could get were positive. He said a misheberach for me. He mis-remembered my Hebrew name, leaving off part of it. I didn't know if that invalidated it, but I was too shaky to correct him.
I entered late to the class, which was populated by people I know. You know me. But you did not see me. The teacher asked my opinion on the topic, and I somehow managed to push my brain into something resembling coherent thought. My voice as I answered was clearly one that had been crying. My eyes were red; my hands still grasped a damp tissue just in case.
The teacher was quite pleased with my answer and the discussion continued. I didn't trust my voice to contribute further. When the class ended, people left. No one said anything to me about my demeanor. You who were in the class with me have known me for a dozen years. You are part of the lay leadership of the shul. I respect you and your learning and your commitment to the congregation. Why did you not see me?
Perhaps all of you in the congregation had too much going on in your own lives today. Perhaps you saw only what you wanted to see. Perhaps you saw me and thought to yourself, it's not my business.
On behalf of the Unseen, it is your business. If we are not sensitive to the pain and needs of each other in the congregation, what business do we have even being there? You may not be able to fix the problem. But you can show that you care. You can ask if I'm okay, if I need help, if I need to talk to someone, if I need to be alone.
But silence only tells me that you do not care. You do not see me. I am less than unimportant; I do not even exist.
My congregation, my Jewish community, my adopted family has let me down. That the only people who saw me other than my rabbi are all converts says nothing good about the Jewish community.
I do not understand why you will not see me. It hurts as much as my depression attacks my spirit. I am left only with the hope that you will hear me now. Do not assume that a fellow Jew in obvious pain is none of your business. Do not keep your blinders on in shul. If you cannot attend to someone yourself, find someone who can. Go get the rabbi if necessary. Do not walk away and assume someone else will come along.
Good questions to ask include: Do you need help? Are you safe? Do you need to be alone (if safety is not a concern)? Do you want to talk? Can I get someone for you?
Use your common sense. Depression kills. It kills the spirit, but it is also a leading cause of suicide, either intentional or by accident when someone with depression cuts himself or herself to relieve the pain, to be seen, and accidentally cuts too deep or the wrong thing and can't get help in time.
Taking one small minute out of your day, out of your life, to see someone in obvious pain could literally save a life. And it is the only Jewish thing to do.
I write to you today as one of the Unseen. It hurts to not be seen. It hurts even more to suffer alone and in silence.
I have a mental illness, depression in particular. I hide it well most of the time.
Today I did not hide it. I cried openly in shul. I trembled from the sheer pain of it, surrounded by some two hundred people, during the kiddush luncheon that followed, and still you did not see me. I stumbled out of the social hall, blinded by tears I could not control and sobs that left me unable to breathe, and still no one saw me.
I took refuge in the chapel and sobbed aloud. In the past I would hide in the bathroom, taking great pains to silence my tears when anyone came in. Today I did not. I sought solace, but I did not hide. People came into the chapel for various reasons: to look for a lost tallis, read the newspaper, find a book in the library. Even still, I remained Unseen.
When my sobs exhausted themselves and I found my peace in emotional numbness, I rose to leave the chapel, falling onto a chair in my weakened state. One man remained in the chapel, facing me. He did not even bother to look up. I left the chapel, Unseen.
I made my way to a class. At one point I was standing in the middle of a crowd. Two dozen or more people were close enough to me that accidental contact was inevitable. I was crying, wiping tears, choking through my breaths. I was in your midst, and still I remained Unseen.
Two women who already know me and know I've been struggling with this for the better part of a month did stop me on my way and expressed concern. After being surrounded by my congregation for four hours by then, I was finally seen. But only by those who already knew of my condition. And as a side note, every single of one of those are converts. What does that say?
My rabbi called after me. I was shaking and doing everything possible to hold back the tears. I was not successful. He said while hospitalization was not an attractive option, the results I could get were positive. He said a misheberach for me. He mis-remembered my Hebrew name, leaving off part of it. I didn't know if that invalidated it, but I was too shaky to correct him.
I entered late to the class, which was populated by people I know. You know me. But you did not see me. The teacher asked my opinion on the topic, and I somehow managed to push my brain into something resembling coherent thought. My voice as I answered was clearly one that had been crying. My eyes were red; my hands still grasped a damp tissue just in case.
The teacher was quite pleased with my answer and the discussion continued. I didn't trust my voice to contribute further. When the class ended, people left. No one said anything to me about my demeanor. You who were in the class with me have known me for a dozen years. You are part of the lay leadership of the shul. I respect you and your learning and your commitment to the congregation. Why did you not see me?
Perhaps all of you in the congregation had too much going on in your own lives today. Perhaps you saw only what you wanted to see. Perhaps you saw me and thought to yourself, it's not my business.
On behalf of the Unseen, it is your business. If we are not sensitive to the pain and needs of each other in the congregation, what business do we have even being there? You may not be able to fix the problem. But you can show that you care. You can ask if I'm okay, if I need help, if I need to talk to someone, if I need to be alone.
But silence only tells me that you do not care. You do not see me. I am less than unimportant; I do not even exist.
My congregation, my Jewish community, my adopted family has let me down. That the only people who saw me other than my rabbi are all converts says nothing good about the Jewish community.
I do not understand why you will not see me. It hurts as much as my depression attacks my spirit. I am left only with the hope that you will hear me now. Do not assume that a fellow Jew in obvious pain is none of your business. Do not keep your blinders on in shul. If you cannot attend to someone yourself, find someone who can. Go get the rabbi if necessary. Do not walk away and assume someone else will come along.
Good questions to ask include: Do you need help? Are you safe? Do you need to be alone (if safety is not a concern)? Do you want to talk? Can I get someone for you?
Use your common sense. Depression kills. It kills the spirit, but it is also a leading cause of suicide, either intentional or by accident when someone with depression cuts himself or herself to relieve the pain, to be seen, and accidentally cuts too deep or the wrong thing and can't get help in time.
Taking one small minute out of your day, out of your life, to see someone in obvious pain could literally save a life. And it is the only Jewish thing to do.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
How to respectfully ignore someone?
In a previous post, I talked a little bit in the comments about a handful of not so nice people at shul. I got an e-mail from one of those people today. She was angry because when I saw her last at shul, she was verbally bashing another group of people and even though everyone else who was listening to her were just nodding silently, I couldn't stand it anymore.
I probably shouldn't have said anything, but all I could think of was how horrible these people would feel if it got back to them. This woman is one of those who thinks she's right and everyone else is wrong and she'll only be nice to you if you agree with her. I was just so overcome with emotion, and I thought very carefully about what I was going to say because I didn't want want to make it worse but I wanted it to stop.
I told her, this is what I hear you saying, and I summarized it as, you don't like ... because they ... That was all I said. My summary was exactly what she'd been saying, and the others around later confirmed that. But when I summarized it, the irrationality of her dislike and subsequent verbal attack on these people was evident. She took it to mean I was calling her a racist.
She's very involved in shul, socially and politically. I want to just ignore her, but I don't know how. We aren't a huge congregation, and I'm sure to run into her now and then. I'm also apprehensive about retaliation from her.
Do I just avoid looking at her? Do I look at her and feel sad that she's carrying around so much anger? Do I keep a wide physical space between us? I have a bad poker face and when I'm feeling low it's very hard not to take things so personally.
I don't know how to avoid her and retain my self-worth. She's very angry at me and even though I think I handled it as best I could, I can't help but feel like I'm in the wrong. Am I? Do I just talk to my rabbi about all of this? I don't want to feel scared or unwelcome in my own shul.
I probably shouldn't have said anything, but all I could think of was how horrible these people would feel if it got back to them. This woman is one of those who thinks she's right and everyone else is wrong and she'll only be nice to you if you agree with her. I was just so overcome with emotion, and I thought very carefully about what I was going to say because I didn't want want to make it worse but I wanted it to stop.
I told her, this is what I hear you saying, and I summarized it as, you don't like ... because they ... That was all I said. My summary was exactly what she'd been saying, and the others around later confirmed that. But when I summarized it, the irrationality of her dislike and subsequent verbal attack on these people was evident. She took it to mean I was calling her a racist.
She's very involved in shul, socially and politically. I want to just ignore her, but I don't know how. We aren't a huge congregation, and I'm sure to run into her now and then. I'm also apprehensive about retaliation from her.
Do I just avoid looking at her? Do I look at her and feel sad that she's carrying around so much anger? Do I keep a wide physical space between us? I have a bad poker face and when I'm feeling low it's very hard not to take things so personally.
I don't know how to avoid her and retain my self-worth. She's very angry at me and even though I think I handled it as best I could, I can't help but feel like I'm in the wrong. Am I? Do I just talk to my rabbi about all of this? I don't want to feel scared or unwelcome in my own shul.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
What would I want my congregation to know? Part II
If there's a book called The Care and Feeding of Your Depressed Friend, this should be a chapter. The following are taken directly from my experience. Unfortunately.
What not to say to someone who is depressed or bipolar:
What not to say to someone who is depressed or bipolar:
- Snap out of it / get over it
Believe me, if I could, I would. In a heartbeat. Or less. - You're too sensitive
Maybe, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm struggling with an emotional disorder. - Everyone gets depressed
Everyone can have situational depressions; far fewer have chemical depressions when nothing is wrong in their lives. - What's wrong? What do you have to be depressed about?
Nothing, and that's the point. I endure terribly low depressions even when life is quite good. - Stop whining. Nobody likes to be around someone who is sad/cries/complains all the time
Which is exactly why I don't want to tell my friends or ask for support. And then it's even harder to get better. - Lighten up / you need to toughen up
Thicker skin will not change how I feel inside. - Get over yourself already / Why is it always about you? / You're just trying to get attention
There are far less painful ways to get attention, if that's what I wanted. I withdraw and isolate because I don't want attention. And it's about me because this is what's going on with me. This is my reality. Comments like this also contribute to my not wanting to ask for support. - This again? Didn't we go through this a month/year/whenever ago? / I'm not your therapist
That's the problem with episodic, cycling depression, the problem with bipolar: it always comes back, no matter what I do. I can find tools to cope, control the worst of it with medication, but it will always be there. Many people are happy to help--once. But for those of us with cycling depression or bipolar once usually isn't enough. I know that I may need extra support as often as 2-4 times a year. And when people ask, this again? it further reduces my willingness to ask for the support I need. - It's not Jewish to be depressed / It's a mitzvah to be happy
Believe me, if I could, I would. I'd much rather be happy. But being happy is not one of the 613 mitzvot, and calling on G-d for help from the depths of despair seems to me to be exceptionally Jewish. Besides, where or when--ever--in our history were Jews always happy? - You owe it to your family/husband/children to ignore this; they need you more than you need to be depressed / You could feel better if you only tried hard enough
Again, it's not a choice. It's not something I can ignore or put behind me. It's not something I can control any more than someone can ignore their asthma or diabetes or irritable bowel syndrome. It is my reality and I have to work within it. And sometimes that means I have to take care of myself before I can take care of my family. - I know what you mean / I've been depressed, too
I don't know how to take this. Lots of people have had situational depression, feeling down because of a trauma, unemployment, death, financial problems, divorce, infertility, terminal diagnosis, war, etc. Far fewer really know what it's like to have a chemical imbalance: major depressive disorder, bipolar disorder. How do I know you really know what I mean? Until I do, I'm more likely to see this as patroizing, even if it's entirely well-intentioned. - This too, shall pass
Yes, that's true. And I remind myself that in a few days or weeks or months, provided I don't harm myself, it will eventually get better. But eventually doesn't help me now. And now is when I need help. - What can I do to help? ** See comments, please. I will be writing more about this.
This may be the most-asked question and the hardest to answer. If I'm already in a depression, I won't know what you can do. I simply can't think. It's better to find a time when I'm stable and create a written plan for the next depression: this is what you can do, this is how you can help, this is what I need. Maybe it's child care for a few hours or going to the grocery store for me or making some telephone calls or helping me to clean my kitchen or maybe it's just sitting with me while I bawl my eyes out.
I know people who have done training in bikkur cholim, visiting the sick. One of the things they learned is not to ask, what can I do to help? because quite often the sick person doesn't know.
Instead, offer something you know you can do: run errands, babysit, cook a meal (beware of kashrut issues), help clean, visit, make phone calls, enlist other support, walk the dog, check out books from the library. Think about things you would want help with when you're sick.
Finally, please be understanding. I may be too embarrassed for you to see my house after a week or more of depression where I can't clean. I may not want to impose. When you offer to do something, I often see it as a trade, even if you don't. You'll do this for me and then when you need something, you'll call in the favor. Of course, I would do everything I can for my friends, if I'm able. But I can't guarantee when I'll be able, and I dislike feeling that I owe someone something. So I may say no because I want to avoid the debt. If you offer, and if you mean it, make sure you offer with no strings attached. - I know your plate is full, but can you help us with this / We could really use your help / I helped you when you were depressed, now it's your turn
When I'm depressed, I can't. I simply can not. And guilt trips will breed resentment. Besides, I self-guilt myself better than anyone else can. When I'm hypomanic, I will absolutely help, but at a cost, because I tend to overcommit when I'm hypomanic. And my emotional cycles work such that at the height of my hypomania, something insignificant will happen and trigger a crash. Within literally minutes, I can go from laughing extrovert to sobbing negative self-worth. I do my best to hide it. If I'm in public, I find a restroom and ride out the initial crash there. If you know I have a lot going on, please consider not asking me to do something more. Or ask me to do it when I'm in a better emotional state.
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