Playing with fire

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?

You don't need OCD to need a fixed place in shul

I hadn't spoken with my friend D in a while, until yesterday, when D called with new year's wishes and to check in. D reads this blog regularly and occasionally calls to talk with me about something I've written. (D was the one who got me to start this blog in the first place, since I was horrible about keeping a written diary.)

My last post about being embarrassed to admit that I was afraid of losing my seat in shul caught D's attention.

Why are you embarrassed to say you want to sit in the same seat at shul?

Because in comparison to everything else, it seems so mundane. So insignificant.

And yet you write--without embarrassment I presume--that having a seat at a table with others for a meal at shul is quite significant. How are they different?

(I hate it when D points out my inconsistencies.)

They are. Let me see if I can explain. Knowing that you have a place to sit, to daven, to be in shul without worrying about taking someone else's seat or breaking some protocol is something I consider important. So important, that I'm always thinking of people who come in after me, and what if they don't have a seat? I find myself wanting to make myself smaller or sometimes even to disappear so they can have my seat and won't have to go through the discomfort I've felt. But at meals, which are far less frequent than once a week to begin with, usually everyone else is already seated, so I'm not as worried about people coming in after me.

Rivka, I've lost count of the number of assumptions you've made in that explanation. It sounds to me like you value having a regular, fixed place to daven, a makom kavua, and you value having a place to sit at a meal where you're valued as a person and not just a mother. Yet you seem to be saying that you don't deserve the first and you do deserve the second. I'm curious why you don't feel you deserve a place in shul?

I don't know. It just seems like others are more deserving.

Based on what? Do you think G-d wants you to disappear so someone else can have your seat? Do you think the congregation wants that? The rabbi?

No.

I don't think so either. In fact, I think they all want you to take your seat and inspire others to sit with you.

I don't know how to do that.

I know my feelings of "deservedness" are related to my history and my depression, not to mention my self-esteem. But even when my head understands that it's okay to need a fixed place, my heart doesn't accept that I'm worthy enough.

I cried at shul

Against my instincts to stay hidden, stay unseen while I'm feeling so much pain, I went to shul. I didn't really want to go. I knew I needed to go.

I went figuring I could hold it back, hide it, drag out my public face again. But on the way there, I remembered D's words:

"From everything you've said, Rivka, you might as well have had a neon sign above your head flashing DON'T ASK ME ABOUT ME. You didn't give anyone an opportunity, much less an opening. If you want someone to come in and sit down and have a real conversation with you, not just idle chat, you have to at least unlock the door."

Opportunity and opening, I thought. If I really want help, if I really want what I'm saying here that I want, I have to give them opportunity and opening. I have to give the congregation and the rabbi the chance to be successful. Only I can do that. If I hide it and no one notices, and I'm consequently angry or resentful or hurting because no one saw the hurt, then it's because I set them up to fail. That's not fair to any of us.

So okay. I won't lie. I won't hide. But I don't have to advertise it, either. That was my plan.

Have you ever noticed how seldom things go "according to plan"? Especially when G-d is involved?

My husband told me later that I had no sooner walked in when people wanted to know what was wrong. I didn't think it showed that much. But I was avoiding eye contact, to keep it together.

I made it before Kriat Sh'ma. Even my whisper had tears in it. Halfway through the Shacharit Amidah, I couldn't keep it in. I was silent, but my body was trembling, shaking, and I couldn't stop it. Rogue tears darkened the pages of my siddur.

I had better luck during the Torah service. I can get distracted easily by a good book. But then at the Chatzi Kaddish I lost it again. It was all I could do to stay upright. I barely remember the Haftarah. Ashrei did not make me happy. I silently sobbed my way through Musaf.

And in the midst of this, I don't even remember when exactly--it was all a blur, the rabbi called me aside and said, can you stay a few minutes after shul so we can talk?

Opportunity, I reminded myself. Opening. Don't run from this. Don't hide. Don't ask the question if you're not willing to accept the answer. I said yes.

After shul a few people came up to me. A couple asked how I was doing. One woman said she didn't mean to pry and if I wanted to be alone, that was okay, she wouldn't be offended, but it looked like I was hurting and did I want to talk? We talked a little, nothing about how I was feeling. I didn't want to get into it right then. But I accepted her gesture of friendship and was deeply touched.

And then the rabbi approached me, to see if I would talk with him. I said I would. We went to a quiet, yet still public, space. He asked me, what's going on?

That was the question I didn't know how to answer. That's what makes this whole thing so [insert profane word of your choice here] hard. Because there is nothing going on. No marital problems. No financial problems (far from rich, but at least we're not broke right now). No unemployment. No acute illnesses. All's well with my external world, baruch Hashem. The problem is all in my head.

So I told him. I told him in record time (about four minutes--there was a clock on the wall) about my far-too-few ups and my far-too-many downs and how this time was a really bad one. I told him about reliving the memories around my father's death, about some of the horrible things I had to hear and experience in the aftermath. I told him about my counseling sessions, that I had a good counselor but I was missing the Jewish piece, something she simply couldn't give me. I told him about the medication, about how it works most of the time and what happens when it doesn't. I told him about needing to stay in the moment, about the ice cream headache without eating any, about how fifteen years ago I stayed in the moment by cutting myself and now I resorted to less bloody means.

I watched him wince as I said that.

He asked some questions, ran through some ideas. I think he said he wanted to meet with me this week, that he'd make time, but now, some eleven hours later, I'm not sure if he still wants that or if that was only if I wasn't up to talking today.

We've got to get you better, he said. He made a misheberach for me. It was evident in every movement, every word, his deep sigh when I finished telling my story, his wince when I talked about the cutting, that he cared. That he hurt for me.

It was very hard for me. It was frightening, being that open. But it was a relief, too. It brought a tiny ray of hope. I just don't know if I can risk being hurt by holding on to that.

What would I want my congregation to know? Part 1

D asked the following question earlier: what specifically do you want your rabbi or even the entire congregation to know so that your experience in shul feels safer or more comforting? And which is more important - safety or comfort?

I was just talking with my husband about opening up at shul, based on D's suggestions here. My husband said, there's not much point in opening up to some people at shul, like ... and ... because they're going to have their own agenda running.

In addition, people who know something about my struggles have been at a loss for what to say. A refuah sh'leima can seem trite, perhaps, to the person offering it, and maybe some say nothing because of that, but it actually does make a difference to me.

I've been to funerals for close relatives of friends, I've added my handful of dirt on the coffin. I've also been the mourner. Anyone who has been touched by death - pretty much all of us, I'd assume - knows that there are no magic words, nothing that eases the pain. We have our formulaic saying, "Hamakom yinachem eschem b'soch sha'ar availay Tzion v'Yerushalayim" - May G-d comfort you amongst the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.

But what does one say for someone in pain, emotional or physical, for which there is no cure and no end?

I won't try to answer that for others. I think it's individual, as unique as the person's experience. But I can try to answer it for me.

My husband's words made me realize something. The people he'd advised I not open up to, the ones with their own agendas, are trying to do one of two things: rescue people or fix people.

Opening up to them would be to invite a prescription for my ills and not much more. Some are uncomfortable around people in pain and need to make it (the pain, not the person) go away. Some need to be needed, so they seek out people to fix. Some just need to be right, to have all the answers.

None of these are particularly helpful to me. I have therapy, I have medication, I have my deep belief in and love for G-d. What I don't have enough of is supportive friends. Friends who don't try to fix or rescue. Friends who can simply listen with an understanding ear. Friends who maybe understand, maybe don't, but are honest about it and want to understand.

Some of that is my fault. My fault for not trusting people enough to be open with them. I have friends who know I have "bad days." But I've made sure they have no idea just how bad. I want to protect them from that, or preserve our friendship because I'm certain if they knew, really knew, we wouldn't be friends anymore. Yet on some level I understand that I'm shooting myself in the foot, doing this. And depriving my friends of the opportunity to be there, if they so chose.

So part of my answer to D's question is this: I don't want to be fixed or rescued. I want someone to listen, to care.

I want to be understood. I want to be seen.

A conversation with D after shul

I told D that when I went to shul this past Shabbat, I thought about the question D had asked earlier, what would I want my rabbi, my congregation to know about my experience. I thought about safety and comfort. I kept all that in mind as I wandered among people during the kiddush luncheon after shul.

A few people said hi or wished me a Gut Shabbos or Shabbat Shalom. I returned their greetings. Only one person asked me how I was, though I usually assume most people don't really want to know. She might have, but I just said I was tired and asked about her. D makes me laugh when asking how I am and I say fine and then D says, that's nice, now tell me how you're really doing.

One woman shared with me a very moving story about her son returning to Judaism after a ten-year absence and how she felt about it. Another woman shared her frustration over writing a doctoral thesis. Yet another expressed disappointment over the tendency of others to gripe about a situation but never do anything to change it, or even to brainstorm possible solutions.

Over the course of an hour, I must have talked to half a dozen people, all of whom shared some tension in their lives, and it finally hit me. I'm very good, maybe too good, at deflecting attention off of me and onto the person I'm talking to. And people love to talk about themselves. We all do, for the most part.

Please don't get me wrong: I love to hear people share what they feel safe sharing about their lives. I'm endlessly intrigued by other people's careers and motivations and what brings them to make the choices they make in life. I know I'm a student of humanity and have been since I was a child. But what hit me was that what I was giving to others is what I wanted for myself.

I wanted someone to want to hear what was going on in my life as much as I wanted to hear them share. Safety and comfort are important, yes, but what I felt I was lacking at shul was someone who cared. And maybe people do, but I'm not getting that message.

I fear that if I came out and publicly admitted my emotional struggles, they'd see it as a ploy for attention, or making mountains out of molehills, or worse, they'd avoid or disregard me. On a few rare occasions, when I thought it was safe, I did disclose my disorder. None, not a single time, did it result in any sort of sensitivity. When I explained to one woman I had considered a friend how the anxiety involved makes me terrified - to the point of severe panic attacks - of making cold calls to solicit donations or volunteers and I asked to help in some other way, she simply dropped me from the committee. She hasn't talked to me since, and that was over a year ago.

It hurts. It hurts to be cast aside because of my limitations. I have seen this happen to others, and it is a sad reality in our shul. It hurts to think that I'm valued only for my contributions, financial or otherwise. I have seen this happen to others as well, some of whom have left the shul as a result. It is another sad reality. And it's devastating to think that in a real crisis, no one from the shul would be there for me.

I know that every time the words always, never, or no one enter my thinking, it's not true. Like Avraham Avinu arguing for the ten righteous in Sodom (not that I'm implying shul is anything like Sodom-it's not!), I am sure there are, if not fifty, at least ten people in the shul who would care. I just don't know how to find them.

When I told D all this, D told me the following (paraphrased, since I wasn't taking notes during our conversation):

They're not mind-readers, Rivka. When you give them a pat answer to their "How are you?" you may be telling them what they want to hear, but you may also be telling them that you don't want to talk about yourself. And when you keep the conversation focused on them, that can also be a sign not to pursue how you're really doing.

Or, I argued, they're just as happy to talk about themselves and even if I took the opportunity to say I'm having a really bad day, they'd give me a patronizing oh so sorry and go right back to talking about themselves. That's not a fear - that's actually happened. Repeatedly.

It comes down to what you want from the conversation, from that person. Is it an appropriate relationship to share something personal? If so, is it an appropriate time? Place? If your answers are all yes, then sometimes the initiation has to be up to you. You have to let them know that you need something more than small talk. And you need to be aware that they have to be in a place to give that to you, as well.

What about yesterday at shul?

From everything you've said, Rivka, you might as well have had a neon sign above your head flashing DON'T ASK ME ABOUT ME. You didn't give anyone an opportunity, much less an opening. If you want someone to come in and sit down and have a real conversation with you, not just idle chat, you have to at least unlock the door.

I don't know how to do that.

That's why you have therapy. Rivka, we've discussed and learned Torah for well over two decades. When you want to engage the texts, engage G-d, what does it start with? Always?

A question.

Change it from a noun into a verb. What do you have to do?

I have to ask.

Exactly. It's no different here. You don't go around shul looking for people who appear to be in distress so you can break down their personal barriers and drag the truth of what they're feeling out of them. But if they ask, you'd be there if you can. Put yourself in their place. If you were talking to someone who was intentionally aloof, would you really violate that in case, deep down, they wanted someone to care? Or would you respect their signals and give them their space?

Okay, I get it.

So we're back to my question. In order to unlock that door and invite someone in to have a real conversation with you, what do you need to feel safe, or to feel comfortable? What do they need to know before coming through that door?

(If I haven't mentioned it before, D is quite fond of metaphors.) I don't know.

Think about that. Maybe that's the key to unlocking the door.

We talked some more, but D's perspective--as usual--helped. Sometimes I think one of the major symptoms of depression is that I get too stuck in a perspective that's flawed. And maybe that's why my creative pursuits are so helpful, because they force me to think outside of my own perspective.

Meanwhile, I guess I still have questions to answer.

Being vulnerable

My sleep has been all messed up, not getting to sleep Saturday night until 4:45am. I guess that makes it Sunday morning. I was up at 9am. Last night I finally fell asleep just after midnight and was able to sleep until 8:30 this morning, but I feel horrible, like my body is lead and not flesh.

I talked with my friend D last night. More on that in a separate post. D has been a trusted friend since I was a child. How we've maintained a friendship that's lasted through school and adolescence and college and marriage, I'm not sure, but I'm grateful for it. D read my blog since we last talked and reminded me that I shouldn't neglect myself here in my pursuit of helping others understand.

It's easy for me to fall into a teaching mode about everything I've learned over the past 20+ years about depression and the strong relationship between religiosity/spirituality and mental health. It's much harder to make the conscious choice to type how I really feel, to allow myself to be vulnerable, even electronically.

Sometimes it's like admitting failure. I can't keep my house clean, can't give my children the experiences I think I should, can't hold down a job outside the home. In a society that values self-sufficiency, it is a huge blow to my self image.

And sometimes I do keep the house spotless, take the kids on fun excursions without another adult present, make a sale and bring in some money for the family. But sometimes isn't enough when I know that lurking around the next corner is a day or a week or a month where the best I can expect of myself is to get up and get dressed.

I do work in a creative field and I've found some small success selling the product I create. It helps to have that outlet, to know that people appreciate what I pour my soul into. Of course, criticism can cut just as deeply, and it takes a supreme act of self talk to remind myself that this is an opportunity to make it better next time. Either that or the critic had no idea what he or she was talking about.

But without this outlet, without this purpose, I don't know what I'd do. I'd be lost.

Ha'azina Tefilati

I was talking with D, a dear friend of mine, about depression, about how alone I felt, about how friendships and community and love seemed so very far away. I was already doing the other things D suggested--talking with my husband, seeing a therapist, taking my antidepressants regularly--and I said that it was so difficult to maintain my connection to Judaism, to G-d, to everything that flowed from that, when I was in the midst of this pain.

I mean, things in my life are actually going really well. Better than they have in quite some time. There's no reason for me to feel the way that I do, except that I do feel the way that I do. I feel like there's been a death in the family and I can't stop mourning. I feel like everything I love is on the verge of total disaster, even when it's not.

D has always had a penchant for returning to the text and encouraged me to do so again. I don't think there's a whole lot written about depression in Torah, I said. D disagreed, and suggested I take a closer look at Tehillim--Psalms. If ever there was a collection of writings about pain and aloneness, D said, it would be Tehillim. I found my tiny book of Tehillim and opened to a random page.

At least I think it was random. It hit me so strongly that I was immediately in tears. Someone did know how I felt! And later, when D suggested an anonymous blog since I have rarely been able to maintain an offline written journal, this Psalm--Psalm 55:2-7--seemed the obvious place to start.

It is from this dark depression that this blog name sprang:

ב הַאֲזִינָה אֱלֹהִים, תְּפִלָּתִי; וְאַל-תִּתְעַלַּם, מִתְּחִנָּתִי.

ג הַקְשִׁיבָה לִּי וַעֲנֵנִי; אָרִיד בְּשִׂיחִי וְאָהִימָה.

ד מִקּוֹל אוֹיֵב--מִפְּנֵי, עָקַת רָשָׁע: כִּי-יָמִיטוּ עָלַי אָוֶן, וּבְאַף יִשְׂטְמוּנִי.

ה לִבִּי, יָחִיל בְּקִרְבִּי; וְאֵימוֹת מָוֶת, נָפְלוּ עָלָי.

ו יִרְאָה וָרַעַד, יָבֹא בִי; וַתְּכַסֵּנִי, פַּלָּצוּת.

ז וָאֹמַר--מִי-יִתֶּן-לִי אֵבֶר, כַּיּוֹנָה: אָעוּפָה וְאֶשְׁכֹּנָה.

2 Give ear, O G-d, to my prayer; and hide not Thyself from my supplication.
3 Attend unto me, and hear me; I am distraught in my complaint, and will moan;
4 Because of the voice of the enemy, because of the oppression of the wicked; for they cast mischief upon me, and in anger they persecute me.
5 My heart is sorely pained within me; and the terrors of death are fallen upon me.
6 Fear and trembling come upon me, and horror has overwhelmed me.
7 And I said: 'Oh that I had wings like a dove! then would I fly away, and be at rest.