Category: Becoming Who I Am

The Confusion of Grief or The Grief of Confusion

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

So, my parents ashes have been sitting on the bookcase in my living room since their deaths. It’s been a while. It became normal seeing them up there and I didn’t think about it too much. Last October we planned a boat ride, here in Florida, to spread their ashes in the gulf. Apparently, our plan was not acceptable, and my mom caused a hurricane. Her timing was perfect. Scary even. She shut down the state of Florida. We got the message.

Frightened by the events of last year, we developed a new plan and successfully implemented it last week…with no natural disasters…people of the world are relieved. My wife and I drove to New York to visit my sister, brother-in-law, nephews, their wives and children. We enjoyed the drive mostly because it was nine hours less than a drive to Colorado and we got to drive through lots of states I had never been in. Turns out there are many states to go through between Florida and New York…the obvious ones, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia…and then there were a bunch more, Maryland, Pennsylvania, DC, Delaware, and New Jersey. There are so many states crammed into a ridiculously small area.

My sister planned a beautiful memorial for my parents, including food, their favorite drinks, a tent to stay out of the sun and great people. She really did it all and I’m so grateful to her. My nephew created an amazing slide show along with a playlist of my parent’s favorite songs. Everything was perfect.

Listening to everyone’s stories all week, I felt like an outsider looking in…separate from the people who belonged, who really knew my parents. So, I watched and listened. I tried to figure out what I was feeling. Sad? Guilty? Relieved? Numb? I thought numb was the right one. I felt so confused. Aha…that’s the one. Confused. Confused not by how I felt but by how I didn’t feel. I didn’t seem to feel what everyone else felt…a deep sense of loss. I didn’t cry. I was just quietly befuddled.

My nephews and brother-in-law spoke beautifully and emotionally, about what my parents meant to them. They said they received unconditional love and support from my parents…really? My nephew said that in my parent’s eyes he could do no wrong…seriously? That was not my experience of my parents at all. I experienced love based on performance and my performance was never good enough. And in their eyes, I did everything wrong. They rarely seemed happy with me. I felt confused. Perplexed and defective somehow.

It turns out my parents, especially my mom, could love, just not me. Other people spoke about their unending love. That confused me…and hurt. Why couldn’t my parents love me? What was so wrong about me? Still, after all this time, I asked myself, why does it matter? Why am I stuck in this place…this place of believing I’m not enough. When I was in my 20’s, I told my mom that I felt like she was disappointed in me and in who I was as a person. Her response was, “You don’t need my approval.” I said everyone wants their mom to be proud of them. She didn’t say anything else. I was devastated by that conversation. I had prepared for months to talk to her and share my feelings…which took a shitload of courage to do. For most people, it may not be an act of bravery to have an honest discussion with your mother but for me it was. It was huge…HUGE!

She confirmed all my fears by her words and then her silence. She destroyed me. More accurately, I let her destroy me. I risked emotionally opening to her, and she used my vulnerability as a weapon against me. I sat in my bathroom and sobbed for hours after our conversation. Too bad I didn’t learn from that…or maybe it’s good I didn’t learn. I didn’t learn to harden and build walls to defend myself. I believe that what doesn’t kill us can make us kinder if we allow it to. I am committed to softening my edges, not reinforcing them. My mom once told me it would be hard to be mean to me because I’m so kind. That was nice…for a minute. That’s all it took for her to tell me she hated my fucking guts, that I wasn’t a mother because I got divorced and gave my kids away, that I was the bad seed…it went on and on. I mistakenly reminded her of her comment on my kindness…she said nothing. The weight of that silence was hard to bear.

After the memorial I talked with my cousin about her feelings when her dad died. She had a complicated relationship with him like I did with my mom. I guess I was checking to see if I was crazy for feeling confused. I wasn’t. I brought my sister into the conversation and told her what we were talking about. I said we were discussing not being the favorite child and she agreed and said I wasn’t…she was. I told her about feeling like nothing I did was ever good enough. She said that it was true, nothing I did was ever good enough. So, there’s that. I appreciated her honesty. It was helpful to know what I felt and perceived were real…not just something I made up in my head. The affirmation was helpful, and painful. It might have been difficult for my sister too…to confirm something that she knows is painful for me. But it helped. It’s always good to find out you aren’t crazy.

So, I’m confused. Duh huh? I don’t know how to feel about my parents and their deaths. I know what I think I should feel. I should be sad and grieving. I should feel what everyone else feels. But really, I think it’s more important for me to be able to feel my own feelings and to feel the words that I say. Seems obvious, and it may be, but it ain’t easy. It’s scary to admit confusion about your parent’s death. To admit you don’t feel as sad or miss them like everyone else does.

So, is it confusion about grief or is grief causing my confusion? I’m not sure it matters to anyone, except me. I’m confused by how strongly other people feel the loss of my parents…the loss of their love and the loss of the wonderful relationship they had with them. I don’t feel like that at all…and that’s confusing. I feel like I should and that I’m a bad daughter because I don’t. I feel guilty for not feeling the right things…not grieving the right way. Whatever the fuck that means. But here’s the thing, I grieved for my parents for 12 years. For12 years we had no contact, before they lived with me in Florida. I grieved the loss of them from my life, and I grieved for what I wanted from my parents that I never got. I grieved that nothing I did was good enough, not the schools I attended, the degrees I earned, or the jobs I held. None of that was good enough because I wasn’t good enough. I craved unconditional love, understanding, kindness, acceptance…and their pride in me. Just because I’m me. I got none of that.

So, maybe it’s not so confusing. Maybe I’m done grieving. Maybe not. Living with my parents stirred up a ton of shit. There might be more to grieve or just more to let go of. You can’t let go of something unless you know what you lost. Maybe that’s where I am, coming to terms with what I lost. Most of what I lost happened years ago. Although now I’ve lost any possibility of things turning out differently….a better outcome. Maybe a happily ever after. The memorial brought up some new feelings of loss…of being defective somehow. Still, they were my parents, and I longed for them to love me, and maybe even more, to like me. Really like me. But I don’t think they did.

None of that changes my foundational belief that in the end all that matters is how we love people. I really tried with my mom and dad. I did my best. My best may not have been good enough, but I tried. Rest in peace mom and dad…I did love you. I hope you knew.

But I Don’t Feel Sad

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

Depression is a funny thing…well, not exactly funny…interesting. I had a friend years ago who lectured me about how people take “happy pills” to avoid dealing with life. Taking the easy way out, according to her. She made her comments before she knew I took an antidepressant. I felt offended and I let her know. She had no personal knowledge about antidepressants; she just had opinions. I explained that depression is generally caused by a chemical imbalance in your brain and that imbalance will not correct itself on its own. If you do not have an imbalance then an antidepressant will not do anything for you. That’s what my doctor told me. It’s not that simple and there can be other causes but explaining it all will take too long and way too many words…and I am not a doctor. Depression is complicated.

Taking an antidepressant is not an easy way to anything because people, like my friend, are very judgy about it. They think you are weak or crazy. Why can’t you just be happy, they ask, and then accuse you of trying to escape your life or reality. What they do not understand is what it feels like to be depressed, clinically depressed. It is awful.

Over 29% of adults have reported having a diagnosis of depression at some point in their lives. Over 21 million people are affected by depression each year. Depression affects women more often than men. During the pandemic there was an increase in depression. That makes sense. Four out of ten people reported being depressed or anxious during Covid 19. I’m surprised it’s not ten out of ten. That shit was scary and hard. The number of depressed individuals increased 60% between 2013 and 2023, according to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention. And you are more likely to be obese if you are depressed and more likely to be depressed if you are obese. That’s fucked up. The symptoms of depression include, severe and persistent low mood, a sense of despair, decrease in energy, changes in level of functioning, weight gain or loss, without dieting, difficulty getting out of bed, problems with concentration, sleeping, and energy. And a decrease in your sense of self-worth. Depression is the most common cause of disability in this country.

There is a genetic component to depression as well. In my family, my grandmother was depressed. My mom was depressed. My children have dealt with depression, as well as people in my extended family. And I understand that my great grandmother was most likely depressed. She would “take to her bed” for days at a time. I’m not sure about my grandma but my mom did the same thing. We were in trouble when she went to bed and shut the door.

Anger is not listed as a primary symptom of depression, so I was surprised…well, surprised in hindsight…that it was a symptom for me. As close as the DSM V, the Bible of mental illnesses, comes is irritability. Well, I was irritable too. I just didn’t realize it until I wasn’t anymore.

Medication is not a quick fix, and it does not just make you happy. I have done my share of therapy over the years…there are therapist happily retired with my financial help. And I worked through a ton of shit. I am still working through issues…on and on they go. What an antidepressant has done for me is help me return to a place of caring about my life and wanting to deal with shit…deal with life. They helped me feel like myself again. Allowed me to get out of bed and engage with the world. Take care of myself and whoever or whatever else I needed to.

My wife, Gayle, and I have been married almost 14 years and been together 17. One of the things I love most about her, about us, is how easy it is to be together. We get along great. I never get tired of her company. She is my best friend. I see her first thing every morning and last thing every night and I wouldn’t want it any other way. There is a comfortable and familiar flow to our relationship…it’s easy…usually.

I have written about the past couple of years and my wife traveling between Colorado, where we used to live, and Florida, our current home, for work. She traveled and I traveled. She flew and I drove. Then we drove. I made several road trips to Colorado to spend time with her, more than a week, because the separation was hard. Then Gayle retired in November, and she is in Florida permanently. We still drive to Colorado when we want to visit but we do it together.

After she was home, we noticed ourselves being irritable with each other. We have felt that before and recognized it as a settling back in with each other period…getting used to each other again. During our time apart we developed our own way of doing things…different from each other. For example, she ate dinner way later than I did. She ate different food, cooked differently than the way we did it before. She loaded the dishwasher differently…small, stupid things that did not feel small or stupid. We felt distant…I felt a distance between us.

I like to think of myself as laid back and easy going. I like to think it, but thinking does not make it true. Too bad. I tend to take things very personally, even when they are not personal. I do this even though, in the book The Four Agreements, by Don Miguel Ruiz, the second agreement is not to take anything personally. Followed by do not make assumptions. Check and check. I do both. I try so hard.

So, these little conflicts became ginormous in my mind. Ginormous and personal. And I became irritable, disagreeable…angry. I was angry that things were not the same. Nothing felt particularly easy. And I became paranoid, convinced that she didn’t love me anymore. That she was tired of me. My mom used to tell me that people got tired of me. I thought it happened with my wife. And I didn’t think she even liked me anymore. I asked her and, even though she said she did, I didn’t believe her.

Now the real fucked up thing about this was that I didn’t realize I was angry. I thought she was mad at me all the time. Hence the conclusion she did not like me. For the first time I thought she might leave me…I mean how many more years are you going to spend with someone you don’t even like. That is a rhetorical question. I heard the words she’d say to me as accusations, condemnations, or criticisms. I felt like I was no longer good enough for her…like she wasn’t happy with me anymore. I was not bursting with happiness either. Now let me be clear, this was all happening internally…mostly. It seemed like she was snapping at me all the time. I felt like nothing I did was right. I’m certain she was not getting warm fuzzies from me either.

Several months earlier I had stopped taking my antidepressant. I talked to my doctor about it and told her I didn’t think I needed it anymore. I wasn’t depressed. With her cautious okay I weaned off it. And I was fine. I noticed a few times I felt sad but then I had some reasons for sadness. It seemed like a proper response to circumstances. Sometimes I would question myself about whether my feelings were a sign of depression…but I assured myself they were not. It’s possible I needed a second opinion.

Then I experienced a situation with a friend who was really depressed. They were sad about lost relationships, afraid of being alone, hopeless, and isolated. And I saw them struggle to feel normal…to be happy again. They were so depressed…the kind of depression that makes you want to stay in bed and be left alone, permanently. That scared me. It scared me enough to start taking my antidepressant again. Because of them I saw myself differently…through the lens of fear. Fear that I could end up at that same place…again.

Antidepressants take a couple of weeks to work. In the past when I had gone on medication I remember not really noticing whether the medication was working until some random day when I realized I was happy again. This time my realization was that I wasn’t angry anymore. I felt like myself again. And things with my wife were normal again…easy. The flow was back.

What changed? Did my wife finally realize that I was right about everything? That’s funny. So, what changed? I did. I had my random moment and realized I was happy again. When the happiness arrived, the anger departed. Or rather I let the anger go. I guess in my insecurity I was clinging to it before…I couldn’t see any other way to feel. I felt justified in my anger. It’s hard to let it go when you feel justified.

But now…now I saw a new, clearer perspective. One less centered in my ego. Ego’s kind of suck. I took a step out of my mind…not to be confused with being out of my mind. My mind had focused on all the ways nothing was my fault, or more accurately, my responsibility. Everything was someone else’s fault. Their responsibility. My ego was in overdrive. Placing blame away from myself. And I was not really looking to blame…maybe I was. I didn’t mean to be. I was hurt. I was hurting. I felt lost and alone. I told my daughter that I felt insignificant and invisible. She told me that was my past trauma speaking because no one who knows me feels that way about me.

Growing up I felt like I had to fight to be seen, to be heard…to matter. And so often I wanted to be invisible because it felt safer. But that’s not true anymore. As long I remain open, I am seen, heard, understood, and I am loved…liked even. The only time that’s not true is when I shut down. When I am no longer willing to receive, no longer willing to give.

Andrea Gibson, the poet, said that a music box is still a music box even if the lid remains closed. Of course, it can’t fulfill its purpose without opening. Aren’t I the same? Aren’t we all the same? I can’t fulfill my purpose or have the depth of relationships I’m meant to without opening. What stops me from opening…from being vulnerable? Oh, wait I know. Fear. Fear fucks everything up. Fear and my ego…stupid dumb ego.

How can I tune in to my heart and stop listening to my mind and my overactive ego. It’s easy to blame other people for our circumstances, for our feelings but it’s not their fault. It’s mine. I’m responsible for my actions. I’m responsible for my feelings. No one makes me feel anything. And guess what? All of that is true for you too. Surprise! We have all kinds of choices. No two people react the same in a situation because of all those choices. Freedom and all that crap.

It’s easy to get caught up in the emotion of a moment and lose sight of our choices. To surrender our reactions to just that, reacting. Allowing emotions to carry me away from my ability to choose…to choose to respond rather than react. I would like to think I was fighting for our love by arguing…fighting for us. I fear that I was arguing to lash out…not really that. Fighting as much with myself as with Gayle. Feeling unhappy with her because I was unhappy with me. I guess taking my fears out on her…without clueing her in. Without clueing myself in. I didn’t know.

Now I’m not just trying to blame myself for everything…I’ve done that many times. Burying my needs or feelings to end a conflict quickly. Conflict is uncomfortable. And I don’t like it. I was raised to blame myself. But this is how the situation looks to me now…in hindsight. I wish hindsight could come before I make a mess of something. I can see things differently than I did before. That’s with the help of my antidepressant. I can examine my behavior. I can look at not just what I’m doing it but why. And I can change it. I can voice my needs and my feelings. I can decide what I can do for myself and what I want to ask from someone else. Then they have their own choices to make. There is no choice where there is no understanding and no understanding unless I communicate. That scares me too. It’s me being vulnerable…again.

So where am I going with all of this? Excellent question. There is so much love available to us if we can keep the lid of our music box open. If we take the risk of being vulnerable. If we allow ourselves to be seen…to be known. And that is scary. Vulnerability is scary.

We miss out on life if we are unwilling to open to it. Sometimes we need medication to help us. I’m grateful for my medication. Sometimes we need therapy…or both. Always we need each other…always. Communication is the key to our relationships. It’s the best gift we can give each other. Because in the end all that matters is how we love people…show your love by communicating and connecting. Love will win…it always does. Even if you have to serpentine to get there.

What I Know

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

Grandchildren are amazing…such a gift. I feel truly fortunate to be a grandmother. And I cherish my identity as their Nana. Being a grandparent is so different than being a parent…so wonderfully different. Parents bear some responsibility for how their children turn out…the kind of adults they become. Of course, that path is skewered by stupid free will. Right?! Kids making their own horrible choices despite their parent’s best efforts. No parent can be completely responsible for the trajectory of their child. It is way too much of a crap shoot. I often felt like I wasn’t raising my kids as much as just hanging on for the ride. And it was a ride.

But a grandchild. That is a whole different ballgame. You aren’t responsible for raising another child. You are responsible for loving a child. That’s it. That’s the grandparent game. Just love them…and spoil them, of course. I have an almost impossible time telling my grandchildren no…and they know it too…the little fuckers. Gotta love ‘em. It seems like “no” should not be in a grandparent’s vocabulary.

I love all my grandchildren. They are each special and unique. However, any honest grandparent will admit there is something special about the first one. The one that bestows the role of grandma or grandpa…or Nana, upon you. This miracle that came from your own baby. Your baby had a baby! Remember them growing up? It is miraculous! The person you raised and hoped would turn out to be a good human being and helpful member of society, has created another human being…a gift for you. A grandchild.

Now my first grandchild, Jovi, just turned 18. That’s amazing. Time does indeed fly, but I won’t digress down that rabbit hole. At least not today. My daughter was 20 when Jovi was born. His official name is Javon Richard. I suggested Javon for his name. I got the idea from Javon Walker, a former wide receiver. I’m not sure my daughter wanted my help but I thrust it upon her. Richard is his uncle’s middle name and his great uncle’s first name. I was lucky enough to be my daughter’s labor coach and to be present when Jovi came into the world. I was the first person to hold him after his mom…seemed only right she should be first.

There he was all pink and precious. Not crying. Just looking around, taking it all in. He was so tiny. Babies feel so delicate. He felt delicate…like he could easily break. I held him so tenderly. I watched as the nurses washed him up and diapered him. Being born is a messy business…lots of gunk. The nurses, who work with newborns every day, did not consider him as fragile. I had to refrain from asking them not to break him…which of course they did not.

I could not get enough of that baby. That beautiful boy. My grandson. My first grandchild. I spent my second night in the hospital with them so I could help my daughter. Really it allowed me hours to hold him while she slept. I was smitten. It was impossible to put him down. So, I didn’t.

I was also fortunate that my daughter and that beautiful baby lived with me at the time. I spent the first several weeks sleeping in my recliner with him snug on my chest. I would get up during the night after she nursed him and I would take him so she could rest. We would cuddle on the recliner until morning. Fueled by the love of this tiny human I suddenly did not need sleep. That time was precious to me. It was our time to bond. And bond we did.

We are very close. Jovi, and his mom, lived with me for the first two years of his life and then he spent many years asking if they could live with me again. He would give me different scenarios and ask if they could live with me then. For example, if they were suddenly homeless. I am grateful he did not have the power to make any of those scenarios happen. He also offered to live with me without his mom…he would visit her of course.

For my birthday one year he gave me a ring. I told my wife that I was pretty sure I was now engaged to my grandson. He was 6 or 7. It is gloriously indescribable to be loved so completely. I knew how much he loved me, and he knew my love for him. We both still know…even though he’s a man now…a young man. He graduated from high school in May. He is a young man, and he is a good man. My beautiful boy.

When Jovi was 8 or 9 a neighbor called the police and told them a child was outside with a gun. The police came to find him outside with an orange toy gun. Hard to see how an orange toy was mistaken for a real gun. I am grateful that officers did not arrive with guns drawn. I am grateful that they did not shoot Jovi…like they did Tamir Rice. Just the thought horrifies me. I’m not sure what people are thinking when they do things like that. I have my theories, but I shall keep them to myself…for now.

A few nights ago, I got a phone call in the middle of the night…here on the east coast, not quite in Colorado. Jovi was on the phone and terribly upset. He clearly was angry about something. I had him take a couple of breaths and tell me what was going on. And this is what he told me…he had been waiting for the light rail in Denver, on the campus of the Community College downtown. When the train came, and he was trying to board, two police officers stopped him and said they wanted to talk to him. He agreed to talk to them but asked them not to touch him. Because, after all, he was not doing anything but sitting on a bench. Jovi repeated his request a second time and in response the officers grabbed him, handcuffed him, and pushed him back on a bench.

Jovi does not trust the police. That’s why he didn’t want them to touch him. Maybe I don’t even need to say this…Jovi is black…bi-racial. He has reasons not to trust the police. He called them once for help when a man was threatening him…a white man. When the police came, they let the white man go, kept my grandson, and interrogated him about what he was doing to upset that man. It was the white man who threatened to beat up my grandson. He was 16 at the time.

As Jovi was sitting on the bench, he asked the police if he could call his mom, his uncle, or his lawyer. He doesn’t have a lawyer, but the request was enough that any questioning should have stopped immediately. The officers had taken Jovi’s phone and would not allow him to use it. He called out to a woman passing by and asked her to call his mom. Please. He yelled the number to her, and she called. Thank God she called. My daughter got on the phone with the police.

My daughter is not an uninvolved parent. She is hands on. She knows her kids and she is involved in their lives. And they trust her. Jovi trusts her. She found out that these officers were campus police, not the Denver police. But please be clear, they had guns. They said that Jovi matched the description of a suspect they were looking for…and that detailed, specific description? Hispanic male, white shirt. So, Jovi is black, and he always wears a hoodie, black or red…no white shirt. While my daughter talked to the officer, he changed the description of the suspect to match Jovi perfectly. After 45 minutes, they finally admitted it was not him they were searching for. They removed the handcuffs and allowed him to leave. My daughter got badge numbers and names. She will file a complaint.

Fortunately, it is only a complaint to file and not a funeral to plan. That thought and the sound of my grandson’s voice on the phone created a rage in me that I have never felt before. I was on fire. This was an explosive anger that made me want to lash out. To threaten someone with severe consequences if they touched my grandson again. I wanted to unleash a fury I did not know I was capable of.

I consider myself a peaceful person, but I was boiling inside. I wanted to hurt the people who hurt my grandson. But I did my best to remain calm and balanced in my tone. Careful with my words. Jovi was already angry. He was angry, sad, and confused. All the overwhelming feelings brought him to tears. He could not understand why that happened to him. He asked me why the police would do that to him when he wasn’t doing anything but waiting for the train. I could not…and can not answer that for him.

I felt devastated that this happened to my grandson…my beautiful boy…well, man. I was heartbroken for him. And I had my own questions. Is this really where we’re at in this country? Still? Have we not evolved at all? Have we learned nothing from the past? Has nothing changed since George Floyd? Michael Brown? Manuel Ellis? Breonna Taylor? Stephon Clark? And we all know I could go on and on and on…sadly. It’s horrifying.

As I went over this situation in my mind, I wondered what it is that makes a man want his mother in a moment of total helplessness. Jovi wanted his mom. George Floyd cried out for his mom. Now this situation was not the same. But then George Floyd’s situation wasn’t either, until it was. Maybe it’s a longing to be safe in the arms of the woman who carefully carried you within her own body for 9 months, protecting you to make sure you entered the world healthy and whole. That is a powerful bond. Perhaps it’s this powerful force that’s yearned for in moments when the world seems out of control. The woman you know would do anything for you. Anything to protect you and keep you safe. And she did…my daughter did. She was there on the phone until Jovi was released and safely on his way home to her.

My grandson was traumatized that night waiting for the train. I’m sure he has PTSD. That experience strengthened his distrust of the police. It’s hard to teach someone that the police are here to help you when they never have. When all they’ve done is hurt you. How do you trust anyone when they have given you no reason to trust them? When their actions betray your trust? Betray you? When will we wake up? Do we remember that the policing force began as a means to catch and return runaway slaves? How can a system founded on racism not be racist? It was designed to pursue and capture black people. When will we see that the whole system has to change…we need a new system. Because this one is not working. It is fundamentally flawed. If you doubt me, google innocent black people killed by police officers. You will find more evidence than you would ever need…overwhelming evidence.

I am grateful my grandson is alive and well. I wish I could believe this would never happen to him again, but I don’t. He must learn to be passive with the police to survive. What the absolute fuck?! He cannot question the police or tell them no if he wants to live…and live free. It is confusing, sad, and infuriating. As my grandson, and all my grandchildren, were growing up I talked to them about fairness and justice…right and wrong. I told them that if you do the right things, you won’t get in trouble, and you will be safe. But that is a lie. I taught them a lie. Because you can do the right thing and end up in handcuffs because you look suspicious…meaning you are black. Bi-racial. Brown. All my grandchildren are bi-racial. What will happen to them as they get older? I am afraid to think about it.

As I get older, I realize I don’t know many things…really know them. What I do know is that love is the most important thing. What really matters is how we love people. Love is a genuine desire for another person’s well- being. A deep affection for someone. It involves care and respect…concern…trust in a person’s integrity and inherent worth. Seeing value in other people. Seems simple but we suck at it as a society.

We allow fear to run our country and our emotions. If you look different, are a different race, religion, if your body doesn’t function like mine, you express yourself in a way I don’t understand, or you love differently than me then I fear you. We fear difference rather than embrace it. We like sameness…but only certain sameness. The white, male, wealthy, Christian sameness. That is where the power lies…that is where the love lies. Where we place our admiration. That is what we value.

But couldn’t we change? Couldn’t we expand our thinking, become more accepting…choose to befriend people with differences rather than reject them. Couldn’t we be better…be more…the best versions of ourselves. We are capable of so much more…so much more than what we see in our society now…what is happening now. We seem to have lost the ability to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes…to show compassion, kindness, understanding…to treat others as we want to be treated.

I know I do not want to be accosted and handcuffed when I am sitting on a bench waiting for a train. Screaming for a strangers help because I am alone and terrified. Do I care if it happens to someone else? I better. We better. Do I turn a blind eye as long as it’s not me…or my grandson. Perhaps that is a starting point. Taking my focus off of just me…what’s best for me and my family. Forgetting the billions of other people who inhabit this country and this world with me…with us.

I know this, if it happens to them, whoever them is, it can happen to me…and you. And if we don’t believe that, we have not been paying attention. Love demands that we turn our focus to others. That we care. Love demands the truth. And we have some truth facing to do here.

Now I am not asking anyone to do anything that I am not doing myself. Searching myself. I have a lot of questions and so much to learn. Where there’s injustice love demands transformation. Seek justice. Love mercy. Walk humbly. Let’s all do that…seek justice, give mercy, be humble. Recognize we don’t have all the answers. But we can care more, offer kindness, compassion. Let’s open our minds and our hearts…because in the end all that matters is how we love people. Let’s not fail at our most important job.

Follow me here and on Instagram @ kairaines11

Email me @ kraines1111@gmail.com

 

Missed Opportunities

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

I was talking to my sister the other day, and I don’t remember why, but she asked me if I remembered a book we had as kids that was about a girl who wanted to be a ballet dancer. She wasn’t able to be a dancer because she had some sort of health problem. My sister didn’t remember the health problem…I didn’t remember the book. That is until she described a page where the girl was kneeling on the coach and looking out the window as her friends rode their bikes. But she couldn’t join them. I remember that one image. I remember that she was sad.

My sister wondered why my mom would have picked that book for us. The 60’s was not exactly the age of disability awareness and inclusion. I don’t think she was a champion of disability rights. Or that she was particularly sensitive to the needs of the disabled. She used to refer to my dad as a “cripple” …sooo…. However, my mom had a heart problem from complications of rheumatic fever as a child. She had a damaged valve and because of that she was limited on her physical activity as a child.

So, I wonder, could she have given us the book as a window into her life as a child? I don’t have any idea…and I never will. If she was sharing herself with us, she needed to provide more information. I’m guessing for my sister and I it was an interesting book, and we had varying degrees of sadness for the little girl. My sister would have been the one to remember the ending, but she doesn’t. It may remain a mystery…unless I track down the book. Look out google.

My mom loved sports. She liked football and college basketball, but she LOVED baseball. She loved the St. Louis Cardinals. We lived in Chicago when I was young, and I remember going to Cardinals v Cubs double headers as a kid. My mom was an encyclopedia of baseball facts. She remembered games, players, coaches, managers, owners, playoffs, trades, botched calls, and specific plays. She was a wealth of knowledge. I remember Ozzie Smith because he was my favorite Cardinal. And hot dogs were the best at a baseball game…kind of grosses me out now but I was young. For my mom’s 90th birthday we took her to a Cardinals game against the Rays, here in Florida, and she had a hot dog…mustard, relish, and onion. She was happy.

My mom would have loved to play sports, but she couldn’t because of her heart. When she was young there were not many options for girls. Schools didn’t have competitive teams. She might have been happy to play baseball on the playground with the boys, but she couldn’t. She must have been so frustrated. I also love sports. My opportunities to play were nothing like today but I played basketball, softball, and swam competitively. I can’t imagine what I would have done without those sports. I did play football with the boys in the backyard, and I had a basketball hoop that I was at all the time. I wanted to be Oscar Robertson. There were no women players for me to look up to at the time. I would have given anything to play in the WNBA.

Maybe my mom identified with that little girl in the book. Always being the one on the inside looking out. Wanting so much but never having the chance. Maybe that’s why she bought it for us…because she was that girl.

When I graduated from law school my mom told me she always wanted to be a lawyer. What?! I never knew that. I don’t remember her ever talking about a career she wanted. I figured she wanted to be a mom…and to devote herself to her amazing daughters. Right?! She told me she always wanted kids. My dad said if it wasn’t for him, they would not have had any children. I don’t know what was true, and I never will.

I worry that my mom felt like her life was filled with missed opportunities. Or that it was filled with second choices…or third choices. I guess I don’t need to worry now but it’s sad. It’s sad to think of all the frustration she must have felt. It’s sad to be one of the daughters who may not have been her first choice. And it’s sad she didn’t fight for herself. I know opportunities were not the same but there were schooling options for her, especially as we got older. She had choices. They may have been limited but she had them. I wonder why she didn’t advocate for herself. Maybe she did and I just don’t know. She was pretty vocal about what she felt she deserved and didn’t get. Or in what ways other people didn’t give her what she wanted, so I feel like I would have heard.

I wonder what it would be like to feel like your life was a missed opportunity because there was so much you wanted but it was all just out of reach…and you believed there was nothing you could do about it. I don’t really know. I have limitations in my life due to disability and chronic pain, but I don’t feel like I’ve missed out on life. I’ve been married (more than once), had children, gone to school, earned advanced degrees, experienced multiple careers, and met many wonderful people. There are things I cannot do but those are not the things that define my life. My life is full of experiences and opportunities and lots of people I really love. There may be things I would have done differently, but I consider my life well lived…well living…I’m not dead yet.

I’m sad for my mom today. Sad to think she didn’t have the chance to reach her full potential. Or to become fully who she was meant to be. And sad because she missed the chance to feel proud of herself. Proud that she had done something that really meant a lot to her, because being a wife and mom were not those things. I think in the end those missed opportunities weighed on her…on her self-esteem.

All that makes me eager to follow my dreams, even when they seem like a fairy tale. To take chances and try new things. To bring awareness to all the areas of my life. To live intentionally. To make my choices where I have them and not be content to let life happen to me. Seize the day and all that shit. And to love freely, fully, generously, and always. Because in the end all that matters is how we love people. The lovers, the dreamers, and me.

Becoming Who I Am

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

I’ve been thinking a lot about purpose…my purpose, other people’s purpose, the country’s purpose, the world…so much thinking going on in this head of mine…all the damn time. I believe that my purpose is to become who I am. That’s my mission. Become fully who I am. I think that’s everyone’s purpose. Their personal purpose. People can have other purposes other goals. Purposes bigger than themselves. My beyond myself purpose, as in what I’m meant to do, is to help people heal, have healthy relationships, and become the best version of themselves. To use my pain to help others in pain. To turn traumas into triumphs…that’s super corny. How about…to use every experience, good or bad, for an evolution. An evolution into our complete and beautiful selves. Life can be so hard but even in the difficulties there are opportunities to learn and grow…for transformation. Like a caterpillar reduced to goo in order to become what they are meant to be, a butterfly. The butterfly is in there…waiting to become. We are all waiting to become.

Now to become who I am, I have to know who I am. I often say that in order to be loved we have to be known. And to be known we have to be seen. We don’t let people see who we are unless we trust them. Trust that they can accept what they see and that they can handle us with gentleness…like you would a baby. When I worked in child protection I had to remove a baby from his mom because of substance abuse. The mom brought her son into me voluntarily because she could she knew…she understood what her son needed. While I was waiting for the foster parents, I held that infant in my arms. My workplace tended to be busy, kind of loud, and fast paced, but I couldn’t be any of those things with an infant in my arms. I told coworkers we should all hold babies everyday. We couldn’t hurry or raise our voices, if we had to focus on the baby first. Everything else would be secondary. Everyone who worked there would have been less stressed and a better human because of it.

Now back to my point…although I do love babies. That is not my point. Just as we want to be handled by other people tenderly and gently, like a baby, we need to offer that same softness to ourselves. I never want to scare or startle a baby. It would be cruel to make them cry intentionally. But I can be cruel with myself. I am not going to let anyone else see me and know me if they are cruel to me. I will keep myself hidden and you will see a shell of who I am. I will protect myself. I do the same thing dealing with myself. I don’t always see fully or know myself because I am harsh with me. I am impatient. I expect myself to know everything and be perfect. How’s that going for me? Not great. But what would I see with tenderness? With unconditional acceptance and love? If I handled my fragile heart like I did that baby in my arms.

I love to read, and I am usually reading 4-5 books at a time. I have categories of what I read, health, politics/history, spirituality, abuse recovery/personal growth, and something just for pleasure. Well…I read all the books for pleasure. For a long time, I thought I’d come across THE book, the one that would answer all my questions and make me feel whole and complete. It would fill in the holes I feel in my life…not my life so much as my person. Gaps in my development…gaps I perceive. Holes where I feel something lacking…something missing.

I have not found that one book. The one with the answers. The one that shows me how to put the puzzle of me together into a final picture. Nothing more to do because it’s complete…I am complete. All the pieces are there, and they fit so neatly. I will never find that because no such book exists. The answers for me and about me, are already here. They are in me.

When I read books for personal growth I am not putting something into me to make me better. Make me more. I am awakening something already there. Something hidden or buried. Unattended. Neglected. I am realizing nothing needs to be added for me to be complete. Something needs to be freed. So much of who we are gets buried. Buried by time. Buried by trauma and pain. Buried by loss, fear, or neglect. Or by refusal…refusal to accept or understand. Or buried by success, wealth, power. Whatever we experience that causes us to forget or reject who we are.

In our search for ourselves we take on false identities because we learned from an early age that what we see before us is not enough. Not good enough. Not smart enough. Not healthy, skinny, funny, determined, capable, or whatever enough. We seek an image of who we think we should be. Who we believe we need to be. An image forced upon us. I cannot find me in a coerced image. I will not love me if I don’t know me. And I will not know me if I don’t see me. I cannot see me as long as I force an ideal upon myself. An ideal I know innately is not me…and never will be. I am seen when I allow my broken and beautiful self to be uncovered. My perfectly imperfect me.

Love demands that we become who we are. Who we are meant to be. To come fully into our isness…or my meness. To fully inhabit the person that is me. We must see ourselves as we are…all the damage and imperfections. See ourselves with kindness. With compassion. See so we can know…so we can love. See without the external cosmetics I use to disguise the flaws…the parts that scare me. Me without fear. Me without conditions. Me with complete acceptance. Me in all my messiness. The broken and beautiful me. The me that steps out of the goo of transformation…and is ready to fly. The freedom found in just being me.

We already have everything we need. We can stop the search. Relax and appreciate the goo. Because in the end all that matters is how we love people…that includes ourselves. In fact, it begins with ourselves. Let’s give ourselves a big helping of love and see what we can see.