Category: Becoming Who I Am

The Last Resort

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

Chronic pain is a funny thing…and by that, I mean a pain in the ass. Now that is funny because my ass doesn’t hurt at all. It’s a pain in my neck, my low back, my left arm and hand, my hips, knees, and feet. That’s all. It’s on my mind today because I woke up at 4 this morning. I woke up because I was in so much pain. I tried going back to sleep until 5:22 and then thought, “Fuck it” and I got up. I feel like I’ve lived a whole day already and it’s 9:53. Might be a long day.

Pain is on my mind because Friday I’m going to a new orthopedic surgeon to discuss my elbow. That is never my favorite conversation. When I fell and broke my arm, into several pieces, and dislocated my elbow two years ago, the surgeon told me that it was “reasonable” to try one more time to put a new implant in and see if it would stay in place. After that he said he would recommend removing the replacement elbow and putting nothing in its place…an arm with no hinge. He told me, if that occurred, I would still have partial use of my hand. And he said his patients that have had their artificial joint removed, without replacement, are happy with the outcome because they have no more pain.

Sit with that for a minute. No more pain…go from daily pain, that ranges from frustrating to intolerable, to none. None. Nada. Zippo. It’s hard for me to even imagine. It has been a long time since my elbow didn’t hurt. I should mention the reason for a new doctor is not because of a problem with the old one…and he isn’t old at all. My insurance changed, and he is no longer in network. That is very sad. I thought about changing my insurance back but the costs of everything would be so much higher, I can’t do it.

I got a recommendation for an “excellent” orthopedic surgeon from a physical therapist I trust. PT’s know all the best doctors…nurses do too. So, I made and appointment and waited three months to see him. Let me back up and say that my elbow has been hurting for the past year and a half. I know the replacement is loose. How do I know it’s loose you wonder. Because this has happened three other times. And those three times I have had revision surgery. The humeral component, in my upper arm, was removed and replaced…hence the term revision…in case you’re wondering…you’re probably not. I should also mention that I can’t always straighten my arm anymore because it gets stuck. When that happens, I push my arm and force it straight. It feels like trying to shift gears on your bike…but the chain is clanking around trying to connect…and the peddles don’t work until it does. My arm grinds and pops when I push it straight. Not my favorite feeling.

So, for a year and a half my old doctor has repeatedly asked me what I wanted to do about my elbow. I have always told him “Nothing.” I haven’t felt like the pain was bad enough for a surgical intervention…and that is the only intervention left. That is until now. Because now I can’t stand the pain anymore. I feel like it’s taking a toll on my body and my mental health…because I feel hopeless. Like I’ll be stuck with this pain, grinding, and popping forever. That’s depressing.

Okay, so now, back to my story…I went to see the new doctor. He said my X-rays looked “good” and my arm looked “good.” My arm is hugely swollen and it looks deformed. If that’s your idea of “looking good” then there’s a problem…we have a problem. Aside from when I broke my arm and dislocated my elbow, my X-rays have always looked fine. The loosening had never been seen until I had a CT scan. I don’t know why that is…different imaging or better imaging, I guess. I just know it’s true.

I told the doctor what my previous orthopedic surgeon said, and he looked at me like I was a lunatic. I felt as though he thought I was casually discussing having my elbow taken out…like I’d talk about what to have for dinner…as if it’s no big deal. It’s a fucking huge deal. I can’t begin to describe how big of a deal. If he had asked me, I would have told him it’s taken a year and a half to even consider this possibility. And I would have said that I’d been practicing doing everything one handed to get an idea of what it would be like. He actually said, “You know you won’t be able to use your arm because you won’t have a joint. Your arm will just hang there.” WTF!? Are you fucking kidding me? Thanks for mansplaining that to me because, dopey me, I didn’t know an elbow was important. That’s what I wanted to say but I refrained. He didn’t ask me anything. He spent all of five minutes with me before he referred me to a different doctor. He said if I needed my joint removed that would be the guy to do it. Obviously, I was a problem he didn’t want to deal with, so he sent me away.

He didn’t ask about the history of my elbow or the eleven earlier surgeries, including the three revisions and the infection that took six months and three surgeries, including several months with no joint, to treat. He asked nothing. I felt invisible and pushed aside. Disregarded. Like I was a problem he didn’t have time for…or any interest in solving. I was depressed, and it took me three weeks to even be willing to make an appointment with the next doctor.

This decision is not because of one failed elbow replacement…every replacement has failed. This is the fourth failure…fourth and final. I cannot keep doing this. This is a huge decision and it’s a painful decision…one I’ve considered for a long time. This was not an easy decision, and certainly not one I’ve taken lightly. It’s scary. I feel afraid. But I cannot live with the constant pain or continue to have my joint locking…or dislocating. My arm isn’t functioning now even with the joint.

So, is it better for me to be in constant pain, needing ever increasing amounts of pain medication. And I need stronger medication because what I have doesn’t work anymore. Is it better for me to lack sleep because of pain. Or to dread each new day because it’s intolerable. Because that’s what chronic pain does…it causes dread. Dread and fear and anxiety. It wears you down day by day…little by little.

Chronic pain is a challenge because other people don’t necessarily see it. I get up each day, take care of the dog, I cook meals, run errands…all the “normal” things. Someone observing me would not see my pain. It’s not like I walk around moaning and crying. I’m not big on complaining…it doesn’t help anything. But because you can’t see my pain you might not know it’s there. That’s a difficult thing about chronic pain…it is frequently invisible. Just because you don’t see my pain does not mean it isn’t there or that it isn’t significant.

I am a strong person. I know that. I’ve been through a lot of shit…and I keep going. In my family, I was praised for being strong. Praised for not complaining and for my ability to handle anything. I wanted the praise, and I wanted to be strong. And I am.

Now I’m learning it is not a sign of weakness that I need something done to help me. I’m not failing because the pain is too much to bear. I can’t take it anymore. I’ve dealt with it for over 7 years…that’s a long fucking time. Maybe my strength now is the realization that I need help. Maybe it’s finally having the ability to ask for help. To seek help. I wonder if at some point it goes from strength to stupidity to just pretend everything is fine when the pain is unbearable. Maybe that’s just denial…or fear…or both.

Chronic pain is a reality for millions of people in this country…including people you know. Chronic pain isn’t just physical pain. It’s also emotional pain. The fear. The depression. Feeling disregarded or disrespected. Dismissed…tossed aside for someone else to deal with. Told, without words, to be quiet and stop being a problem. Be an obedient and quiet little girl. Don’t make waves. Listen to the doctor…he says nothing is wrong…and his opinion is the only one that matters.

Now I doubt this doctor intended all of that…at least I hope not. He could have been having a bad day. I have no idea. But I am not just an elbow. The elbow in question comes with a person…me. And I need help. Seeing a doctor when you’re in a lot of pain, or there’s a problem…or both, is a very vulnerable position to be in. I was there because I needed you to help me.

I came to you sad and scared and I took the risk of sharing that with you. I came to you vulnerable. Don’t send me away. Don’t get me out of your office as fast as you can. Don’t mock me by imitating what my arm will be like without a joint…flailing it around, as you speak to me like I’m crazy. Understand that my pain must be fucking awful if I’m willing to consider such a drastic last resort.

When I come to you and tell you who I am, listen to me. And when I share my pain, believe me. I’m taking a risk to tell you…don’t make we regret it. Because then my pain will go back underground and remain buried until I’m willing to take another risk, if I ever am. Don’t teach me it’s not safe to trust.

In the end what matters is how we love people. Love the people in your life who are in pain. Believe them. Listen to them. Divine is the task to ease pain. Let’s ease each other’s pain…that is divine.

A Matter of Perspective

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

Jealousy is a funny thing…and by funny, I mean a pain in the ass and very discouraging. I consider myself a kind and supportive person. Eager to see people succeed and reach their goals. Now that’s what I consider myself to be but that doesn’t make it so. Well, I am those things but I’m also much more…for example, prone to jealousy or envy. Crap. Sometimes the truth hurts.

I have been working at losing weight for the past couple years. I guess before that I was working on gaining it. Who knew that was a job? I have changed what I eat, and I started exercising. Keeping my physical limitations in mind, I tread water for an hour a day when it’s warm out. Our pool is not heated…brrrr. I’ve made big changes, and it’s been hard. Hard to implement and even more difficult to be consistent…so fucking hard. Seems like it should be easy since I’ve developed new habits. Seems that way but….

Habits with eating are tricky because food is tricky. If I just didn’t need to eat, I’d have it made. But there are so many choices and so many things that influence my choices…my mood, what food is in the fridge, my mood, what people around me are eating, my mood, cravings, and my mood. I am an emotional eater. I’d like to say I’m not anymore but that would be a lie. I thought I’d be over it by now, but alas I am not.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a blog about my weight loss. I talked about how I lost weight with switching to whole food, plant-based eating. I felt vulnerable after that post because my weight is a very private topic to me. As I said, I am an emotional eater…and because I felt exposed, I handled my discomfort by making unhealthy food choices. Patterns are hard to break. I continued to sabotage myself for over a week. I did become aware of what I was doing…it only took 3 or 4 days to notice and then another week to decide to do something about it. Fuck. I guess it’s better than never being aware…still frustrating.

Speaking of feeling vulnerable, here’s something I’m not proud of…I feel jealous when I see the commercials for those injections that make you lose weight. My understanding is they help you lose weight because they suppress your appetite. I suppose you still make a choice not to eat. So, here’s the thing, I want shots. I want to have an easy time losing weight. I want to lose weight faster…but I can’t have the shots. The doctor said no, about 50 pounds ago. I don’t have diabetes. I’m not even pre-diabetic. That’s what I get for eating plants. Plus, my cholesterol has gone down 25 points in the last 8 months. I am happy that I’m healthier. That was my goal after all. But damn it I want shots too! I want to be one of those people in the commercials dancing and singing about lowering my A1C…whatever the fuck that is. I want to sing about losing weight…and I am definitely not singing.

As I am writing this Serena Williams is on tv injecting herself and taunting me about her 31 pounds she’s lost…seriously? What the absolute fuck?! I am frustrated…I know I hide it well. I am mostly just frustrated with myself and my attitude. You’ve gotta agree it needs work. Why can’t I just be happy for all the people of the world who are healthier because they’ve lost weight? I should be able to celebrate with them, shouldn’t I? What is up with all the jealousy and envy…and the judgement that lies behind it. I know I’m being judgy. I just don’t know why. Well…wait…ya, I know…I do know. Of course I know. Fuck. I don’t want to try. I don’t want to do the work. Even though I said I did in my blog, that was then, and this is today…moods come and go so quickly here…here being inside of me…this mind of mine.

Jealousy is “Feeling or showing envy of someone or their achievements and advantages, feeling resentful of another’s success or possessions.” It is a “complex emotion involving a combination of insecurity, fear, resentment, and suspicion; Unchecked jealousy can lead to anxiety, low self-esteem, and harmful behaviors like sabotage.” Envy is, “Wanting what someone else has, such as possessions, qualities, or achievements.” Now according to Merriam Webster I have more envy than jealousy…although I am resentful of Serena Williams…and Rebel Wilson…whatever.

Jealousy. Envy. Wanting what someone else has…being resentful. I am jealous and/or envious of weight loss being easy for other people. How do I know it was easy? Because it looked easy…from my perspective. People do dance and sing after all. So, according to me it was easy. Me in all my great wisdom…Duh, right? Jealousy…envy…I have them both. And an unverified belief that weight loss is easy with the injections and so hard for me…poor, poor me.

So, what to do…so far, I’ve only managed self pity. And I tell ya, it’s not really working. Feeling sorry for myself is not going to pull me out of this emotional soup I’m stuck in. I can’t seem to will myself out of this…so? So, what? That is the question. So, I wish I knew. I am hoping to discover something before the end of this blog. I’d like to think I have a point…don’t you worry, I’ll find one.

After I read books on plant-based eating and weight loss I became determined to change my eating habits. I wanted to lose weight, but I also wanted to be as healthy as I could, with as little pain and inflammation in my body as possible. I was training myself to enjoy healthy food…to like the taste of vegetables…I already love fruit. Then this jealousy and envy attacked me. But when did I decide that I changed my mind back? That I didn’t want to be healthy? That crappy food is more important to me than my own longevity, my own pain management. Do I like nachos and cookies more than myself? Do I want wine and cheese more than feeling better? Of course I don’t. I’m not an idiot…I can be difficult, but I am not an idiot. So where is the disconnect for me?

Food is important. We must eat to live. I feel strongly about continuing to live. But food also means so many things to us. We want cake for a birthday, champagne to celebrate an achievement…and more cake. We associate holidays with the smell of roasting turkey (at least I did before I became a vegetarian), mashed potatoes and gravy…or burgers on a grill in summer. I’ve had family or friends want to make a salad for thanksgiving and it offended me. You do not waste the precious space in your stomach on salad. Not on a holiday. You use every inch for “the good stuff.” Why is the “bad stuff” the “good stuff” for me? At least that has been my thinking…might still kind of be…a little.

When someone dies, we make a big meal to celebrate the life lost. We eat to mourn. People bring us comfort food after a loss…casseroles…lots of casseroles. On our own, when we’re sad, we reach for ice cream, cookies, candy…and of course, cake. We find comfort in food. We’ve been taught to. But do cake and cookies and casseroles really provide comfort, or do they just provide a distraction from the real source of our pain. After a loss we can feel empty, as if something is missing…and it is. Rather than sit with that discomfort, it’s easier to fill the emptiness with food. I know that I have often misinterpreted feelings like anger, that I notice in my gut, for hunger. If I feel something in my stomach it must be hunger, right? No. We feel and carry emotions throughout our bodies.

We’re meaning makers. There’s a story of our life running through us. The story we tell ourselves about where we’ve been and where we’re going. That story frames how we see the world…it is the lens we look through to view everything. How we treat our bodies is part of that story. How we feel about eating, what we want to eat, what we like and dislike, and how we eat are all part of that story. Some of it is learned…passed on to us by our families, our friends, our world. And some of it is habit…the way we’ve always done it. There are some parts of our story, what we tell ourselves, that we may not even be aware of. We make decisions based on our story, and the habits we’ve developed. Perhaps a better alternative is to become intentional in our eating.

We eat for more reasons than to just survive. We eat to nourish and restore our bodies. We can honor our bodies with the food choices we make. We can discover what is sacred to us in the ordinary. The things we do each day without a thought. What we eat, how we feel about eating, who we share meals with, and how we approach eating all shape our perspective…our story. Are we grateful for food, for nourishment, for everything that went into what we eat…the seeds, the land, the farmers, farm workers, truck drivers, grocery store workers, the sun, the rain, the person who prepared the meal…there is so much to be grateful for. Do we intentionally focus on gratitude when we eat? There are people all over the world who would give anything to have the abundance of what we eat…even a portion of it. Do we stop and notice all of that, and feel thankful, before we take our first bite?

So, maybe a change in perspective is all I really need. A shift from lack to gratitude. Recognizing that I do not lack anything just because I can’t have the weight loss injections I want. Gratitude that I can do the work. And I have done 85 pounds of the work. Intentional gratitude that I get to eat regular meals. That I have abundant food choices…including beautiful, nourishing fruits and veggies. That I get to choose…and I am not starving. Gratitude that I am not experiencing food insecurity. A deep concern for those who are. A concern that moves me to action and a determination that out of my abundance I will share…gladly and graciously.

Sometimes all you need is a new perspective…and a better attitude. Apparently, I need both. I need a perspective that teaches me loving-kindness towards others and a desire to see people be all they can be…to become who they really are. All of us fully embracing ourselves, the good and the not so great…embracing our broken and beautiful selves. Loving ourselves into the fullness of our beings. And offering others the same. Because in the end all that matters is how we love people…even when they have something we think we want. Love anyway.

Symbols and Scapegoats

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

My wife and I recently took a driving trip to New York, and on the way, I noticed something interesting…well, unsettling. I saw confederate flags flying in Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, and Virginia. Now, these were not little flags I had to search to find. These were gigantic…and they were flying next to huge American flags.

I don’t get flying a confederate flag. People tell me “It’s part of our history.” True. It’s a shitty part. People fly flags or wear symbols because they mean something to them. What does flying a confederate flag mean? What does it stand for…slavery, violence, oppression, people treated as property, brutality, racism, war, division. How about white, wealthy, male, landowners having all the control and power over the enslaved, women, the poor. Are those the things we want to celebrate? I think they should cause us to be horrified at what people are capable of…what we were, and still are, capable of and then rationalize away.

In Germany, it’s illegal to fly a nazi flag. You can’t wear a swastika, fly a swastika, and you can’t say, “Heil Hitler.” Anything considered unconstitutional. Isn’t that just part of German history? It’s not a history Germans want to celebrate or honor so Nazi symbols and flags are illegal. No long explanation or justification. It is illegal. We could learn something from Germany.

I believe in freedom of speech in this country. It’s one of the fundamental rights guaranteed by our constitution. It’s a right I cherish. And though we have freedom of speech, it is not blanket freedom. You cannot say or do anything. There are exceptions to free speech, such as, incitement to violence, true threats, such as hate speech, fighting words…there are a few others, but this covers it for my purposes…defamation or fraud also not legal. We do not have the freedom or protection, under the constitution, to say or do whatever we want. We are not free to scream out anything that comes to mind…you can’t yell fire in a crowded theater when there is not a fire. You cannot spew racist or hateful threats. That makes sense. Right? Seems simple…straightforward.

Why is the confederate flag not illegal? Why is it not considered a tragic and horrific representation of this country’s history, so we don’t fly flags or wear symbols that celebrate it. Why? Because it doesn’t stand for anything good or positive. It causes division and fuels hatred. It is time to remember and learn from our history so we don’t keep repeating it.

And what about giant American flags? What do those stand for? Extreme patriotism…extreme something. I see them in yards and at businesses. Pick up trucks fly big ones on the beds of their trucks (big compared to the size of the truck). Why? What is the message? In September, a man drove his pickup truck, with big American flags flying on it, into a Mormon church, and then opened fire with an assault rifle and set the church on fire. Four people were killed in the attack. Why…because he hated Mormons. Hmmm. There is nothing inherently patriotic about flying a huge flag.

I must admit my own bigotry of trucks with big flags on them. I am frightened of those trucks and their drivers. I perceive the owners, who I do not know…hence the bigotry…as conservative, far right individuals who are definitely not down with the gay folk. They won’t like me. They may not even think I should be allowed to live. I am afraid. It is a scary time to be a member of the LGBTQ+ community.

Yesterday I heard the Director if the FBI, Kash Patel, fired an agent for having a gay pride flag on his desk. Because it is “an inappropriate display of political signage.” Seriously!? Pride flags are not political statements. The statement they make is to value diversity and equality for all people. That is not a political statement. It’s a human statement…an inclusive statement. Now agencies within our government are combing through personnel files looking for anyone who is LGBTQ+. In case we need a reminder, it is illegal to fire someone for being gay or trans or because you think they are. This is America. The land of the free, right?

There are ICE agents acting like the gestapo raiding buildings and taking black and brown people into custody without explanation…based solely on how they look. Then people disappear, without due process or access to an attorney. And without agents knowing if they are in fact gang members, “dangerous criminals,” “the worst of the worst.” They don’t even know if they are undocumented or US citizens.

This week, a famous poem written by Martin Niemoller, has been on my mind… “First, they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out – Because I was not a Socialist. Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out – Because I was not a Trade Unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out – Because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me – and there was no one left to speak for me.”

I’m terrified. Terrified and appalled by what is happening in our country, right now…people snatched off the street by masked men with guns, military patrolling the streets with semiautomatic weapons, political opponents of the President subjected to arrest, voting rights obliterated, courts under government control, people disappeared with no legal rights and no one knowing where they are…we are one step away from being Russia, North Korea, or Hiter’s Germany.

And we are not talking about mass “deportations.” Deportation is a legal process. It requires due process. You have legal representation. You know and can exercise your rights. That is not what’s happening. People are disappearing. People are snatched off the street, or in their homes, at church, or merely walking to the corner market…and they disappear. Their families and friends don’t know where they are. They have no access to an attorney. They are detained who knows where for God only knows how long. And these are not violent gang members and criminals. These are our next-door neighbors, service industry workers, farm workers, people who care for our children. the person beside you in church, the parents of your child’s best friend…your best friend.

It is time for us all to wake the fuck up! We must open our eyes and see how far gone we are already. Our country has been dramatically changed. And the more these things become normalized the more our democracy dies. Isn’t this what happened with Hitler? Someone, some group was scapegoated as “the problem.”  The Jews, then the gays…now, undocumented immigrants. If we just get rid of them everything will be fine, so the message goes. So, people get arrested…no one cares. People are sent to prisons in foreign countries and ICE facilities in other states. No one knows where. Still, no one pays attention. It doesn’t affect me, right? Until it does. Until the government is searching for anyone who looks like they aren’t from the US…until the government is seeking out LGBTQ+ people to fire…until the government is looking for someone who looks like me…until…God only knows.

Until the government ignores the courts and the court’s orders…no big deal. Until the President declares that crime is out of control, with zero evidence. California. Washington DC. Chicago. Portland. Until armed federalized military officers patrol the streets of our cities…with orders to use force, violence, against the American people. A military turned against the people and country they have sworn to protect. The framers of the Constitution warned us about exactly this…and they took steps to prevent it from happening. The Posse Comitatus Act prohibits federal military personnel from taking part in civilian law enforcement without express authorization by statute or the Constitution. This includes all branches of the military, including the National Guard if they are federalized. As they have been. If this does not get our attention, I’m not sure what it will take.

I purposely end all my blogs with my own quote, “that in the end all that matters is how we love people.” And I believe that. Hatred does not dispel hatred. Hatred inflames hatred. But loving does not mean doing nothing. Love is not passive. Love is active. Love seeks what is right and just. When we see our government spinning out of control, singling out groups of people to persecute, then love demands action. Love demands that we do something. We have to speak up and say something before there is no one left to speak. We need an action plan of what we can do to stand up for the constitution, for decency, for the scapegoated, for the freedom our country promises each of us…for the power of love.

Future generations will judge us on this moment…this period in our history. They will judge us by our response…or lack there of. Because in the end all that really matters is how we love people. Let’s love enough to act…to care for the persecuted even if we are not. Let’s show our love with action, non-violent action, because as Gandhi said, “An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.” Let’s follow great historic examples of love and political power…Gandhi, Buddha, Jesus, Mother Teresa, MLK. There are so many examples we can follow. People who have traveled this path successfully. People who loved even while surrounded by hatred. We can choose love and choose hope. We can create the change we want to see in the world…one loving act at a time. No matter what the question is, love is the answer. Love always wins…even when it looks impossible. Let’s do our part to make sure it does.

A New Plan

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

You know when you sit down to write your blog or finish it, and you have a plan…a perfectly good plan. Maybe even an interesting plan (you hope)…and instead of following the plan, which is what you’ve focused on, your writing takes you here….

When I was 29, I was in the middle of a divorce. My husband at the time had informed me he was gay…well, that makes it sound like we sat down and talked about it. He informed me by having affairs. Although he said a one-night stand was not an affair. I’m not sure the label really mattered. We were in a marriage counselors office, and the pastor of our church was there with us. I don’t remember why he was there, but he was a friend. The counselor began the session by asking a question, “Can we all agree that at this point (fill in name here) has not acted on his feelings?” I said yes right away. I can’t remember if my husband said yes or nothing. When she got to the pastor, he said he couldn’t answer the question. This is where you’d inject the Debbie Downer music. Seriously, where does a counseling session go after that. I don’t remember anything anyone said the rest of the hour. On the way home he confirmed that he had in fact had an affair…or one night stand or whatever the fuck you want to call it. He didn’t volunteer the information, but he did answer me honestly when asked.

Our separation began that day. I told him he had to go until he decided what he wanted. He didn’t think he wanted to be married anymore…at least not to me. Now if you’re thinking, “They’re both gay?” That’s true we are. I’ve written about it before. Look at my blog post “Gay by Design” and you’ll get your questions answered…or email me. I won’t go back through the whole story now because that’s not where I’m headed…at least I don’t think so. I’ve been surprised once already today.

So, we separated. He, thinking this was a short-term problem, started sleeping on the couch at his office. It was a family run business, and his mom was his boss…and a lovely person. I don’t know why he thought this would be a quick reconciliation, but he did. I was at home with a 4-year-old, a 2-year-old, and a 4-month-old infant. So, I was bored. Lol…that would be hysterical, right!?

All of this was taking place in Colorado. I graduated from the University of Colorado, got married, and then made my home there. I always said Chicago was a good place to be from…and I was. I went to junior high and high school in Naperville, the fastest growing suburb of Chicago at the time. Before my wedding, my parents moved back to St. Louis, where my sister and I were born and where my parents grew up. Now the scene is set….

So, I was talking to my mom one day…on the phone of course…and I was stressed. Have you ever noticed how all your children need you NOW as soon as you pick up the phone? It’s a law of nature. I don’t remember what we were talking about, but my mom wanted me to move back to St. Louis and live with them. She wanted me to move “home.” I told her that Colorado was my home now and that I wasn’t going to move. I would not take my kids away from their dad…plus it seemed like a bad idea, although I know she was offering me help. I said no and she said, “That’s okay. You won’t make it out there by yourself and you’ll end up back here.” Excuse me, what the fuck did you just say? That was what I thought but I said nothing. That moment is seared into my memory, so I feel confident that this was her exact quote. Need I say this was not the best time of my life.

I was stunned. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. In my mind I wondered if she wanted me to fail. And why would she? I got off the phone fast. I was devastated. Who says that to their daughter? Their daughter going through a divorce with 3 children under the age of 5? Why would she say that to me? My self-confidence was already at an all time low. And this wasn’t just about me. I had 3 little precious humans looking to me for security and answers to why daddy didn’t want to be married anymore. They depended on me to make everything okay for them even after their world was turned upside down. If I was okay, they knew they’d be okay. I was about as far from okay as you can be but my 3 little babies depending on me was more than enough motivation. Children take their cues from us, so I needed to fake it until I really was okay again.

So, we survived and lived happily ever after…yay. That’s not the point of the story. I’ve been reading about trauma and core language…as in what your core beliefs are that you communicate to yourself. Turns out I have a core message rumbling around in this head telling me that I won’t make it. I’ll never make it…I will always fail. At what specifically? Everything. The things that make you “successful.” In my family, a career and money were the main factors in success. A job people would ohhhh and ahhhh at and enough money to set yourself apart from others…providing a feeling of superiority. Being a “have” and not a “have not.”

Divorced with 3 babies…not a “have” for sure. A degree in psychology…but I “don’t know anything about psychology.” A master’s degree in counseling…but that wasn’t from a “real” school. A child protection worker…let someone else do that. Law degree…check. (I got one). A lawyer representing abused and neglected children…was I afraid to make money? I never even mentioned my last master’s degree. No point. Developed and ran a mindfulness program for young children…a what? So many fails. So many “not enoughs” … not even close.

I’ve heard the definition of sin as “missing the mark.” I think that may be the definition of my life according to my parents, not the sin part, but always missing the mark. Never quite got it right. Never making it…according to them.

But here’s the thing, my thoughts, my actions, my beliefs, my feelings are mine. All mine. They are my choices. No one else makes those choices for me. So, when I hear negative messages about myself, I have a choice…believe it or ignore it. Now when I was younger, it didn’t feel like much of a choice. Kids, even adults, believe what their parents tell them…because parents are supposed to know. Right? It took a long time to learn that just because they said something and they believed it didn’t make it true. It makes it their opinion. That’s all. Certainly, they’re entitled to their opinion…I wish they had not shared them so freely.

But now, now I’m a grown ass women (as my daughter loves to say) and I make my own choices. I decide what I believe about me…not my parents, not anyone else. Even though my parents are dead I still hear their voices in my head. Repeating messages of the past. The question now is how I respond to those voices, theirs and others. Everyone has an opinion. If I go along blindly with whatever the opinion of the day is about me then I abdicate my responsibility to myself. That would be failing…not making it…not succeeding. My success is not something I owe anyone, except myself. And I am the only one who knows what success looks like for me.

We become what we believe…what we think. With our thoughts we create the world. That’s why individuals can experience the same event and each interpret it differently and respond to it differently. We see differently because we think differently. We see differently because the framework through which we see the world and make sense of it is unique to each of us. We all have a story of what is real or not real, true or false, accepted or rejected. Everything we see, hear, feel, or experience goes through that story…the narration of our life…according to us.

I can be taught to believe certain things. I can be told all sorts of stories. And I can experience a lifetime of challenges or successes. Ultimately, the only thing that’s real and true for me is what I tell myself. What I believe is what I make real. That is what is true for me. I am the only person with the power to change the story that I have created about my life. Only me. I created it. I can change it. It is a tremendous act of self love to tell myself the truth…to tell yourself the truth. It requires awareness on my part. To know myself well enough to know what’s true. And the wisdom to know that what’s true today may not be true tomorrow…because I am always changing. You are always changing.

I want to be more…more kind, compassionate, loving, understanding, flexible, open, present, aware. I want that for me. I want that for you. Because in the end all that matters is how we love people. Love yourself enough to know yourself. Love other people enough for them to feel safe in sharing who they are. And believe them when they show you. Whatever the question is, love is the answer…always.

Here’s Your Answer…Finally

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

So, I have been trying to build my online presence. How’s it going you wonder? Not great. Why you ask…because it turns out I don’t spend much time on social media. I don’t like social media much, especially lately. My idea of social media is looking at pictures of my grandkids, clips of the WNBA, bulldogs, pandas, and little kids who drop the f bomb on Instagram. Because seriously, who can resist pandas? They are hysterical. Nothing phases them. They hang from trees, balance awkwardly on branches, play in the snow and when they fall, they roll up into a ball like it was all part of their plan. And yet it’s clear…they don’t have plan. If you are ever sad, search pandas on instagram. They’re the best.

So, I have a lot of work to do. I need to develop my engagement skills which is funny because I’m good at building relationships…just not online. For example, a month or two ago I posted that I lost 85 pounds, and I included a couple different pictures of my progress. Someone asked me how I did it. What did I say you ask? Nothing. I didn’t respond. I meant to but I never did. Fuck. I am clearly a work in progress…sloooow progress.

So here is my long overdue response…along with my apologies. The short answer is I adopted a whole food plant-based diet…mostly. I love cheese. Anyway, that’s where I am now but it’s not where I started. In case you’re wondering, I started as the junk food queen of Florida.

When I decided I needed to do something to lose weight, besides hoping, it was after I saw a picture of myself. I didn’t realize how much weight I had gained or what I looked like. You know how you can know you’ve gained weight, but you think it’s not that big of a deal? At a checkup, my doctor asked me what WE were going to do about the weight gain. I wanted to say, “WE think YOU should lose the weight for us.” I was really upset by the photo and decided I needed to do something, so I joined Noom. I picked Noom because there were daily reading assignments, and I love to read and learn new things, so it seemed like a good fit.

All of this took place during Covid…the time when everyone in the world gained weight. There was nothing to do except eat and drink. I needed both vices to survive supervising online school for my grandkids. Even with all that, I did lose weight on NOOM. 40 pounds. And then I started gaining it back slowly. I was sticking with the calorie guidelines, mostly, but I was not making healthy food choices. Snacking, big heavy meals, sweets, and wine. Comfort food. Comfort candy. Comfort wine. Right?! I have a wicked sweet tooth, and I was eating a lot of sugar and enjoying too much wine. Never wanting to take responsibility too soon, I blamed Covid for all of that. Who didn’t eat and drink more? I was afraid and I was stressed. I was worried that everyone I loved was going to die. I spent a lot of energy just trying to cope…everyone did.

Now I am not saying anything about the general population losing or gaining weight and I am not telling anyone what they should do. Humans come in all shapes and sizes and that is a beautiful thing. I am only speaking for me. I’m sharing my experience because I think other people have found themselves in a similar place and felt like I did. I reached a point where I was unhappy with my weight and how I looked. I looked different than I thought I did, and I was frightened by what I saw…in the picture and on the scale.

So, pandemic or not, I knew I needed to make changes in my life. First, I joined Noom. Second, I quit drinking. The drinking was hard because it had become a nightly habit and the people around me were drinking. But I did it. I decided I wouldn’t drink any calories, except for the creamer in my morning tea. I love my tea. I quit for 9 months, then I drank some, and then I quit again. Currently, I only drink on occasion. It’s too easy for me to gain weight when I drink. And alcohol isn’t the only drink with calories. I quit drinking coke and juice.

After we moved to Florida, I struggled to lose more weight and found myself gaining instead. Turns out my mom loved junk food…loved it! Cheetos and candy. And she loved me to join her in those treats…and I did…for a while anyway. There was one other time in my life when I lost a significant amount of weight. It was after I had my 3 kids and was going through a divorce. In my memory, it was easy to lose the weight…95 pounds. So, I kept wondering why it was so hard to lose weight now. It definitely was not easy…not even close.

I remember reading about Shonda Rimes, the creator of Grey’s Anatomy, losing weight. She said that she had worked hard for everything she achieved in her life so why would losing weight be any different. That made sense. Now working hard implies discipline and discipline makes me cringe. When I hear that word I think of punishment. Discipline was harsh, painful, and meant negative consequences…a spanking or grounding when I was a kid. Discipline was to be avoided.

Although I had never thought about it, I’ve done a bunch of things in my life that took great discipline. I have multiple degrees that required a lot of school…classes, papers, tests. I held jobs for years. I showed up to work on time, got my work done, and did more than just work 9 to 5 when it was necessary. I lost 95 pounds…I wonder if regaining weight required discipline…ya, I know…it didn’t.

So, from my Cheeto and candy induced coma, I made some decisions. Noom was no longer helping me, or I wasn’t allowing it to, so I ended my membership. Next, I read a book called, Plant Based Weight Loss, by Shawn A. Sales and I decided to eat a primarily plant-based, whole food diet. I also committed to not eating a plant-based pile of crap. There is plenty of plant-based junk food out there and I’ve eaten a lot of it. Gluten free, plant-based pop-tarts. Oh yes, they have them and I have eaten them…fortunately, they aren’t good. I used to joke that I was a horrible vegetarian because I didn’t eat vegetables. I decided to change that too. I gave up coke, chips, candy, cake, donuts…you get the idea. I have a crazy sweet tooth, and I found the best way to control it was to not activate it. So, I gave up sugary treats. This was no small feat since the lived with the queen of sweets and Cheetos. Having Celiac disease was helpful here because I couldn’t eat the Krispy Kreme donuts, pie, coffee cakes, and other gluten filled treats in the house. That did not take discipline, just the fear of puking my guts out.

Another book I read was, How Not to Die, by Michael Gregor, MD and Gene Stone…catchy title huh? I’m not sure the people I have gifted it to appreciated it. This doctor talks about how you can reverse or slow down most diseases with a plant-based, whole food diet. There are people in my family with diabetes and according to Dr. Gregor you can reverse it. I know someone with Parkinson’s and their symptoms could be improved and the progress of the disease slowed with a change of diet.

A huge factor motivating me to change my diet was chronic pain. I have multiple health issues that cause me chronic pain…degenerative disc disease, degenerative joint disease, a connective tissue disorder, and fibromyalgia. I have joint replacements in both knees and my elbow. Most of my spine is fused and I have a screw and staples in my foot. I have pain daily and I’m tired of it…I’m tired from it. I decided I was ready to do anything I could to reduce my pain. Plant-based, whole foods are supposed to decrease inflammation, and I wanted to see if it would help me. I felt desperate. I have been dealing with serious chronic pain every day for many years. I was willing to try almost anything.

So, I got discipline. I set goals, changed some habits, and learned I do in fact have self-control. Of course, I had those things previously, but I wasn’t accessing them to help myself. I started losing weight again. It was easy. It was easy if I stuck to my plan. By eating plant-based whole foods I was losing weight. I wasn’t counting calories or policing how much I ate, and I was not exercising…yet. I wasn’t hungry because I was eating as much as I wanted to, of plant-based whole foods. If I was hungry, I ate. And weight started coming off naturally…in a sense, easily.

I’m sure the changes shocked the hell out of my system. I shocked myself. I started to like vegetables and salad. I already loved fruit. Now I’ve lost 85 pounds. It could be more, but I’ve had some bumps in the road. Like my birthday when I decided I wanted gluten free cupcakes and that sent me on a sugar spiral. I recently had some teeth extracted and for soft foods I picked pudding, ice cream, and mashed potatoes. I know there are other choices, but I didn’t make them. Between that and my recent trip to New York. I gained 10 pounds…which I have lost again. I frustrated myself with the yo yo-ing…my discipline is evolving.

Apparently, you do have to practice discipline and maintain awareness of what you’re doing and the choices you’re making in order to lose weight and to develope new habits to reach a goal, even if it’s difficult. I am training myself to crave healthy food because I’m committed to caring for my body. This body of mine has been through so much and yet it keeps going, keeps working even when it’s in pain. The least I can do is respect it enough to care for it.

I don’t have the answer for weight loss. I have my own experience to share and an understanding that when I eat the best foods for my body, I naturally lose weight. Is it easy to eat a plant-based, whole food diet…you wonder. Not always. There are so many food choices available that are not either of those things. So, I have discipline. I care for myself by following the diet that I believe is in my best interest. It’s a way of eating that I can keep long term…because it’s good for me.

So, I share my path here for anyone who may find themselves in my shoes. I share to give hope to anyone who felt like I did…stuck and hopeless. I learned to take a step…just a small step…to control what I can. I control what I feed myself. So, I changed that. I needed to care for myself and that was my first step. I made the change out of love for myself, not because I was rejecting or hating myself or my body. I still believe that in the end all that matters is how we love people…and that begins by loving ourselves. I can’t love you until I love me first.

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kairaines11

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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.

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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.