Tag: Mental health

She was there and then she wasn’t….

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

Dementia is fucked up! I realize anyone reading this would probably respond with a “duh,” but I mean it is seriously fucked up. My mom has dementia. I’ve written about it before, more than once. It’s been hard, it’s been exhausting and cruel. She’s been cruel…hateful.

My mom had Covid in January. She was in the hospital and then a rehab facility, just until she was past being contagious. The assisted living home where she lives didn’t have the resources to keep her isolated for several days. They don’t need a bunch of 80- and 90-year-olds getting Covid. While she was in the hospital and rehab, she was mean as shit. She was rude to staff, which is unusual for her because she likes all the staff to love her. That way she can tell me how everybody, except me, thinks she’s sweet all the time. I tell her no one is sweet all the time…that may not have been the right response. One day at the rehab, when I was leaving, she told me not to bother coming back. She’s super sweet alright.

She was finally sent back to her assisted living home, and she settled back in. I purposely did not go see her the day she was transferred, so she could settle in, and I could have a break. I knew she might be mad at me, but I thought it was best…and she’s always mad anyway. The next day I went to see her, and she lit up smiling at me because she was so happy to see me. WTF!? She’s not ever that happy to see me. Then she said something she has NEVER said in her life…at least not in my 63 years. She said, and I quote, “I’m happy. I’m happy, happy, happy.” And I had no response. I just stared at her for a moment, making sure it really was my mom talking. All I could manage to say was “I’m glad.” 

The real question was where the fuck was my mother? My mom is never happy, let alone, happy, happy, happy. She actually told me once she didn’t want to be happy. So seriously, WTF? Hell, if I know. My mom is unpredictable emotionally. You never know what mood she’ll be in, and her moods change in a second. So, as I spent time with her, I was on guard waiting for her to turn back into herself. I’m always on guard around her. I’m afraid of her. But this version of her…not so scary.

We’ve had a month of visits that consisted of nothing but sitting and talking. One of my mother’s recurring complaints about me is that I never talked to her. I “never said a word” to her…that’s what she said. I did in fact utter words, but we did not have any kind of meaningful conversations. It’s hard to talk to her when she’s angry with me. And she always seemed angry with me. But now, now she seemed to like me. She’s never liked me.

My mom is disappointed in me, and she has always made sure that I am aware of that fact…I went to the wrong schools, got the wrong degrees, had the wrong jobs, got divorced, didn’t raise my kids right, you get the point. So, imagine my surprise when she told me what a talented writer I am and how much she loves reading my blogs. She said that they’re “very, very, very good.” I guess she likes to say things in threes. Just yesterday day she told me that she’s blessed to have three wonderful daughters. She counts my wife as a third daughter, which I am grateful for…she’s also never angry with my wife and I’m ecstatic about that. My mom even said that she feels like she’s gotten to know me better the past few weeks and that it has been “marvelous.” Talk about mind fucks!

Now you might think, “why aren’t you just happy she’s being nice?” and that’s a fair question. My mom is unpredictable and with dementia even more so. For almost two years, the dementia has taken the worst parts of her and magnified them exponentially. She’s been angry, verbally abusive, rude, threatening, insulting…she’s been fucking mean. Now it’s completely flipped and she’s all happy all the time. Could dementia do that? And I’m not saying that dementia made her nicer, I’m saying that dementia made her a different person. She was never like this…ever. If my dad was still alive, he’d be as freaked out as I am.

Its unnerving because it’s so different. It’s hard to know what to do or how to react. It’s been a few weeks now and I have finally allowed myself to enjoy her. Enjoy that she’s happy to see me. Enjoy that she thinks I’m talented. Enjoy that she loves talking to me…she tells me that now. Dementia is horrible…usually. But maybe dementia gave me a new mom. Gave me a mom more like the one I had always hoped for but didn’t have. Gave me a mom who might actually love me…and even like me. I don’t even know if it’s possible for dementia to do that.

My mom has been in the hospital the last few days because of a urinary tract infection. Since she’s been there, I was also told she had encephalopathy…try and say that fucker. It’s kind of a generic term for any brain disease that alters brain function. Encephalopathy can cause mood changes, confusion, personality changes…the symptoms are similar to dementia. Yesterday, on the way to the hospital, I was telling my wife that I was worried that maybe the encephalopathy was what made my mom nice and now that they’re treating it, she’ll change back. I told her I would be heartbroken if that happened. That would be a cruel fucking joke by the Universe. I laughed as I said it because it seemed pretty far fetched.

Now imagine that that speech bubble, from my conversation with Gayle, is still hanging in the air…The hospital called me this morning because my mom wanted to talk to me. She’s not great operating phones anymore. I said “hello,” and she started screaming at me. She was screaming that I needed to come and get her right away. And yelling at me for putting her in the hospital. I told her she was going back to her home, at Sweet Water, today. And she screamed at me for putting her there, in assisted living. She’s gone. Well really, she’s back. The nice mom was an illusion all along. My mom is back.

Turns out I am heartbroken. I just started allowing myself to relax with her and enjoy our time together. I allowed myself to open up to her…to be vulnerable. And she got me again. I feel like I’m in a whack a mole game and I just got cracked on the head hard…leaving me sort of dazed and spinning. I was not ready for this. I wasn’t prepared. This may sound awful, but I don’t want my old mom back. I want the new one. And not just for me, for her too. She was so relaxed and content when she was happy. She wasn’t worried about anything. All was right with the world. Now the world has righted itself and I am struggling to hang on. Dementia did this too. I had a moment, a tiny window of time in a life, when I had a real mom. A mom who was not my enemy. A mom who was not out to get me. A mom who wasn’t sad I was her daughter. A mom who was proud of me and told me so.

Dementia is cruel. She was there, and then she wasn’t. Now she isn’t. What a loss. That’s a devastating loss. A heartbreaking loss. Dementia did this. Taunted me with a glimpse of the mom I always wanted and then cruelly took her away in an instant. It may have only been an illusion but, right now, I’d take that illusion over reality. Any day.

Let’s be real…I’m pretty distressed right now. I’m not sure I’m going to go and see my mom today. I don’t think I can take it. Sometimes life feels cruel, and this is one of them. It’s cruel for me and my family but it’s also cruel for her. I’ve never seen my mom content, and she was. The dementia or encephalopathy allowed her to relax and be content. Maybe it was an unexplainable occurrence, but my mom was happy. That had to have felt good to her. I’m glad she had that, however briefly. It seems unnecessarily cruel for the Universe to take it back, like a bad April fool’s joke. I wonder if she can tell. I wonder if she feels the loss…feels the shift. I feel it. I wish I didn’t.

I suppose it would be easy, and understandable, if I wished she had never been happy. That we hadn’t had these few weeks of connection and understanding. Their loss sure hurts. I wonder if those brief weeks gave my mom something that she’d been without, her own happiness in herself. I think maybe she liked herself too. I hope she still feels it somehow or remembers it…that somehow it stays a part of her. She was at peace these weeks…she was peaceful. I have never seen her at peace either. So much to learn and experience, even when you’re almost 92.

And for me? For me, I had a glimpse of what other mothering could be…should be. I had a moment that I believed my mom loved me. That she thought I was talented. A moment where I really mattered. Right now, I’m not sure how to hold on to those experiences while I deal with the anger and rage directed at me. How do I go back to not being good enough? And the thing is, it’s the raging angry part of her that’s real to me, not the happy one. The happy part was like a beautiful dream that had to end. I can’t live in a dream. I had to wake up…maybe she did too.  And maybe dementia is the cruelest fucker around.

So, I am still, and I am listening…for a whisper. I’ve heard it before. It’s the whisper that moves me forward…calls me forward really. It’s the whisper that moves me forward and keeps me soft and real. The whisper inside me that reminds me that ultimately the only thing that matters is how we love people. So, I will continue to love. I will continue to love my mom. I will love her without an expectation of anything in return. I am not loving her to get something from her. I am just loving her. And I will love other people in my life and in the world the same way. I’ll love for love’s sake…not for recognition or a prize…but because in the end all that matters is how I love people…how we love people. That’s how love wins. And it must win…I really need it to win.

Thoughts on PTSD

~ Kai Raines ~ 1 Comment

I think most people are familiar with the term PTSD. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. We’re familiar with the words but maybe not the meaning or a full understanding of what’s involved with that diagnosis. I have diagnosed myself, (because it saves time) with PTSD as a result of the traumatic fall I had November 10th.

According to the National Institute of Mental Health, PTSD requires exposure to an event that involved the actual, or threat of death, violence, or serious injury. The disorder develops in some people who experience a shocking, scary, or dangerous event. Either you experienced the traumatic event, you witnessed it, someone close to you experienced the event, or you are repeatedly exposed to graphic details of traumatic events, for example, first responders. The National Center for PTSD estimates that out of 100 people, 6 will experience PTSD at some point.

As I was reading this week, I was reminded that my PTSD started before last November. When I was in my 30’s I started working for the Denver Department of Human Services as a child protection caseworker. I had a caseload of families with children who had been removed from their homes because of child abuse and/or neglect. One winter morning I had gone to a school staffing at 7:00 am about 45 minutes from where I worked. When I left the school, it was snowing…more like sleeting. I was driving very slowly because the highway was icy. All of a sudden, I saw a pickup truck lose control on the other side of the highway. The truck spun into the grass median and then flipped over and over toward me. I thought I was going to die. I thought the truck would end up on top of my car…and me. I tried to stop but my car slid on the ice. I hit the pickup truck when it stopped flipping and the car behind me hit me. As the truck was landing the driver was ejected from the front seat and went sliding down the highway. He looked like he was just sleeping as he slid by. I tried to steer away from him but couldn’t because of the ice. I thought I ran him over. 

When everything stopped moving, I was really shaken up. I understand now why an “excited utterance” is an exception to the hearsay rule in court. There’s no time or ability to lie about anything. I understand this because pretty much as soon as a state patrol officer said “hi” I blurted out everything that had happened, including thinking that I ran the driver over as he slid down the highway. The officer told me I did not run him over. The “him” was a 17-year-old, who stole his grandfather’s truck. He didn’t even have a drivers license. It was so sad because he died at the scene. The officer was gentle with me and told me several times that that young man’s death was not my fault. I think because the truck was flipping down the highway at me, I knew it wasn’t my fault. 

That accident gave me PTSD and I still have it. I cannot drive in the snow or ice…well, I physically can but emotionally it’s a bad idea. I am terrified of snowy or icy roads. And you may think, “well I don’t like them either, no one does.” True…but I’m afraid I’m going to be killed at any moment. I’m terrified that a car is going to flip over and smush me…and I’ll be dead. I literally cannot be in a car, riding or driving, in those conditions. That was almost 30 years ago, and I remember it like it was yesterday. I still feel the fear of dying and I still see that young man sliding down the highway. None of those images have faded in all these years.

It is natural to feel afraid during and after a traumatic event. A diagnosis of PTSD requires symptoms that last longer than a month and that significantly interfere with aspects of daily living, like work, or relationships. Symptoms must be unrelated to medication, substance abuse, or other illness. PTSD also requires: at least 1 re-experiencing symptom, such as flashbacks, distressing thoughts, recurring memories or dreams; at least 1 avoidance symptom, like avoiding thoughts or feelings, staying away from certain people, places, or events; at least 2 arousal and reactivity symptoms, such as hyper-vigilance, being easily startled or frightened, difficulty with sleep and concentration, feeling irritable or angry, self-destructive behavior; and at least 2 cognition or mood symptoms for example, difficulty remembering key parts of the traumatic event, ongoing feelings of fear, anger, shame, or guilt, loss of interest in activities you used to enjoy, feeling isolated, difficulty feeling positive emotions, and ongoing negative emotions.

There are so many reasons for PTSD personally, as communities, as a country, as a world…9/11, school shootings, as well as shootings in churches, synagogues, movie theaters, and LGBTQ+ nightclubs. There are murders, car accidents, bad falls, assaults, and fucking Covid. And I’m just stopping there but the list of trauma inducing events goes on and on…wildfires, tornadoes, hurricanes, floods…you see my point. I wonder if there’s anyone out there who doesn’t have PTSD. After 9/11 I walked around watching the sky and waiting for the next plane to crash and the next building to fall. After Pulse Nightclub I felt, and still feel, hunted, as a member of the LGBTQ+ community. After the Columbine shooting, I questioned the wisdom of sending my kids to school. The pandemic made me want to put everyone I care about into plastic bubbles so they couldn’t get Covid…and couldn’t die.

I think we are a nation of collective PTSD, but we don’t know it. We don’t know because, instead of feeling all the pain and loss of those events, we shut down or we just get angry. It might be righteous anger but it’s still just one feeling, one reaction. It’s easier to feel anger than to feel afraid or confused, or loss, or sadness. There’s been tremendous loss and we should all feel sad, we should be heartbroken, but instead we just get angrier. We are a nation full of angry people…angry traumatized people. When we attempt to solve problems while we are angry our solutions can easily turn to violence…guns, tanks, bombs. We hurt and so we want them to hurt too…whoever “them” may be. They did this to us, so we’ll do this to them…upping the ante with every reaction. 

And we are just reacting. When we’re traumatized, when we’re scared, when we feel threatened, our reaction is fight or flight. I am either gonna beat the shit out of you or I am gonna run the fuck away and hide. Those are the physical reactions our bodies automatically produce. We have a physical reaction but what is our response? Are we able to stop a moment, take a breath, and make a decision of how we will respond? Make a conscious choice. When a traumatic event occurs, our reactions are immediate, and they need to be so that we protect ourselves. When recurring fears and feelings are stirred up because of PTSD we need to find a way to respond. We need to be able to choose an appropriate response when we aren’t in danger, but we’re triggered. When I was walking my dog and I tripped, I was not in danger. Nothing happened to me. I was safe. But for example, if my reaction was to decide to never leave my house again, that might be a bit extreme. When triggered my reactions are not to actual danger but rather a perceived danger. I see danger everywhere because the world hurt me. The beach broke me, a car flipped in front of me, a dead body slid past me on the road…I was minding my own business, and the world got me. How did it get me? It reminded me that I am not in control. I’m not in control of the world or of people or even myself sometimes. Shit happens because I can’t stop it. I can’t stop it because I can’t control it…”it” being literally everything. Well fuck. People fall, cars crash, people die…life happens. Sometimes life feels a bit relentless. 

So, let’s be real…I have physically been put back together from the fall but mentally and emotionally, I feel guarded…maybe tentative is a better word. I feel tentative in my interactions with the world around me. So, what is a lover of the beach to do, especially since I’m scared now. I’m not exactly sure but I know one thing, sitting and being still with myself can only help. Sitting as in meditation or prayer or whatever reason causes you to sit alone and in silence. So, I’m gonna sit. Then, I’ll sit…and finally, I’ll sit some more. Because in a world that feels out of control, I can control that. I can control sitting myself down and meditating…or just closing my eyes and being still. Quiet, still, and by myself. 

So that’s my plan. To sit. Yep, that’s the whole plan. Call it meditation, call it relaxing, or call it laziness.  It doesn’t matter what you call it, it matters that you do it. So, I’ll sit 20 minutes a day…maybe only 10 to start. I’m not sure what to do with all these feelings. So, I’m gonna sit. I’m going to allow my much-feared feelings to arise as they want to and I’m going to sit with them. I’m going to stay with them. I am not going to interact with them, at least not now. I’m going to notice them in my mind, recognize them, notice them in my body, and then let them go. I’m going to notice, touch, and let go. And they will go…if I let go. I’m going to allow these feelings to come to me instead of trying to orchestrate how I’ll fix them without feeling them. Nothing needs to be fixed. All I need is to be aware.

Before I end here, I want to say that I am not writing this as a mental health expert or an expert in PTSD. I am writing as a fellow traveler on this journey with trauma. I’m reading and learning and sharing. This is not intended to take the place of any therapy. Only you know if you need therapy. If you think you might then you should. Therapy can be very helpful. 

If you are going to hurt yourself, call 911. If you have suicidal thoughts, get help right away. Reach out to a friend, a spiritual advisor, or someone you trust. Make an appointment with your doctor or therapist. You can contact the Suicide Crisis Lifeline 24 hours a day. Text 988 with any message you want and have a conversation with a counselor through text or chat. You can also call 1-800-suicide 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Please reach out and get the help you need.

As a person who has experienced trauma, in relationships with people who have experienced trauma, in a nation that has experienced trauma, and as part of a massively traumatized world, be kind. Be kind to yourself. Be kind to other people. Lead with love in all your interactions. Because we need love to win. We need love to win everywhere. In the end, all that matters is how we love people. So, lead with love. Love is always the place to begin.

Gay By Design

~ Kai Raines ~ 1 Comment

I was watching a tv show the other day and this question was posed, “If you met your 18-year-old self and could only say 3 words, what would they be?” Immediately I knew mine were “Yes you are.”

My kids, all adults now, often wonder, out loud, how I could have ever NOT known that I’m gay. I fit all the stereotypes…I played a lot of sports when I was young, football with the boys in our backyard, basketball wherever and whenever I could. I loved the Dallas Cowboys and the Milwaukee Bucks. I had crushes on some of my female friends and on a whole slew of actresses at the time…Kate Jackson, Veronica Hamel, Kate Mulgrew…you get the idea. At the time, I never really thought about why I had crushes on girls and not boys. It wasn’t until I was in my 30’s that I realized I had been in love with a girl in high school. We were best friends, and I liked when she kissed me, but it never occurred to me to label myself a lesbian, or to even consider that I was in love with her. I didn’t know anyone who was gay. No one talked about being gay. No one even mentioned “gay” unless it was a in a horrible, homophobic joke. As far as I knew “gay” wasn’t a thing at all…it wasn’t an option in the world I was raised in.

I knew from a young age that I was expected to go to college and that college would be where I got my “MRS.” (I hope people don’t say that anymore.) I knew marriage and children were musts in my life and I never considered any other path. The first out lesbian I ever met was my freshman year of college. I’m not sure I even knew the word lesbian until college. I thought the lesbian (I have no idea what her name was) I met in college was cool. She was so at ease and confident in herself…maybe I envied that or maybe somewhere deep inside I understood that I was gay, but I couldn’t give it a label or a voice or claim it for myself when I was 18. She was lucky, or super brave…maybe both.

I transferred my junior year from Lake Forest College in Illinois, where I grew up, to the University of Colorado in Boulder. It was there that I met my future husband. We were married two years later and had three children together. My children like this part of my story way too much. We were married in the Catholic Church because I was raised Catholic. My future husband and I were into more evangelical churches and with that came very conservative beliefs, including no sex before marriage. Apparently, at 22, I preferred someone telling me what to think rather than figuring it out on my own. On our wedding night, my brand-new husband told me that he had known all of his life that he was gay. In response, I told him I had “kind of dated a girl” in high school. That was the beginning, middle, and end of the conversation. We did not talk about it again for seven years.

It’s possible we never would have talked about being gay if my husband hadn’t developed feelings for one his friends in the church we belonged to. He was so troubled by this that he confided in the pastor of the church and began attending events and counseling through an “ex-gay” ministry. When I think back on that now, I’m so sad for him and horrified that I ever supported him being a part of an ex-gay anything. My husband began a string of affairs. When he told me he met someone he wanted to build a relationship with, I told him I was filing for divorce. He was not surprised, perhaps relieved.

Divorce was scandalous in the church we belonged to…and being gay was over the top. He was definitely going to hell, and, in short order, I’d be going with him. He was outed to the whole church and kicked out of the membership. I wasn’t very sensitive to him back then. I was hurt and afraid. We had three children, five and under, and my very helpful “friends” were telling me that he would never see the kids, never pay child support and that he’d make them gay. Just the kind of support you need from friends. He didn’t do any of those things. He is, and always has been, a great dad.

After the divorce, I went to Seminary…conservative Baptist seminary…imagine the scandal now…and earned an MA in counseling. I chose Seminary because I wanted to study the Bible and learn about Greek words and what the Bible actually said instead of blindly following what I was told to believe.

I stayed very involved with the same church that had rejected my ex-husband. I was on the staff as a therapist, and I was part of the leadership of the church. I planned events and retreats, spoke at women’s events, and built a counseling practice. During that same time, I also spent a lot of time in therapy for myself. It was through that process, and graduate school, that I came to realize I am a lesbian. I’m not sure the conservative baptist seminary would use this information as a recruiting tool. I was thrilled at this revelation because it made me make sense to myself…and my obsession with Julia Roberts and Sharon Stone. With my newfound enthusiasm, I told the two pastors of the church, at our weekly staff meeting, that I was gay. Now I didn’t expect them to cheer me on, but I did expect understanding, support, and some sense of joy for me and how the pieces of my life came together. There were no more missing pieces, and no smashing pieces into places they didn’t fit.

“Joy” is not the word I would use to describe their reaction to me…I’m gonna go with repugnance. I was fired on the spot. They immediately took the key to my office and told me they could not recommend that anyone see me for therapy anymore. I was told I could make an appointment to move my belongings out of my office. And they said that the congregation would be told at a business meeting the next Sunday night. I was horrified and dumbfounded. The crazy thing is that both of these men had called me in crisis before and asked me to counsel members of their own families. But now, with one new piece of information about me, I was no longer qualified to counsel anyone. I was also told by the pastor that he knew I was gay by my haircut and the way I dressed. Both pastors said they were concerned I “hated men” because I was divorced. No stereotypes there, WTF!?

The pastors told me I could prepare a statement to read at the church business meeting, BUT I had to meet with the elders first and get their approval in order for that to happen. I’m sure you can guess what happened. I prepared a letter to read, and the elders said, “NO.” It was a big unanimous “no” and they told me I was being divisive. So, I sat through the meeting, silently, as they outed me to a room full of people, many who knew me and some who did not. When they finalized my ex-communication, I walked out.

I went home that night and turned my rejected statement into a letter that I sent to the whole congregation. I was not trying to be divisive, but I had something to say. I told them that I had learned that day, was what I had become to them, these people I considered my family. In the instant that they found out I was a lesbian, I was no longer a friend, colleague, counselor, and the person they called when they had a crisis…all they saw was me as I was now labeled and their judgment of that label. I was a lesbian and nothing else. An abomination. They did not want to hear that I had met someone and was really happy. If I wanted to be part of the church, I had to agree to be celibate for the rest of my life or attend conversion therapy. As fun as those options sound, I was not willing to do either.

My reaction to all of this was pretty much to tell them, and God, to fuck off. If they didn’t want me then I didn’t want them either. I lost all my friends and my job. The foundation of my life crumbled. The one friend I had who didn’t care I was gay, was pressured by other members of the church to end our relationship. She told me she couldn’t support my “lifestyle.” It took me eleven years to get to a place where I could even walk into a church without cringing in fear. I completely cut the spiritual part of me out of my life, and I functioned as part of a person…but not a whole one.

I was furious at the church and at God. I realized eleven years later, including many years of therapy, that I took their rejection as God’s rejection…but they were just people. People with harmful, hateful, bigoted ideas that they hammered into everyone under their control. God hadn’t really played into it at all. Gandhi said something about liking Jesus but not liking Christians because they are so unlike him. Seems accurate.

Sadly, I had been one of those people at one time. My ex-husband had too. We held those views. I held those views. I still feel ashamed of that fact. No doubt I couldn’t come out until I was able to think for myself and accept myself as I am. I had to address my own internal homophobia. Buddhism became my home. Kindness my religion. Inclusion and acceptance foundational in my thinking. Acceptance, not tolerance. I was never loved, I was indoctrinated. I was part of the “flock” as long as I believed and acted just like them.

When I got the boot, I found freedom. I found the freedom to love and be loved, to know and accept people for who they are, and to allow them to show me who they are. People know themselves better than I do, and I have no business trying to change anyone or make them feel ashamed of who God made them to be. I found the freedom to love and accept myself. I was free to own all the parts of me and my life…no hidden shame anymore. I am gay by design. I embrace who I am. I am grateful for my ability to love deeply, without conditions, because that was never a certainty. I am grateful for the ability to forgive others, and myself. Kindness, acceptance, and love, that’s what I know.

Broken and Beautiful

~ Kai Raines ~ 1 Comment

This morning I woke up in pain, actually I woke up because of pain. I hate waking up in pain and I wake up in pain every day. The degree of pain differs but not the fact of the pain. It makes me want to move and not move at the same time…because I’m not sure which one will help…maybe neither will. The amount of pain can’t be predicted. There’s the regular pain that getting up and moving might loosen up and help. Then there’s the wake me up pain from my elbow that goes from my shoulder to my fingers and from my back, that moves from my neck to my tailbone and shoots into my legs. It’s scary to start your day that way. Sometimes I just want to scream when I wake up.

I don’t always wake up because of pain but I do always have pain when I’m awake. Sometimes I wake up angry and sad. Pain is a hard way to start a day. Some days are better than others.There are definitely days I find myself wondering how I am going to manage this excruciating pain for the rest of my life. Now, I do tell myself to slow the fuck down and remember that I don’t have to live the rest of my life today. I just need to manage today…moment by moment…and sometimes that is hard enough. 

I found this shell on the beach one day. I fell in love with it because it’s broken but it’s beautiful. The break has healed, although the scar remains. It’s amazing really. The shell is still a shell, but it’s scarred. I am like that shell. We are all broken in one way or another. The world is hard, living is hard, and we all break, or get broken. I don’t think I’m the only person who feels this way. We all have things that feel bigger than us at work in our lives that we aren’t sure we can manage. Like the shell I found, we are all scarred physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually…maybe in multiple ways. And like the shell that broke, we heal. We have scars but we heal. The scars help us remember where we’ve been and how we got to where we are today. We are broken and beautiful.

Now before anyone freaks out, please hear me when I tell you I am NOT saying that I need to be fixed. I am NOT saying that you or anyone else needs to be fixed. Being broken is part of being a human being on this planet. There’s a million ways to be broken…chronic pain, physical illness, mental illness, divorce, death, loss, a destructive relationship, a dying relationship, problems with children, health problems or mental health problems of someone you love or care for, aging parents, end of life issues, just being alive issues…the list goes on forever because we are individuals with unique challenges in our lives. Even if the challenges look similar, we are unique people who handle circumstances, and brokenness differently.

I love the musical, “Dear Evan Hansen.” It deals with the suicide of a high school student, the attempt by another student, mental health issues, depression, grief, loneliness, isolation, belonging…it’s got it all, because it’s fucking high school…and high school has it all. At one point in the movie, Evan Hanson’s mom talks to him about when his dad left them and how overwhelmed she felt. She says, well, she sings, it is a musical, “and the house felt so big, and I felt so small….” I feel that way with pain sometimes. The pain feels so big, and I feel so small…but it isn’t just physical pain, it’s the pain of human existence…when it all feels so big, and I feel so small…what’s a human being to do?

When I share my brokenness with you I’m allowing you into my core… the scariest, most sad, hopeless, vulnerable places inside of me…the places where I am me, really me, unfiltered. Exposing my most delicate places, is not an easy position to be in or tolerate for very long. We are broken and beautiful…I am broken and beautiful. When we can share ourselves honestly, the brokenness isn’t so scary…because I am not there alone. Our brokenness makes us human; it makes us real. I think we are perfect in our brokenness…our scarred selves. We are more perfect when we can share our brokenness with someone else. We have he potential to ease each other’s pain. Hippocrates said, “Divine is the task to ease pain.” Maybe we become more divine when we help someone by talking about our vulnerable, broken, scarred places. You see, I’m real, just like you…and the velveteen rabbit.

Kelly Clarkson wrote a song called “Broken and Beautiful.” I’m guessing she wrote it following her divorce. Anyway, in the song it says, 

“I never held my hand out and asked for something free

I got pride I could roll out for miles in front of me

I don’t need your help, and I don’t need sympathy

I don’t need you to lower the bar for me.

I know I’m Superwoman, I know I’m strong

I know I’ve got this ‘cause I’ve had it all along

I’m phenomenal and I’m enough

I don’t need you to tell me who to be.

Can someone just hold me?

Don’t fix me, don’t try and change a thing

Can someone just know me?

‘Cause underneath, I’m broken and it’s beautiful.”

Can someone just know me…just know me. That’s what I want. It’s what we all want. To be known…the good, the bad, and the ugly. But how can we know each other? We have to be still. Be still and know….there is no knowing without being still.  We can’t know something moving past us at 100 mph.  We have to stop and be still…be still to know…to know ourselves, our spouse, our children, family, friends, co-workers, people in this country or in this world…there is no knowing until we’re still. We have to be willing to stop…because if you know me then you can love me…but not before. And I’m worth stopping for…and so are you.

I have lots of scars on my body…stretch marks from having babies, knee, elbow, back, shoulder, and foot scars from many surgeries. And I have a lot of other scars that you can’t see, unless I show you. All those scars help to tell the story of me…how I became who I am today.  I don’t need to be fixed but I do need to be known. We’re all broken and we’re all beautiful. We are all worth the time investment it takes to get to know each other.  Those scars quilt together the fabric of who I am and what has shaped and influenced me…past pains and triumphs…current pains and triumphs. 

I do not need you to tell me what I need to do to get “better.” “Better” isn’t in the cards for me…management is. I’m not your project and don’t need to be told how to be me. I’ve got this. I’ve had it all along. I need you to know me. I need you to love me without trying to fix me. Allow me to show you the most tender and vulnerable parts of me, safely. Let me be tried, scared, hurt, disappointed, frustrated. Let me feel my feelings. Don’t create a situation where I need to say “I’m okay” for your benefit…so you won’t be uncomfortable. I don’t need your sympathy or for you to feel sorry for me. After all I’m fucking Superwoman.

Please don’t judge me, label me, and put me in a neat little box built to ease your own discomfort. Know me without the filter of what you think about my pain, your interpretation of my pain, or what you think you know about me? Be still. For the love of God, please, be still. You can’t find me if I don’t let you, and I won’t let you until you’re still. Your stillness allows space for me to trust you and for you to see me. Really see me.

Let’s be real…it can be lonely being in pain, being broken. But it doesn’t need to be because we’re all broken and we all have pain. We don’t need to feel alone. We need to allow ourselves to be seen…to be known. For that to happen, we have to do two things: be still so that we can know and then, allow ourselves to be seen. We have to be vulnerable and willing to take the risk of knowing and being known. “Divine is the task to ease pain.” Let’s do that for each other…ease each other’s pain. When we know someone we can love them…really love them. And in the end, all that matters is how we love people. Let’s make sure love always wins.