#metoo And The Rumbling In My Bones

 They’re falling like flies.  It’s been a long time coming and each and every one of those perpetrators deserves what is coming to him.   The collective disclosures from those victimized have created an epic story about money and power and the insidious sexist culture we live in.  The plot line includes money, fame, sex, politics, and secrecy. It has captured our attention the same way headlines on celebrity tabloids do when we are standing in line at the grocery store.

These recent events lead to the resurrection of the #metoo movement and became a vehicle whereby celebrities courageously disclosed their own #metoo experiences. This in turn empowered regular everyday women to add their experiences of sexual violence to those of the rich and famous by using the hashtag.  Facebook and Twitter were flooded.  The snowball was rolling and notorious perpetrators became rolled into it as it barrelled down a steep mountain.  With the increasing speed these sexual predators realized there was no way to slither their way out and eventually acquiesced to the inevitable - being ousted, fired, and forced into resignation from positions that previously bestowed upon them the designation of beloved public figures.

As the demise of these men became front and center, women celebrated the long awaited justice and the freedom that comes with it.  Facebook and Twitter ads linked women and their allies to websites where they could proudly buy women power themed stickers, t-shirts, mugs, and jewelry. Who knew that bringing down powerful men could create a niche business?  There are times I wonder if there are people who think this is the first time high profile sexual violence has flooded the media. 

Something about all of this unsettles me.  My head tells me I should be thrilled about a movement that raises awareness and has resulted in sex offenders, who for so long were able to garner the social, monetary, and political clout to justify and hide their criminal behavior, to be held accountable.  My heart and gut are rumbling, which may be a warning to not put too much stock in this.  Honestly, I feel awful about this rumbling.  I want to be joyous and celebrate these victories.  Heaven knows I’ve rushed to Amazon to buy my feminist gear and restate my allegiance to equality.

I need to unpack what is so unsettling, hence this blog.  Its true that I have been sitting with this for a while, but with the announcement naming the Silence Breakers as Time’s Person of the Year the rumbling got deeper and I knew it was important to work this out.  I’m guessing what I have to say may not be popular, or be considered a buzz kill, and I’ll accept that criticism.  To put things in context:

• Let’s not forget all of the Silence Breakers who over the past several decades paved the path for others to come forward.  Without the faceless survivors that never made the news as heroes, it wouldn’t be possible for others to carry the torch today.

• It isn’t any more courageous to speak out about Harvey Weinstein, Matt Lauer, Al Franken, or Donald Trump than it is about your shift leader at the local Applebees or Walmart, but when have those disclosures caused such a stir as what we are seeing today?  Think about it.  Is the horror of sexual violence against any of these women any less difficult than it is for those that have captured our attention today?  To me, it shouldn’t matter who the victims are, we should be outraged that this happens at all. 

Let’s not forget the army of women who for decades dedicated their lives to achieving equality and ending men’s violence against women.  Groundbreaking federal and state laws have been passed, countless marches have been organized, media campaigns have been implemented, advocates have bore witness to thousands of survivor stories, and prevention programs have infiltrated schools.  All of this has required deep reservoirs of courage and perseverance not to mention the character to withstand criticism and name calling.

• Let’s be careful to not glorify men who have stepped up to do and say what’s right.  Case in point, Billy Bush’s recent New YorkTimes Op-ed.  It’s true that cultural norms can make it difficult to step outside of the box, but we have to question why so many good men have been complicit bystanders while armies of women have been tireless in raising issues about men’s criminal behavior.

Sexual violence is about complex inequality perpetuated through societal structures that ensure the seat of power remains in the hands of a those with privilege. That privilege is based on race, class, and gender.  Simply put (sort of), sexual violence is one of many tools used to disempower women and other vulnerable populations from acquiring equal access to resources, money, housing, safety, jobs, education … just to name a few. Sexual violence doesn’t exist in a vacuum; it exists as part of an intricate system of disempowerment.

 So what does all of this have to do with #metoo, Harvey Weinstein, the Silence Breakers and the rumbling in my gut?  Here’s what I’ve come to so far, and I reserve the right to reassess at a later date.  These recent events and the attention they’ve achieved represents only a tiny step forward, in part, because of decades of work that paved the way for this moment to occur.  It’s great to celebrate the victories, but just because the mostly white and famous have come forward to ignite this excitement doesn’t mean our work is done.  I’ve done this work for too long to be naïve about what this progress means. It means we MUST NOT let the excitement of this bandwagon cloud what else we have to do. The rumbling in my gut and the unsettling in my bones tells me we have to remain resolute and not squander this opportunity to address the root causes that allow this type of violence to occur. Please know I more and more people to join the brave #metoo revolution, get a tattoo of Rosie the Riveter, wear a pussy hat, be a nasty woman, but mostly my hope is we will follow Elizabeth Warren’s lead and keep persisting.   

Welcome to the marathon.

Outsmarting the Dementors

What do you do?  I really mean it.  What do you do when you have become numb to the violence, hatred, loss, and sadness?

I wrote that sentence two days ago.  The day that the deadliest mass shooting in American history took place. Upon hearing about it I couldn’t muster up what can only be described as appropriate emotions.  You know, sadness, rage, fear and the like.  Instead I felt a deadness, like a dementor from Harry Potter took my soul.   This worries me because I’m sane enough to know that I don’t live at Hogwarts and Azkaban and it’s dementors are not anywhere near Maine.  I hope.  Kidding aside, I am worried and not just for myself.  The incessant violence and the aftermath that has become the norm is stripping me of reality and the inability to experience the depth of pain that surrounds me.   Let me explain. 

Grieving does not occur in media clips.  It is a process that is messy, long, winding, and unique to each individual.  It is not just those first hours of shock and grief.  That is only the beginning of a complex story that is impossible to encapsulate in a time limited interview, Facebook post, or news article.  It doesn’t end once the fascination of the observers has lapsed.  But here’s the thing, we don’t have to wait long for the next fascination to appear since traumatic events seem to be coming at us with increasing regularity.  Its almost like we have permission to file the last one away and move onto the next series of news clips, posts, and stories.  It is the movie reel of our lives, the soundtrack, and what is predictably around the corner.  This assures that the true story of grief and the impact of violence is never really told, and for me felt.

Excuse my bluntness, but gone are the days of the Oklahoma City Bombing and Columbine, those horrific events that stopped us in our tracks and made us weep. I ask you, how can I be writing these words?  What could make someone, anyone, especially me, long for a day that senseless acts would evoke the “appropriate” emotions.  I recall the deep contemplation and hope that the lives lost were not in vain.  There are photos embedded in my memory of heroic acts and humanity.  I recall thinking that the brain trust of this nation could figure out what needed to be done, to back track through the web of personal and societal constructs that lead to these losses and answer the question of why, and then plot out a plan to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.  Naïve, maybe.  Hopeful, yes.  

That didn’t happen.  I’m not a scientist, but I do think that the neurotransmitters of our brains have been irreparably harmed with each violent event that has occurred; 9/11, Sandy Hook, Virgina Tech, Boston Marathon, Paris, London, Orlando, San Bernadino, Vegas, shootings that resurfaced longstanding racism that we thought was dormant, shootings steeped in sexism and heterosexism, shootings, shootings, shootings.   And then you layer on top of that natural disasters that uncover even more social, racial, and economic injustice.   It. Is. All. Too. Much. When I’m honest with myself, which is often, I know deep down that I’ve gone from connection to disconnection.  How else could I make my coffee and pick out what to wear while listening to a news story about the rising death toll at a country music concert?

What I am writing isn’t new or groundbreaking.  I’m certainly not alone in my distress and I’m 100% positive that each of you reading this blog has experienced some of what I have just described.  So, back to my initial question: “what do you do when you have become numb to the violence, hatred, loss, and sadness?”  I’m not really sure, but what I can tell you is that in the past two days I have searched for a piece of myself that I feel has been lost, or better yet taken away.  I could share what I think have become clichés and say I’ve counted my blessings, reminded myself that even though it seems like our world is unsafe and the likelihood of this happening to me or my loved ones is minimal, or I’ve committed to take action by calling my legislators.  There was a day I thought those were not clichés and would make a difference, but now the hope of these strategies has worn thin and I’m up against finding ways to preserve the soul of my humanity.

I think what I need right now is to embrace the small piece of introversion I possess and counter-intuitively disconnect to reconnect.  I plan on nesting in my new home, laying my head up against my puppy’s chest, admiring the softness of my cat’s tummy, peering into the sparkling eyes of my husband, and watching the leaves fall against the bright blue Maine sky.   As much as this evokes guilt that I’m not doing enough, I believe this is the only way to keep the dementors at bay.

Mirror. Mirror.

Looking in the mirror, or possibly at my reflection in a window as I inadvertently catch a glance, poses a challenge. What I see makes me want to turn away and this raises important questions.  Do I call upon my positive nature and see the glass as half full to reconcile my distress?  Should I use this discomfort, literally and figuratively, as a way to redefine who I think I am within the realities of fibromyalgia, age, and life?  How do I rise above real or perceived physical limitations?

 Recently, I found myself pining to be someone other than who I am on a morning walk while on a business trip in D.C.   Heading to the metro to catch a train on a fresh sunny morning a woman ran past me, earbuds in, running attire impeccably highlighting her level of fitness, with an effortless gait that propelled her down the street.   I thought about how freeing it must be to move at that pace, heart rate elevated, lungs distributing oxygen to muscles, and experiencing a detoxifying sweat.   I thought about what it must feel like to have a body that looked and moved like hers.  I also pined for that feeling I knew she would have once she got back home, as her heart rate slowed, hydrating with a cold swig of water, and then falling into a comfy chair to take in the bliss of endorphins.

Truth be told, I never was a runner (although I tried mighty hard to be), so the pining to be the gazelle-like woman was ironic, if not hysterical.  I am sure “gazelle” has never been a term used to describe me, even at my height of fitness! I reconciled my desire to be a runner well before age or fibro caught up to me, nonetheless the deep green envy of this woman was palpable and made me yearn for my former self.   I was able to shake it off as I stepped onto the down escalator to the platform, paying particular attention to the pain in my feet and knees, taking care to distribute the weight of my laptop bag and purse in a way that didn’t strain my shoulders and neck, and saving face by choosing to stand instead of sit while waiting for the train.

 Once on the platform I relaxed into my usual people watching habits and marveled at the unique differences of those who waited with me.   I considered how each of those bodies held stories I would never know, just as I was carrying my own stories not visible to them.  Perhaps they also took extra care to position their bags as they descended the escalator.  I stood concocting stories about my fellow metro riders when I spotted a young woman (who I deemed to be a college student) who joined the waiting game.  She possessed a confidence I admired, she was short in stature, lean and muscularly compact at the same time.  She was wearing athletic black shorts and a tank that was the embodiment of assuredness and left no question of her commitment to fitness.  I recognized this because she possessed similarities to several of my lifelong friends who also emanate these qualities and something I once did as well.  I felt a surge of grief.  I looked closer and saw she had a number marked on her hand, an indication she had just competed in a race or other athletic event, and a justification of the shameless hamstring stretches she performed in public.  And just like that, the envy creeped back in, and just like that I worked at pushing it away so I could move on with my day.

The train arrived and I boarded.  Four stops later I was delivered to my destination and walked up the hill to my meeting.  The promised breakfast was a disappointing choice of Frosted Flakes or Fruit Loops (no kidding).   I cursed my decision to forgo breakfast on my own and apprehensively picked up one of the pre-packaged cereals of my youth knowing the consumption of carbs and milk would result in guilt worthy of the locale of the meeting … The Catholic University of America.  With the shameful breakfast in hand, I joined my social work colleagues and vowed to embrace their powerful presence of compassion.  We spoke of ending oppression, elevating vulnerable populations, and challenging and confronting injustice (a day in the work of a social worker)! But still, I couldn’t shake the envy or guilt, and this brings me shame.   When I looked in the mirror during my bathroom break, I felt self-loathing, and returned to my table.

I’m still figuring it out.  There’s a socially-constructed ideal of beauty and fitness I have internalized that is complex and multi-layered.  I know this.  I’ve been the chubby middle-schooler, athletic teenager, overweight college student, super-fit twenty-something, in-between-thirty-five-year old, over-stressed forty-year-old, and defiant fifty and closer to sixty year-old.  When I think of all of these outward versions of myself, I know that the deep-down-inside Cyndi has never changed.   I am not unique with my body-image struggles, and at the same time they are unique to me.  I am thankful for the age, experience, and wisdom that helps me navigate them.  Truth be told, I never knew I possessed such vanity, and the reality of that is hard to shake.  I want the pain to end, and not just the pain of negative self-regard, but the actual pain that pulses through my body.  I want age to reverse itself.  I want my belt to stop pressing into my belly.  Most of all, I don’t want this to hold as much importance as it does.   I’m working on being as kind to myself as I strive to be to others.

Yellow

It was a January and without a plan we brought an 8-month old yellow lab into our lives.  It started with an overheard phone call at the Animal Refuge League as we were signing out from our weekly volunteer duties in the cat room.  The one-sided conversation we were privy to included words like young, yellow, lab, pure bred, rescued.   Each of these words caused my ears to perk up because I knew this was my chance to get Steve to make good on his promise that we get a dog.   He agreed and before you knew it we hopped into my 1997 Honda Civic and hauled ass to Raymond, Maine before someone else claimed her, or Steve changed his mind.

When we first saw her she was lying on the floor next to an arm chair.  Her eyes were sad, but if you looked closely you could see a sparkle just wanting to shine.  We listened and learned from her rescuer that she was very smart and would learn quickly.  That day we had no idea how totally unprepared we were for the nearly 15-year journey she would take us on.

Initially, she pushed our patience to the brink with her wild spirit and energy.  How that happened took on many variations, including incessant leash biting, trash diving, and mitten thievery.  She even took to running around the neighborhood looking for doors left open so she could visit an unsuspecting neighbor, and possibly find something good to eat.  There were epic incidents, including the blueberry pie incident, the turkey-poop fiasco, and the Cinco de Mayo scare.  It became clear that she had little interest in wooing us with good behavior, only with her free spirit wildness.

Everything about her was joyous and exhilarating and it was impossible to bridle her energy.  We kept thinking she would be calmer at 5, then 8, maybe 10, perhaps 12, most likely 14.   Her energy and zest never wavered.  Nearly 15 years old and still ready to play, interested in trotting down the driveway with her leash in her mouth, even interested in a game of catch and retrieve with a tennis ball.  Such a spectacular being.  

Throughout her life there would be early mornings when I’d wake up, dragging myself out of bed, sad, or mad, lethargic or depressed; and then, I would look at her.  She would peer up from her bed, smile with her sparkling eyes and wag her tail.  Ready for the day, always.  Ready to love me and make me laugh, always.  Teaching me that everything will be okay.   It will all be okay. 

She was also eager to spread the same joy to anyone who would pay attention.  A working girl she would roam the office looking for someone to play with, to entertain, to comfort, or annoy.   She turned non-dog people into dog lovers; neat as a pin people into someone who didn’t mind a swatch of yellow fur on their black pants.   She entertained at meetings by rummaging through open bags, begging for treats, and finally laying under the table so not to miss a word or an opportunity for some attention.

Phoebe’s life was well documented.  I loved to take pictures that captured her personality and spirit.  She was such an agile athlete, standing tall and lean and a pleasure to watch do all the things Labrador Retrievers are bred to do - swim, run, retrieve, console, love, play, provide companionship, and of course eat.  She had her favorite places to sit, and it never got old to see her laying in the sunlight streaming in through the front door.  There are still memories of her everywhere we turn which is verification of her “great dog” status.

Like all great dogs, the last lesson she taught us was how to find the courage needed to show love in the most profound way. It was excruciating to watch the effects of age on her physical being, and even more difficult to see that in spite of her pain how much she wanted to make us happy.   On her last day, we went outside and enjoyed a gentle May day and shared a rotisserie chicken.  The vet arrived at our house and in the most compassionate way possible we said goodbye.  In true Phoebe style, she wagged her tail until the very end.

For the last year, I have held back on the emotions associated with losing such a loving companion and teacher.  In many ways I have become adept at preventing true sadness to reveal itself.   So finally, as the year anniversary of her death approaches, I decided to open and finish the journal entry I started to write just days after she left us.  The moment I opened it up, it was as if she were looking up at me with those sparkly mischievous eyes letting me know everything is going to be okay. 

Sleepless

I woke up a few times last night.   Lots of aching all over.  Some shooting pain in my feet.  Cramping in calves. My hands were tingling, and my elbows were tender.  Rolling over hurt my hips, but I knew I had to if I was going shift the pain to the other side of my body.  I had to pee, but didn’t get up because I didn’t have the energy to hobble the 15-20 feet to the bathroom.  I just laid there waiting for sleep to take over, and finally it did.

I’m sleeping in longer these days.  Longer than what my morning-person disposition would like.  I think its because I wake up so many times in the night that 5 a.m. feels more like 2 a.m.  So I sleep to 6:15 and spend two hours working out the kinks before I’m ready to head to the office.   I miss the early hours of activity that used to ease me into the day and I mostly miss the exercise I had grown accustomed to and how that never failed to scare away any of the cobwebs that threatened to get in the way of a totally focused day.

 When I do get up, the anticipation of stiffness annoys me so I take my time before I put my sorry feet onto the ground and shuffle into a new day.   Duke, my tank of a black lab puppy, is thrilled I am getting up and I let his joy bring me perspective.   I know that if I get moving, eventually my mobility will improve and no one will be able to pick up on what I’m experiencing, not even Steve, my husband and the person I tell everything to.

Thankfully I have a reprieve from this routine periodically, and sometimes enough consecutive days to convince myself it won’t come back.   But it always does.   This has been creeping up on me for more than a year.  At first I attributed it to being injury prone.  Then I told myself it was a symptom of menopause.  I spent a lot of time in physical therapy, tried acupuncture, chiropractic, massage; went to doctors of osteopath, podiatrists, orthopedics, a rheumatologist, and spent a year on hormones.  I went to the dentist because of TMJ, where it was determined stress was the culprit. I was tested for Lyme disease (three times), multiple autoimmune diseases, checked the levels of just about everything that contributes to pain and the only deficiency that emerged was Vitamin D (yes, that is why I complain about the winter).  But there isn’t enough Vitamin D to fight the effects of what I was eventually diagnosed with - Fibromyalgia.   It’s an insidious disease, hard to explain to others, and sometimes thought to not exist. Most doctors are careful with the diagnosis, others avoid it, but the bottom line is it is most often diagnosed after a process of elimination, hence the multiple doctors, tests, and treatments I went through before getting to this place.

I don’t particularly like this place that I find myself in, but I know I have to figure it out.   I have to work through the shame of the weight gain; adjust to limitations my body is setting for me; explore medication, both natural and pharmaceutical; and I have to be kind to myself.   Honestly, it’s hard seeing myself through the lens of chronic pain.  I look at pictures from the last few years and see an extremely fit, happy, and energetic person.  It makes me sad to be so far away from that Cyndi, and I want to get her back.   I’m thinking that the only way to get her back is to honor the Cyndi I am today so I’m working on that.  Writing this is cathartic and is my way of taking a step to acknowledge this is real, and that the pain will not turn me into anything I don’t want to be.   I plan on being as fabulous as ever.