Suicide

The news of Robin Williams’s death spread like a wild fire across Facebook and within five minutes my newsfeed was filled with both disbelief and honor directed toward a man who brought so much joy over the four decades of his career.  I too am deeply saddened that the felt darkness overwhelmed him and extinguished the light of one who brought so many insightful performances and gave us bouts of laughter born out of mutual identification.  I suppose this is why we gasp in shock and think ‘NO, it can’t be true!  If the catalyst for so much happiness can take his life what hope do we have?  Is life really that futile?’ 

Tributes, commentaries and speculation are now filling the Internet.  The issue of suicide fuels the airways.  Those of us who are mental health care professionals continue to be concerned over the way in which mental illnesses are reported on and portrayed by a media culture whose five-minute sound bites speak more like Morse code rather than complex narratives expressing the intricate density that make up the individual life.  I have spent a significant portion of the day reading some of these articles and one thing is evident, hindsight is twenty-twenty…at least some believe so.  

Mental health is defined as a state of well being in which every individual realizes his or her own potential, can cope with the normal stresses of life and can work productively and fruitfully; and is able to make a contribution to her/his community.  Nobody experiences 100% mental health 100 % of the time leaving each of us to struggle at one point or another with some kind of mental pathology.  In simpler terms, all will be considered mentally ill at one point or another during their lifetime.  In much the same way we are occasionally sick with a cold or flu, people struggle with emotional problems brought on by biopsychosocial influences that impact their relationships and their lives. 

People fall on the paradigm from severe mental illness to the other pole defined as mental health.  This is what makes the process of diagnosis troubling to many in the mental health care field.  Diagnosis seems to solidify a set of symptoms without acknowledging the fluid nature of people’s lives, its shifting circumstances and their potential/process for healing and change.  It provides a label that can feel defining as well as limiting if not placed into the proper context; and can lead people to feel like they are inadequate, judged and/or stigmatized when classified with a mental disorder.  This becomes one of the various reasons’ why some avoid seeking out therapy, but as is evidenced by our precious comedian’s outcome, there are times when we need additional assistance with the struggles that overwhelm in the same way, as we need antibiotics when fighting an infection or chemo when fighting cancer.      

I wrestled with the idea of writing this particular blog.  Prudence about what one shares in cyberspace is wise.  At the same time a deeper concern over the perceived stigmatization of mental illness compels me to want to speak out.  I have made myself vulnerable on multiple occasions by sharing my recovery journey from complex trauma and my struggle with PTSD.  Yet some subjects seem too sensitive to share.  Does this speak to my own moral compass or does it speak to the power of fear and shame? I think it’s probably the latter. The truth is I have experienced negative repercussions and at times felt stigmatized because I have PTSD; but I have also learned that this is often more about the other’s resources than it is about me.  I am an incredibly strong individual, highly insightful and deeply capable as evidenced by my life’s journey.  Nevertheless, strength has its limits and I found mine one night. 

I can’t share all that led up to this particular date…that would take another lifetime; but I had run out of internal resources to combat the darkness that felt like it was overwhelming me.  There had been one other time when the thought of ending it all passed across my mind and it left as swiftly as it had arrived.  This night was different.  There was something reasonable to the conclusion and I didn’t want to live anymore. I was exhausted, brokenhearted and hopeless.  After spending more than two decades struggling to overcome the traumas that had been inflicted upon me; I was finished and the realization that this is where my journey of recovery had led me solidified the rational nature of the conclusion.  I felt like I had tried everything to heal and I was still in such astronomical pain.  All I knew in that moment was I wanted out of the emotional agony whose physicality felt like it was gutting me from the inside out.  It was the sheer lucidness of the decision that actually surprised me and for the first time I knew what it meant to feel suicidal.  I am writing about this experience so obviously I got through that period; but had my best friend not intervened by calling and checking in on me that night I honestly don’t know if the outcome would have been different.   

I can’t share exactly when my hope returned either.  What I can reveal is that the calmness and resolve of that decision scared me to my core.  I had experienced what many had previously reported about; the wrestling was over and prior to their loved one’s suicide the individual seemed resigned, almost happy.  Why didn’t I go through with it?  I got lucky.  My friend’s intuition and intervention kept me on the phone for over two hours that night and after the conversation I was too weary to do anything but fall asleep.  When I woke up the next morning hope had not returned, but what I had gained was the knowledge that someone in this world deeply loved me and if I was to go through with it, I would create the same pain in their life I was trying to escape from myself.  I couldn’t do it; I loved this person too much so I resigned myself to go on.

As time went by I discovered certain beliefs I held were erroneous and the goal to rid myself of pain unrealistic.  To divorce myself from the hurt of my experience would be to minimize the gravity of what I have been through.  I think the struggle for most of us is in the carrying of these dark feelings.  We think we need to rid ourselves of them in order to be content rather than acknowledge, honor and integrate them.  It’s not either you are happy or you are not (although when one is in pain it feels that way).  It is both and that is what makes this life the beautiful struggle that it is.  This is small consolation in those times when the hurt the individual is carrying is disproportionate to their positive experiences and/or their resources.  This remains a reality for far too many.  This life is deeply painful in ways that will suck the very breath from your lungs; it will sucker punch you when you are not looking and it will bring with it experiences that one cannot out maneuver.  Yet it also has moments of unexpected and profound joy and magnificence as well.

What astounds me is the incessant need to figure out why Robin did it.  Was he mentally ill?  Was it his addiction?  Was it the depression that caused it?  The goal behind this pursuit is to control the outcome…yet the outcome has already occurred.  Its over.  We are never going to know what ‘element’ broke his resolve to move forward. It is and isn’t all of those components.  To say that if one is mentally ill they are destined to be suicidal does a disservice to millions that live a long and productive life to spite their mental illnesses.  

What we can know is that Williams’s brilliance was born out of the deep pain he carried and if his capacity to produce joy is any indicator of the depth of his pain…he carried more than his fair share.  He was loved, deeply loved and to say that those surrounding him missed the cue lays a burden on their shoulders they must not carry.  Robin had a bad day where the darkness overwhelmed his resources and it ended lethally.  It is tragic, but it is not the entirety of his life’s story. 

As a therapist-in-training what concerns me is the disconnected nature of our society and how its increasing fragmentation is going to lead more and more to struggle with alienation, isolation and depression driving them to self-medicate and sometimes to suicide.  Even those whose lives are surrounded by many people can feel deep loneliness because we have largely forgotten how to enter into deeply intimate connection; friendships are too often friendships of convenience.  How does the saying go?  When the going gets tough, the tough get going.  This is not to imply that intimates are to carry the responsibility of their loved one’s suicide – they should not.  What this speaks to is ways in which we can improve our communal context so that people in pain don’t feel so alone. 

What have I learned from my own experience?  My wellbeing is intimately connected to the wellbeing of those around me.  I have dual responsibilities - an ongoing obligation to pursue personal healing and to be a catalyst for the healing of others. Sharing my story comes with a hope that something in it may resonate when hope is eclipsed.  If you find yourself in a place of despair please remember back to the outpouring of love following the loss of one of our nation’s most beloved entertainers and the ways in which we all wish we could have intervened – we would feel that way about you too.  Forgive us, we are fragile and we err.  

Since Robin’s passing I have been watching clips of his work on YouTube.  The Fisher King is one of my favorites because of the profound message of grace, friendship, healing and forgiveness that it portrays.  In one scene Williams and Bridges are lying next to each other naked in the park – a metaphor of the vulnerability within their friendship. Williams character goes on to tell Bridges character the story of the Fisher King: 

May we all become more like the fool.... Need help? In the U.S., call 1-800-273-8255

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

PTSD

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) – upon hearing the term thoughts of military personal returning from combat with psychological wounds springs to mind.  Although this is true, PTSD effects are much more pervasive and touch a much broader base than many imagine.  It can include individuals who have faced or witnessed life-threatening events, sexual assault victims as well as members of oppressed cultures.  June has been designated the month to draw awareness to this area so I thought what better time to share than now.

I have PTSD born out of complex and multiple traumas experienced at an early age.  Without going into all the sordid details I have spent much of my adult life in recovery from emotional, sexual and physical abuse which led me into a religious system whose theological perspectives created a context where spiritual abuse was sometimes operating…..more on that later.   What I want to focus on initially is educating; and then sharing a small piece of my story of what it is like living with the repercussions and navigating what I call ‘my two realities’. 

The science behind PTSD is comprehensive and much too complicated for a blog post.  I will try to provide just enough information to shed a light on my personal experience, but if you have a loved one who suffers or an interest I would recommend several books; A Body Remembers: The Psychophysiology of Trauma and Trauma Treatment by Babette Rothschild, Spiritual Crisis Surviving Trauma to the Soul by J. LeBron McBride and my current read, Trauma and the Body: A Sensorimotor Approach to Psychotherapy by Pat Ogden, Kekuni Minton, Clare Pain and Daniel J. Siegel. 

Trauma wounds the very core of a person’s soul.  The following is paraphrased from McBride’s book Spiritual Crisis: Upon seeing innocent children burned alive, Elie Wiesel wrote of his traumatic experience; ‘flames consumed my faith forever, murdered my God and my soul.’  Others said the experience is when ‘the spirit went numb and soul development stopped’; it has also been defined as a ‘disorder of hope, a spiritual night and a loss of faith that there is order and continuity in life’. 

PTSD is a biological response brought on by life threatening events that trap the trauma within the autonomic system; in other words, it freezes the trauma allowing for an echo of the original trauma to reactivate the initial response making the person feel like they have traveled back in time and are re-experiencing the primary threat.  It is not a form of amnesia, but an experiencing of two realities in the same moment.  Sometimes the sufferer is aware they are in the midst of an episode; most often they aren’t until it subsides.  To put it in other words, the person’s system is reacting to a past event within the context of a current situation that has little or nothing to do with it.  Needless to say, it is disorienting for both the sufferer and those who are their intimates, specifically for those who have gone undiagnosed. 

Ogden writes, “The function of the ‘mind’ – that extraordinary human capacity to observe, know, and predict – is to inhibit, organize, and modulate those automatic responses, thereby helping us manage and preserve our relationships with our fellow human beings, on whom we so desperately depend for meaning, company, affirmation, protection and connection.” 

What PTSD ends up doing is inhibiting the brains ability to function in this manner; rather it activates the response that fuels chaotic emotions reinforcing the devastation of trauma’s prior event.  Hormonal secretions (a subcortical response) explain why responses to certain triggers can seem irrational or irrelevant and even harmful in the context of the present moment.  Episodes lead to blow ups in response to minor provocations, freezing when frustrated; and helplessness in the face of trivial challenges.  Without a historical context to understand the somatic and motoric inheritance, their emotions seem out of place causing significant shame and embarrassment to those who experience them. 

Neuroimaging of traumatized people under stress reveal that the sensory trigger of past trauma activates the emotional brain to engage protectively changing the sympathetic and parasympathetic system that ultimately interferes with effective executive functioning.  This leaves their brain with less control over behavior and causing behavioral regression.  With well-functioning rational compromised; the individual reverts to ‘fixed action patterns’ as well as reactivating the physical response of terror, abandonment and helplessness in excruciating detail. 

In an effort to simplify, McBride defines PTSD as leaving the sufferer without hope and disconnected from self, others and even God by destroying the ability to integrate their experience into their personhood.  The outcome is a loss of having a safe place to retreat to within or outside of oneself in order to deal with frightening emotions and experiences; and leaving them to relive the impact of trauma repeatedly; therefore compounding and reinforcing trauma’s affects.

Yes, I have PTSD.

It brings sorrow and tears as I reflect on how its operation in my life has hindered and aborted the very forces needed to heal; the unending consequence I pay for wrongs done to me, the time it has robbed and ultimately for the pain it inflicts on my most intimate relationships.  My journey has been much more problematic because I went undiagnosed long after the original injuries leaving me to blindly navigate it’s symptoms for many years.  Even when I was finally diagnosed in 2000 I was so embedded in a religious system that spiritualized every ill under the sun that the realities of what I was dealing with never fully landed.  In its wake I was left feeling incompetent, defective and hiding under shame’s shroud. 

In the early years I was barely functional suffering from anxiety and fear levels so high I was borderline agoraphobic.  Any event in public pulled deeply on internal resources that would lead me to shut down for hours, even days following in order to regain my internal equilibrium.  I would never travel too far or into unfamiliar places; and when I did I wouldn’t go alone needing to know the minute details of where, when and how in order to keep my anxiety in check.  Walking through a garage or entering into an elevator was an act of heroic proportions.  With my system in a permanent state of alert; the process of getting myself up, out and to work while navigating the eight hours at the task I was hired for left me with very little reserves pushing me deeper into isolation and into trauma’s prison.

It was that same confinement whose constraining nature pushed me deep into depression; yet eventually the sheer monotony of life stirred a deeper need than the anxieties I was dealing with drawing me slowly back into life.  Over the years my boundaries have expanded and passing time taught my system that daily events are not dangerous reducing the ever present anxiety to low grade hum until unforeseen triggers send me back into a full blown episode.  The saddest part of this narrative is the realization of its full implications and the way in which it has colored the actions of my life didn’t land until a decade after the original diagnosis.  But, this understanding has also helped me move away from survival mode and into a thriving life. 

The metaphor I use to paint the picture of this journey is I have gone from a place in my internal world that was pitch black, darker than night as I blindly bumped into the walls of my 2 x 2 x 2 PTSD cell.  In time light started to shine making all that I saw shades of grey and revealing that my cell was expanding.  Hours rolled into days and days into years when splashes of color would accent my black and white world.  Now the key has been turned in the padlock, the bars of my cell have swung open and I have walked into a world alive in all its Technicolor glory.  With that there is so much beauty, but at the same time it overwhelms my senses as I learn to navigate brand new challenges.  Entering into intimate relationship is drawing out the deepest trauma injuries triggering me in unexpected moments and in unexpected ways.  

I wish I could end this blog with a testimony that says full recovery is possible; but that is not the current statistic.  PTSD is a chronic condition whose effect on the system can improve, but will never completely leave.  Yet, with new studies in neuroscience and the infant field of brain imaging is providing hope to those who suffer.  EMDR and other somatic therapies are showing strong promise and my feeling is that at some time in the near future I can say I am no longer triggered allowing for my system to fully heal.

Until then, the journey of recovery continues……………..    

Mommy

It’s been 364 days, 20 hours and 5 minutes since my Mom died.  May 22, 2012 at 2:25 pm she breathed her last after a long year of hospitalizations for a broken hip, breast cancer and congestive heart failure.  There are no words to express what it is like to watch someone you love die – particularly a death where they are drowning in their own fluids. It is a pain that cannot be articulated, especially when that person is your mother.  It has left me with heartache that I believe I have not fully engaged in as of yet; a grief that will take a lifetime to process and why wouldn’t it? 

Heidi was the woman whose womb I grew in; the woman whose nurturing hands tended to me when I was sick or mercilessly teased at school; and the woman whose own traumatized childhood set the context for my own.  She was the person I most adored and sometimes resented.   One smile from my mother could make me feel so deeply loved and I never doubted her joy when I walked into the room – it would explode from behind those beautiful baby blues piercing deep into my soul.  You see my mom delighted in the personhood of all people, and she was never happier than to sit listening to another’s story.  Those that knew her adored her; her hospitality and servant hearted nature was a gift touching many. 

Like all mother daughter relationships ours was deeply complicated.  I am the first born and with it came all her adoration as well as every one of her unreasonable and at times impossible expectations that follow the trailblazer of subsequent sibs.  The responsibility for her emotional well-being landed smack dab on me and I spent my entire life trying to fill a hole left by her traumatized past unsuccessfully.  My mother received more of my time than other adult children give to their parents; yet even when present I felt like I could never be present enough.  There was something about our dynamic that made me feel like she wanted to consume my being back into her own.  The ensuing outcome was that I never felt like I could be enough, do enough or love her enough. 

I once heard someone once say that when those you love pass you only remember the good.  I’m so glad that is true of their experience; but it really isn’t mine.  My nature screams for authenticity and truth; and I cannot face this experience without speaking honestly about the good, the bad and the ugly.  The grief over the loss of my mother is a mixed bag that contains sorrow I can’t yet get close to and relief that I no longer have to bear the responsibility for my Mommy’s pain.   Those who have lost parents know the heaviness that descends over everything, the exhaustion one feels even after twelve hours of sleep and the loss of part of yourself that was mirrored by one who was your foundational relationship.  No matter your age, you have lost a part of yourself and you don’t fully know who you are without them. 

This journey has been complicated by having to watch my Dad grieve the loss of his life-mate of fifty years….to him – the loss of his life.   I watched my father age right before my eyes, listened to him promise her he would search the stars when he passes; and come home to countless swollen and puffy eyes knowing he had spent the entire day in loneliness and sorrow.   A part of me wonders if the full weight of my Mom’s loss will hit me when my Father passes.   Nonetheless, I have promised myself not to borrow trouble from tomorrow; and to stay present today navigating the waves of grief when they consume me. 

This week has been heavy – but, light has begun to find its way back into our lives.  The constant heaviness is lifting and energies are beginning to return.  I find myself noticing both the best and worst of my mother’s characteristics within myself; embracing the good as a gift that says she is still with me; and working to relinquish those that did not serve her.  Today I grieve her passing, but I also hold onto the hope of resurrection, in my character, in my relationships and in my tomorrows.  And maybe, just maybe; when it’s my turn to close earth’s chapter,  I will see those love filled baby blues again.

The Millennial Generation

The Millennial Generation is once again being castigated in the media as the ‘me, me, me generation’.   This time it is Joel Stein’s article in May 28^th edition of Time Magazine.  It begins with an admission that he is doing what has been done by generation’s prior – accusing the younger generation of being lazy, entitled, selfish and shallow; but before anyone derides him he goes on to say that he has statistics to back up his evidence, stating that the incidence of narcissistic personality disorder is three times higher in this generation then that of the Boomers.  That is as far as I got, because to read the entire article would mean I would have to purchase a subscription online – no thank you, not interested. 

Now, I am not a part of the Millennial Generation.  I was born on the cusp of the Boomer and Gen-X transition depending upon whose data you are going by.  For the most part I identify with the Gen-X Generation much more than the Boomers for a wide variety of reasons that are irrelevant to this blog.  What I can say is that about sixty percent of my friendship base is currently Millennial so I feel compelled to speak out on their behalf.  This amazing group are some of the most talented, insightful and authentic people I have ever met. They question everything – as they should!  This is what makes them the loving visionaries whose social minded ideals propel them toward making a better world than the one they were born into.

Accusations of this sort are nothing new with this trend beginning with the 1960’s – its Flower Children were accused of rebelliousness born out of discontent – those that had been given too much with no sense of appreciation.  Gen-X was treated as the throw-away generation – a lost opportunity, very rarely identified as anything other than an extension of the Boomers.  Those who are now among America’s unemployed/under-employed work force raising families in the face of economic and social difficulties.  Now the trend has moved to point the finger at the Millennial – the Peter Pan generation - those people born in the 1980’s when American prosperity and indulgence was at an all-time high.  

The Millennial Generation is largely in their twenties and the question I would like to ask; who wasn't somewhat entitled, selfish and shallow at this time of life?  These should not be lobbed toward them as inherent character flaws, but an acknowledgement of a real and certain developmental reality.  The twenties lend itself to a time of leaving one’s family of origin, while venturing out into an unknown world trying to figure out who we are and how we fit.  This is a deeply self-reflective time of life that may look self-absorbed, but quite to the contrary is a necessary step toward maturity.  This is not a unique experience to this generation, nor should they be lambasted for circumstances that have been largely out of their control. 

In many ways this generation has been robbed of that development process growing up in a historical backdrop that is filled with economic uncertainty and social unrest; a period of global instability and redistribution of employment opportunities that have kept them from finding positions that are well below their talents and qualifications; or not at all.  Are they resentful?  I would say they have a right to be!  One in two college graduates are unemployed still living with their parents.  This is not only delaying careers, but obscuring their overall vision as they face a future filled with more questions than those that plagued the generations before them.  If the prophecy turns out to be right; and they are a narcissistic generation of lost souls, we only have to look to those who raised them, a generation that were so consumed with economic advancement, they neglected to take account how that might affect future generations.

My personal experience has led me to believe that this generation is going to be one of the finest generations in over a century.  I have met them, spent time with them, been loved by them and believe in them with all of my heart.  So I turn to my Millennial friends to say, I have nothing but the utmost confidence that you will face the challenges life places before you touching the world in profound ways.  You constantly amaze and inspire me with your passion.  You remind me to keep dreaming, to embrace life and to continue to grow in relationship with each other; as well as the world we live in.  Millennials I both love you and salute you!
   

Shame

Shame – crafty, scheming, devious and illusive - an emotion whose name alone conjures its own feeling like a witch calling forth an evil spirit.  It rises from the abyss to plunge its serrated edged dagger of self-loathing into the core of the soul; ripping open the victim’s self-image from the inside out and leaving their psyche trapped in its putrefied scent like the wanderer’s misstep into pitch.  With its prey firmly constrained it sinks its fangs of denigration into their character extracting all traces of self-worth, but never satisfied to leave one numb from the void. 

It resolutely attaches itself inside of the shadows hiding behind memories waiting like a street thug to strike at any hint of trauma’s echo.  Its elusive nature coerces its target to use its own voice against itself; compelling the bound to participate in its own demise like a victim at the mercy of its perpetrator.  With stealth like intimidation it attacks convincing the quarry its damaged goods leaving them indefensibly cloaked in an oppressive shroud of torment and driving them deep into the darkness dividing them from all that is good.

Shame is an aggressor skilled in treachery that prostrates the martyr at the altar of its deception exacting revenge and driving self-retaliation.  Shame promotes anguish, discharges sorrow, conceals dignity, hides self-worth; demanding allegiance to isolation’s depths.  Shame rejects all counsel, discards support, refuses the truth, snubs encouragement, disallows legitimacy and rebuffs love.  Shames goal is to eliminate pleasure, dissolve satisfaction, question integrity, induce agony and kill dreams.  It is a calculating, fraudulent, misleading enemy that oppresses, humiliates and threatens bent on destruction with the ultimate goal of dehumanizing its prey.   

Some capitulate to the idea that shame is inherent in the human condition, born out of humanities depraved nature well deserved in the face of its guilt.  LIES!!!!!!!!!!!  Perpetuating that perception binds shame's sufferer to the baseless belief that they are defective partnering with shames duplicitous satisfaction.  God’s testimony speaks to the cherished and distinctive nature of humanities essence; its creation a precious investment that testifies to his/her goodness and mercy.  Creatures whose worth is so deeply inherent that God nailed her/himself to a cross, not to appease Divine anger, but to solidify the profound legitimacy of his/her eternal acceptance, love and the priceless nature of one’s person-hood. 

Shame is the antithesis of acceptance and authenticity; the burial garment of hope born out of unimaginable helplessness and traumatizing pain.  Shame is the heaviness of sorrow draped over the heart's eyes obscuring the ability to see one’s authentic self in all their unique purpose and beauty. Shame is not an emotion that leads to life; but a tyrannical persecutor that intimidates, rejects, distorts and devours one’s capacity to be loved.    

Shame IS the Guardian of Darkness. 

Chaplaincy

The final requirement for my master’s degree was to work in a clinical setting for eleven weeks as a chaplain intern.  Entering into a hospital setting just four months after my mom’s passing filled me with anxiety, uncertainty and trepidation; but, I needed to complete the requirement if I wanted to move forward with my future goals.  I was carrying with me grief, sadness, exhaustion and doubt; and I worried about how I was going to navigate an environment that houses tremendous suffering in the midst of my own sorrow and dark night.  The journey of CPE is a cyclical process of patient care, reflection, writing, round table discussion, insights returning back to patient care.  We spent a significant portion of time processing the experience and confronting personal presuppositions, theological assumptions and internal responses.  Questions of theodicy are theory for some, a much more significant reality for others.  On life’s continuum there is no rhyme or reason why it appears that some individuals skate through life with only minor challenges; and others seem to repeatedly face the effects of evil on an exponential scale.  A hospital setting is the great leveler and suffering is the great equalizer.      

Several individuals who know me well have watched as I wrestled with the pain and fall out of years of repressed trauma.  During this season I have examined everything I have ever believed including the question, is God a sadistic sovereign intentionally ‘allowing’ evil for some broader purpose that we can’t or won’t see; or is God a benevolent being that loves humanity with every microcosm of its existence?  A Divine being whose passion is so far beyond the limits of human comprehension, and whose mercy, grace and kindness drives it to its ‘metaphorical’ knees in sorrow and tears over the pain that humanity is suffering under?   Working as a chaplain is demanding; as if it is not enough to carry your own personal pain; you sit across from patients at their most vulnerable.  Watching their suffering can be agonizing at times.  Stories of premature baby’s deaths or sitting in the suffering of a thirty-four year old mother of six; as she faces stage four cancers, even after surviving a life as the daughter of an addicted mother turn prostitute, breaks one’s heart into a million little pieces.  There is NOTHING fair about this life.  The randomness in which its horror visits sometimes feels like it wants to overcome and swallow up any vestige of hope. 

Questions of how I was to present the love of God in the midst of that kind of pain – a love of God I’m unsure of, filled many reflections.  Theological questions born out of difficult encounters led to even more complicated inquiries.  After one particular encounter with a schizophrenic gentleman, I asked who God is to the mentally ill.  Questions of whether or not they may be prophets among us filled my mind.  Do they see and experience life normally or are we the delusion?  This seems reasonable to ask when looking at the various prophets and the extremes they took to bring what we define as God’s message to Israel.  If they were walking among us today, there is little doubt that they would be the marginalized; the homeless, the poor, the weird and untamed; the people that challenge our well maintained constructs.  How can we incorporate them in the Body when as an institution we struggle to accept those who are defined as ‘normal’, but who challenge its theological ‘norms’ – i.e.: women, singles, and the L.G.B.T. community?  How do we answer Christ’s call not to forget those who are in ‘prison’?  That is what mental illness is – a prison of the mind that in some situations has little hope of freedom. 

Christian scripture declares God to be the absolute solution to human suffering.  The question - how is that manifest?  Some promise that it comes through the supernatural, if only we believe.  Others say it’s a far off reality at the end of the age.  While sitting as a chaplain I was confronted by theologies that were a mixed bag of suspicion and contradiction; I listened to scriptures twisted into excuses or used as weapons binding individuals into an ‘I should’ prison.  I sat with people who wept because they were too sick to attend church; and others, to spite their suffering, who were grateful for each moment of life.  At the end of eleven weeks a few beliefs have begun to re-emerge; the first being the significance and inherent beauty of humanity; and the amazing reality that each individual person is created in God’s image (the imago Dei). 

No one person spoke louder to this reality than Mrs. L. and I fell in love with that woman during our numerous visits.  She is a beautiful, strong and powerful woman although her frail and failing state deceives the eye.  She shared her story of raising three children as a single Hispanic woman in the seventies; one of two women who owned her own business in the largely male dominated field of boxing; and who was transfused with tainted blood that brought on a lifetime of illness.  I sat with this woman in her piercing vulnerability as the nurse cleaned her; she serenaded me with a Mexican ballad; and even when she had little to no strength she gave me the gift of her unconditional love and acceptance by blowing me a kiss.  She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen and not because of an external aesthetic; but because life’s light shone bright from deep from within her soul.   The second conclusion - life is the most precious of gifts.  Watching an individual grasp for each breath can reveal two realities – one that we are biological beings who ‘need’ air, but there is a spiritual aspect to that as well.  Every breathe we take is a gift that should be honored and appreciated because we never know which one will be our last.

I have not drawn any conclusion to the problem of pain; nor have I reconciled my many theological struggles; but this one thing I know, unconditional love communicates the acceptance and mysterious message that God transcends human constructs.  It was in the midst of the comforting words my fellow chaplain brought to a woman who had just watched her premature baby die that I again arrived at the following conclusion; we are not called to ignore, minimize or theologize pain by giving answers where there are none.  Nor are we called to help others escape, deny or hide from the darkness that arrives at the most unexpected moments and in the most tragic of ways.  We are called to sit in the pain with those suffering and help them hold it; to be present and and to alleviate  some small portion of its weight. 

I recently heard a Kelly Clarkson song that resonated deeply of the truth that darkness is always present reality – a prophetic call asking if love can still be offered in the midst of it.  I believe that this is where both hope and healing lies. 

Oh oh oh, there's a place that I know
It's not pretty there and few have ever gone
If I show it to you now
Will it make you run away?

Or will you stay
Even if it hurts
Even if I try to push you out
Will you return?
And remind me who I really am
Please remind me who I really am

Everybody's got a dark side
Do you love me?
Can you love mine?
Nobody's a picture perfect
But we're worth it
You know that we're worth it
Will you love me?
Even with my dark side?

Like a diamond
From black dust
It's hard to know
What can become
If you give up
So don't give up on me
Please remind me who I really am

Everybody's got a dark side
Do you love me?
Can you love mine?
Nobody's a picture perfect
But we're worth it
You know that we're worth it
Will you love me?
Even with my dark side?

Don't run away
Don't run away
Just tell me that you will stay
Promise me you will stay
Don't run away
Don't run away
Just promise me you will stay
Promise me you will stay

Will you love me? ohh

Everybody's got a dark side
Do you love me?
Can you love mine?
Nobody's a picture perfect
But we're worth it
You know that we're worth it
Will you love me?
Even with my dark side?

Don't run away
Don't run away

Don't run away

Promise you'll stay 

Cynic or Realist?

Social networking –its existence brings with it a host of response. Some people love it – others absolutely despise it; yet regardless of where they fall on this continuum a huge percentage of the population is participating on it one way or another. I love social networking! I think its invention was a stroke of GENIUS. I am so grateful to those whose vision of a virtual community created an environment that allows for me to draw those I have loved from childhood and since onto one site. Life’s circumstance often separates us from those we never wanted or intended to lose touch with. These SN sites provide a way of reconnecting, restoring and re-engaging relationships that at another time would be forever lost. Attachment in all its various manifestations is always a plus in my book, so to Mark Zuckerburg and others like him I send you a hearty thank you.

With that said, what prompted this particular blog was an incident that occurred on a social networking site yesterday morning. As usual, I checked in and posted a quote picture that was cryptic in nature, but had tickled my funny bone. In the status directly following mine, someone posted a prayer for God to protect them from the toxins of cynicism. Now this could have been and most likely was a complete coincidence but, it caused me to reflect on how we, as humans; interpret, project and judge the meaning of sound bites that are commonly known as statuses. I try to be balanced and systematic in what I post. I understand that this is a public forum and I work to project myself in the same way I would any other public space. But, even with that intentionality there are risks taken when sending a message out into cyberspace. This experience had me once again ask myself what kind of picture are you painting of yourself. It also had me asking, am I a cynic?

The definition of a cynic is one who is distrustful of human nature and motives – one who believes that human conduct is motivated wholly by self-interest. I love people!!! I rarely struggle to find common ground during interpersonal encounters and like most. My current profession is the study of human nature and the ways in which it can be served, helped and healed. Several months ago during a conversation where relational frustrations were being aired, I shared that I had learned to live in the tension of having high hopes for people, but low expectations. For those in their twenties that seems like such an oxymoron, but once you have experienced enough disappointment in relationship, both facilitated and received; this paradox can be internally accepted without contradiction or anxiety. Life’s experience led me to internalize the reality that people are a mixed bag of dark and light, ambition and laziness, self-destruction and benevolence….theologically speaking humanity is defined as sin-filled and at the same time a beautiful reflection of the imago Dei (God’s image).

Actually, I think a dose of cynicism is healthy. Does possessing it preclude having high hopes –absolutely not. Seriously, why choose to enter into the people helping profession if the belief is that people are incapable of change? Nevertheless, change is rare and it often comes about at a snail’s pace. The investment made in another is a blind leap of faith with shifting outcomes rarely seen by those doing the investing. This is why the Scripture reminds its followers not to be weary in well doing. Yes it is true, human beings are self-serving. Even in our benevolence, we want to feel good about assisting others as well as serving God. If we approach helping situations without this understanding; at the very least we will be seen as naïve Pollyanna’s who are easily taken advantage of and/or not to be taken seriously. Or, at the worst hold unrealistic expectation that leads to repeated disappointment, weariness and eventual bitterness when the fruit of our labor is limited.

To the nameless individual who posted their prayer of protection; I say thank you for initiating another round of self-reflection leading me to process through these thoughts. I too send up a prayer - for an understanding that cynicism is not the antithesis to hope; and in the midst of much needed idealism the knowledge that a healthy dose of skepticism brings balance to one’s expectations.

To answer the question, am I a cynic? No….but I would say that I am a realist.