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Denver Adventure – Part II

I found a dolly by the baggage claim and loaded up my luggage. Then I made my way to the taxi stand and grabbed a cab to take me to the hotel. It felt like I was on one of my typical travel adventures, the only difference being a few extra suitcases in tow. I had followed this routine many times when I traveled around Europe years earlier. It felt easy and familiar. Not the least bit scary.

Once I was in my hotel room, with some of my stuff unpacked, I plopped down on the bed and assessed my situation. I may not remember accurately, but I don’t think there was any anxiety upon my arrival. I wasn’t fretting, “Oh my God, what have I just done?”

My modus operandi when traveling was to live in the moment. I relied greatly on my intuition to guide my path, step by step. So, my first inkling was to explore the city. I went down to the hotel lobby and picked up a local map and headed out for a stroll to get the lay of the land and have something to eat.

It was a nice town. A cute town. There were restaurants, and shops, and movie theaters, and cultural venues. But an important and completely unfortunate detail quickly dawned on me as I walked around.

Denver is TINY.

I looked for office buildings, but there weren’t many I could identify, which meant there weren’t going to be many employment opportunities either. After a few conversations with the locals, I learned with much dismay that downtown was merely the pupil of Denver’s eye. Most of the city was a vast network of sprawling highways!

Yikes. I was not prepared for this.

How did I overlook that little factoid? I assumed, erroneously, that Denver was just like any major east coast city. That there would be plenty of employment opportunities within walking distance from whatever home base I chose. A car would not be a necessity.

I stumbled back to the hotel in a daze, stunned by this unexpected revelation. I started to fret. Oh my God, what have I just done?

The next day I awakened with a heavy shroud of foreboding gripping me before I was fully conscious. I knew I was in trouble. I felt nauseous with fear and discouragement, but I wasn’t ready to give up just yet. I decided my priority should be to try to find a place to live, and then focus on finding employment. I still had a fair amount of money saved and could afford a few months without income.

As I started making inquiries about apartments for rent, anxiety and self-doubt began to close in and suffocate me. I had no idea where to look for a viable place to live, what locations would be navigable without a car, or how well the mass transit system served the areas I was considering. The unknown variables seemed insurmountable. I made many calls that day but ended up not leaving the hotel room. Before I fell asleep in the fetal position, I decided that if tomorrow was more of the same, I had no choice but to go back to D.C. and hang my head in shame and failure.

Then something incredible happened.

The third day, I awoke feeling another shroud around me, but this time it was a pervasive sense of peace, grace, and KNOWING. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew that day was the day I was going to find a place to live. I felt completely relaxed. And I started making phone calls again. I trusted my feelings to guide me and when I got a sense that “this is the one,” I made an appointment for a showing and took a cab to the apartment complex.

En route, I was pleased to see multiple bus stops along the highway. Especially the one near the entrance of the garden apartments. I was buoyed by the fact that fully furnished apartments were available. There was a huge mall right across the street, so I would be able to take care of all my needs for food, sundries, even entertainment. There was a vast public park within walking distance.

The apartment was adorable. Clean and bright. It had one large bedroom, large living room, decent kitchen and bathroom, with a dining nook. It was on the top floor so I wouldn’t have to worry about footsteps falling on my head. The price was right, and it was available immediately!

Absolutely perfect in every way.

I signed the lease, left my deposit check, went back to the hotel to get all my things, and was fully moved in later that afternoon.

Wow. Miraculously, my first essential task was accomplished. I was so happy I completely forgot that only the day before I had expected to leave Denver in defeat.

What a difference a day makes.

My eardrums began to buzz. The vibration expanded and expanded until it filled my entire head. As it permeated my brain, it became increasingly loud. The sensation was a little freaky, but I recognized it, because it had happened to me once before.

A few years earlier, during a particularly painful phone call with my father, the same sensation occurred. First there was the buzzing phenomenon, but then there was a sharp tangible interior sensation that felt like a CLICK. My conscious mind, existentially imperiled, completely shut down mid-conversation. With the flick of a switch, my throat closed, my body quaked. My brain went dark, my light went out. I couldn’t hang up the phone fast enough.

Sorry, I digress. Let me start over.

In the 1980’s I was living and working in Washington, D.C. Young and single, it was typical for me to go to happy hour several nights a week after work. Also, throughout those years, every summer I rented a beach house in Delaware with a group of women I called “my beach house friends.” We were a clique of young urban professional women seeking escape from life’s pressures, in search of carefree fun in the sun.
One mid-week evening in late August, the beach house cohort gathered at some bar in downtown D.C., just as we had countless times before. Nothing was different or unusual that night. It was the familiar scene of superficial banter, flirting with men, and excessive drinking.

The buzzing sensation started after the first sip of my third beer. As its volume rose, I found myself wafting into deep interior silence. I could still hear my friends’ voices droning on and the cacophonous chatter of the background din, but I completely lost touch with all of it. I was drifting away inside. I marveled that I was so far away, but no one seemed to notice.

As I retreated into the cavern, I heard my inner voice echoing: “I can’t do this anymore.” More emphatically: “I can’t DO this anymore!”

CLICK.

That night was the last time I went to happy hour with these women. And it was the last summer I shared a beach house with them. I decided to make a dramatic change. My life had been a confused mess for quite a while. No need to share the details here, but I was feeling somewhat desperate to hit the reset button. This unexpected buzzing encounter woke me up and prompted me to act.

Within days, I decided to move out west. Get away from everything and everyone and just start over someplace new completely on my own. Two potential locations appealed to me. Seattle, Washington and Denver, Colorado. After a little research, I decided Denver would be the better choice. Seattle was too far away from the east coast where most of my family lived, and Denver was sunnier.

Things moved swiftly. Conveniently, my apartment lease was expiring the end of September. I gave notice at my job, packed up my belongings, determined what I would take with me, what I would have boxed ready to mail to me when I was settled, and what I would leave in storage at my brother’s house. I cashed in my 401(k), bought a one-way airline ticket, and made a reservation at the Hilton Hotel in downtown Denver.

That was the full scope of my plan.

Not surprisingly, my father was adamantly and derisively opposed to this latest harebrained scheme of mine. Not surprisingly, his protests were merely grist for my determination mill.

I don’t recall the flight to Denver, but I do recall the four-piece set of blue and maroon Samsonite luggage I brought with me. I recall landing at Denver Airport and gawking at the mountains from the tarmac. I was happy. I was excited. I was free.

I am Ready

If I were to die tomorrow….

This idea came to me this morning.  To dig deep and explore something brave.  Was I willing to really contemplate this question?  I set my timer for ten minutes and wrote without left-brain interruption.  The following emerged:

If I were to die tomorrow, I think I would be okay. Wouldn’t I? I have lived a lot of years.  I have experienced a great deal of personal growth, come to resolve many painful experiences that warped my early life.  I learned to care for and love myself. To care for and love others. I have been able to express myself creatively, through the gifts of music, art, and writing.  I have developed deep faith and trust in God, forged in the fire of severe depression, excruciating pain, privation, and existential loneliness.

I never fit into the world properly!  The way others seemed to so effortlessly. But eventually I was able to outlast the childhood labels “bad,” “troubled,” “problem child,” “too sensitive,” “maladjusted.”

Over the years I managed to develop strength, courage, integrity, character, and a generous heart. I grabbed onto the clay of my beginnings and molded my life into something solid, beautiful, authentic, and worthy. I am not done yet.  I am not perfect. I am not fully actualized.  But I succeeded in creating something grounded from a very shaky foundation. I am proud of the work I have done to create a decent human being.

I trust in eternal life, so I don’t fear physical demise.  It makes me sad to think my loved ones might suffer from my passing, but I would not feel sad for myself.

I see death as a victory of sorts.  I made it through! For all the times I believed it was impossible to survive in this world, let alone thrive, I made it to the mountaintop of joy, scratching and clawing my way up from the valley of despair.

This is my singular accomplishment. And I am so grateful I achieved it.  In case tomorrow is “the day.”

So much pain in this world, but so much beauty, too. I have felt it all.  Deeply. I have no regrets. I have left no path I wanted to follow unexplored. Sure, there is always more one can do. But I don’t expect to have everything before I go. Life is a process, an unfolding. There is no final destination. I’m okay with that.

I feel free.  Free from the unconscious robotic dutiful living we are programmed to live. Free from the enslavement of financial need, which constricts one’s ability to follow their rightful calling. Free from the self-loathing we are trained to accept. Free from religions’ definition of God, yet fully devoted to spiritual life and my ever-evolving understanding of God.

My life has been lived well. Not perfectly. Not without hurting others, or myself. But if tomorrow is the time, I can go with my head held high. I did not forsake my work. I embraced the struggle, even if I had to do it kicking and screaming.  I never gave up trying to become healthy and whole.

I am old and wise.  There is no fear.  I trust Divine timing in all things. I surrender easily. For all the decades of suffering when I cried out “Why,” I see so clearly now I am one of the lucky ones. Several Dark Nights of the Soul guided me to a life full of sunshine.

Take me, Lord, when You will. I am ready when you are!

Early in the fall semester of sophomore year, my friend, Maura, mentioned to me that one of the Irish Lit professors was organizing a student trip to Ireland for January break. She was excited about the prospect and planned to go.  She thought I might be interested, too.

The Casey/Cronin DNA in our family tree was not particularly valued by my parents, so I did not grow up with an appreciation for or understanding of Ireland’s beautiful landscape, epic history, creative imagination, and mystical spirit. Despite my cultural ignorance, this unexpected opportunity called to me like a primal echo. Without knowing any details about the trip whatsoever, I just KNEW I had to go.

There was a problem, however.  I had no money to pay for it.  The cost for the three-week adventure was approximately $1,000 (yes, this was many, many years ago), excluding any personal spending money. Ugh.

I was a poor college kid living on a shoestring budget.  My tuition and board were paid for by two scholarships, but any discretionary funds I had were whatever I scraped together during summer waitressing and my low paying part-time campus job. I did not have an extra $1,000 lying around. And I couldn’t ask my parents for money. They were paupers, too!

I knew my dream was completely unattainable, but I also knew with every atom in my body that this was going to happen. Somehow. The window for registration was open for about a month, so there was a little time to find a way. What to do?  How can I raise these funds?  I was completely bereft of a plan.

I spent the next few days, going to classes and doing homework assignments, not trying to figure it out, just holding the desire in my heart without equivocation.

At some point a random idea popped into my mind from The Void. I heard this quiet prompting: “Ask the Foundation for an additional scholarship.”  Huh? That idea would never have occurred to me!  The Foundation awarded a set amount annually for college tuition and board. Period. The grant was never offered with the option for a recipient to come back and ask for more. To do so was unthinkable hubris! So, I immediately dismissed that inner proposition and said to myself, “No, I can’t do that.”  But the idea persisted, like a mist hovering over me, until I started to consider, why not?  What harm could it do to ask?

Without one scintilla of expectation, I sat down and typed a letter to the Foundation’s Board of Directors.  I explained the nature of the trip. That it would be educational.  That we would receive four academic credits after completing a research paper on something learned from the experience.  I may have slipped in that it was personally important to me to explore my Irish heritage.

I mailed the letter and didn’t think much more about it.  I truly didn’t expect to receive a response, let alone any money.  But much to my delight and surprise, within a week or so I received a heartfelt, supportive reply from the Foundation and a check for $500.

Wow! Well, now I HAD to go!  The Foundation clearly stipulated that the funds could only be used for the trip.  But there was still the pesky issue of that other $500.  No new idea for income readily presented itself.

On the next phone call with my mom (back in the day when we used dorm pay phones and called our parents hardly ever), she told me that in her weekly phone call with her mother, she had provided the routine status update on all the grandkids, and shared that I had an  opportunity to go to Ireland and was hopeful I would find a way to do so.

Trust me, Mom did not ASK my grandmother to help me financially! My grandmother, a frugal woman, was wealthy.  But she was never prone to showering us with money.  Other than the annual five-dollar bill that arrived inside my birthday cards, I don’t recall a time when my grandmother doled out cash.

For some inexplicable reason, this time she was moved to do so.  She must have asked Mom how much I needed, because a check for $500 showed up in my mailbox the following week.  Blessedly, it arrived just as the window for trip registration was closing.  The trip was limited to 40 students, and I was the last person to grab a slot.

To say the trip was fabulous and life-altering is an understatement.  I loved everything about it.  The land was magical.  The people were charming and delightful. The music, pubs, dance, architecture, history, language, even the weather resonated with me at the deepest soul level.  It felt like HOME.  I awakened to my ancestral heritage on that trip.  I even saw my instinctive love for potatoes and beer in a whole new light!

The ancient proverb “Where there is a will, there is a way” is a strong aphorism for a reason.  Holding an intention, with commitment and determination, refusing to allow doubt to creep in, is a powerful thing. This was a miracle for me. And I learned that, if we want something with our whole hearts, and expect it to happen, one way or another, it can, and it will.

Magic exists! We just need to believe it and trust.

Spiritual Warfare

1 Peter 5:8-9 (King James Bible ESV): ⁸Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. ⁹ Resist him, firm in your faith, knowing that the same kinds of suffering are being experienced by your brotherhood throughout the world.

2 Corinthians 11:14 (King James Bible ESV): And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light.

What does this biblical concept “Spiritual Warfare” mean, and how does it apply in modern times?

It seems like warfare is happening right now. Information warfare. And it is a battle for the usurpation of our hearts and minds, perhaps our very souls.  And it is fierce.

I have been thinking about this a lot as our world becomes ever more chaotic, uncertain, confusing, out of control, even downright malevolent. So many of us feel disempowered. The world we once knew is disintegrating beneath our feet. Misinformation and propaganda are assaulting us daily, molding our beliefs and vying for our allegiance. It is so challenging to discern what is true or who can be trusted to tell us the truth.

The discomfort of this time has led me, like many others, to seek relief from existential despair. I found a vast online community of modern-day prophets, all striving to guide humanity through a global transition; the emerging “Golden Age” prophesied for millennia by the sages of yore.

I was intrigued and exhilarated to find these people and listen to their teachings. The belief that we are collectively awakening from our current societal darkness into a world of light and love, peace and harmony, rings true for me and fills me with hope. I was thrilled to discover so many people were seeking to foster these qualities in the world. I was comforted by their words.   I was a dry sponge soaking in every drop, saturating myself with their words.

Now, before I continue, please know that, in NO way, do I question the sincerity or altruism of many well-meaning people who strive to serve God and humanity. I applaud their generosity of spirit and am grateful for their wisdom and presence in the world.

But lately I have started to sense something troubling.

So many of these internet gurus seem to be speaking with one voice, with greater volume, in uncanny unison, crying out in words akin to Chicken Little: “The sky is falling, the sky is falling!”  We are being implored to “wake up” to what is happening. Our very freedom is being threatened by mainstream media, the elite cabal, the deep state, etc.

With the increased intensity of these urgent warnings, and the similarity of themes and memes, my inner alarm bell began pinging me. Quietly at first, so I ignored it.  Until I couldn’t.

As these voices simultaneously arose with volume and momentum, I began noticing something odd within my being. My peace was becoming less peaceful.  My harmony was beginning to feel more discordant. My body was contracting (always a warning signal for me), and I could no longer deny that I was feeling more disturbed and off center after listening to some of these people.

With the precision of a sword’s strike, the themes I kept hearing were piercing me:  Mainstream news is “fake news.”  The elite cabal is masterminding the takeover of humanity, striving to enslave us in servitude to their Grand Plan to dominate and pillage the Earth for personal gain. We are being controlled, manipulated, brainwashed, and censored by the media.  The COVID-19 virus was deliberately planned to wreak havoc on society, or a hoax created to terrify us and hold us in submissive bondage. The underbelly of dark forces in society is about to be exposed.

And so forth.

In the Land of Independents, how can EVERYONE believe and speak the exact same thing at the exact same time? Why are we being encouraged to believe wholesale that the voices on social media are Truth Tellers, but mainstream news is wholly fake?  Aren’t we equally at risk of being misled no matter who or what we listen to? Isn’t it possible that those on Social Media may be serving an agenda that does not align with our individual best interests? Does anyone ever wonder who or what is behind all these memes? Are only benevolent forces at work here?

These modern-day town criers cry out for love and peace and freedom, simultaneously promulgating just another version of fear. And I began to wonder why. What is the endgame here?

So, I had a period of deep inner struggle and self-reflection, trying to reconcile my love of God and spiritual values with the views of these self-identified wayshowers and lightworkers, and I concluded that it was time for me to unplug.

I feel more authentic, more empowered, and more trusting of my inner knowing. God is good, and all is well.

Please ask yourself, as you select your sources of information: What lion is trying to devour you? Is Satan disguising himself as an angel of light?

Please be watchful of your heart, your mind, your soul. Protect them well.

What is true?

This question has been fomenting inside me these past few years, as every day seems to suggest with more noise and volume that there is no objective, shared truth.  We each are free to believe whatever we want, and what we believe, we believe IS true.  We self-select our sources of information to comport with what we believe. And anyone who disagrees with our “truth” is living in a world of make-believe and delusion.

I confess, I plunge into this rabbit hole as much as anyone.

But truth CAN’T be that malleable, can it? Isn’t there some objective truth that is not subject to argument, or choice?  Is truth merely whatever a person decides it is?

I am taking an online course with Caroline Myss called “Pebbles in the Well,” and she helped me better understand this cognitive dilemma.  What is true, and what is “Truth” with a capital “T” are distinctly different concepts.

According to Myss, what is true for you may not be true for me.  And even what is true for me (or you) today may not be true for you (or me) tomorrow.  These truths are what we decide to believe in, based on our understanding of life at any given moment.  As beliefs change, as we grow and evolve, what is true for us also may change, in fact often does.

What is Truth with a capital “T,” is a Universal Truth.  This truth is like the Law of Gravity.  It is not debatable. It is not controllable. It does not recognize individual beliefs or care about the zeitgeist of the times.  It cannot be argued for or against. It cannot be manipulated. It doesn’t reward some people and castigate others.  It is what it is. Period.

Today, with so many competing sources of information and misinformation, people align with what resonates for them in the moment and feel compelled to assert their “truth,” defend it vociferously, and dismiss as idiots anyone who challenges their narrative.  We seem to be in a constant state of conflict, clashing values, each side believing with absolute certainty that they are right, and the other is wrong.  And it feels so destructive.

I am craving Truth!  Truth with a capital “T.”  Truth that is immutable, undeniable, collectively understood and accepted.

Am I the only one?

How do we find objective truth as the gaslighting of America rages on?

Despite what many may purport, I do not think science is Truth.  Scientific knowledge changes over time.  It is constantly evolving.  Remember when the earth was flat?  When the sun revolved around the earth?  No one believes that today. So, the science of today may be dispelled and replaced by the science of tomorrow.

Many of us believe God is Truth. But this belief cannot be proven. We can experience God through faith and devotion. But, like our views on science, our understanding of God is subject to change as we grow and evolve. Because there are myriad individual interpretations of God, no human definition can be Universal Truth. [I personally believe God is Truth, but for this inquiry I seek a Truth that everyone can recognize and accept as such, irrespective of personal belief].

Can we look to Nature to reveal Truth?

Every human being is created with the same biology, the same pieces and parts, the same systems, blood, organs, and so forth.  The same requirement for oxygen, food, and water to survive.

What about our beautiful planet Earth?  Our understanding of her laws may change, but the actual laws of nature do not. These laws simply exist, and they are not partisan. The sun does not shine solely on the righteous.  The rain does not fall solely on the wicked. The bees depend on flowers to make honey, the plants depend on soil to grow. Nature is interdependent, and She does not value one part over another.  All of Nature’s parts and pieces are essential, of equal value, and they work together as one unified whole.  Every living creature depends on Mother Nature for life itself.

This is incontrovertible and not controversial.

If Nature is this way, why aren’t we?

What made humans decide that our superficial differences define our value (or lack thereof) to society?  Is a Monarch butterfly more worthy or beautiful than a Swallowtail?  They are simply butterflies. Couldn’t it be that their variations in appearance were created simply to delight us with the wondrous splendor of creation?

Why do we enjoy and accept the magnificent variations in Nature, but not in each other?

Can we glean from the nature of Nature that we human beings are interdependent; that one is not of more value than another.  All of Nature’s parts and pieces are essential, of equal value, and they work together for the good of the whole?

Nature IS Truth. But for some inexplicable reason, we choose to ignore and deny that fact, self-destructively choosing our current chaos, disorder, and dysfunction.

I am struggling to understand why.

Wasps Sting

It was Saturday. A typical hot, humid August day in Northern Virginia. My cleaning day. And I was up and at it early and in earnest.  Scrubbing, vacuuming, intermittently doing my laundry at the community laundry room across the way.  I probably should have had something to eat for lunch, or at least something to drink.  I was lightheaded by 3:00pm, but otherwise energized to get the job done!

Almost finished for the day and looking forward to a relaxing evening, I made one of the most portentous decisions of my young life. I chose to beat a rug on the exterior wall just outside my front door, completely unaware that tucked behind the electric meter affixed to that the wall was a lively hive of yellow jackets.

Oops.

It is NOT an exaggeration to say that, within less than a second, the corner of my eye spied a swarm meld together instantly, in spectacular unison. As if they shared mental telepathy, they became one organism, with one mind, and one fierce intention. I marveled at this miracle of nature. It was a thing of beauty to behold. Before my next thought could emerge, the attack landed. Swift, intense, and merciless.

These wasps were PISSED.

My mind stopped functioning.  My autonomic system seized control. I recall running away from my door, hopping like I was on hot coals, and madly gesticulating to get these creatures off me.  I felt the prick, prick, prick of stinging nettles.  Too many to count, and in rapid succession. (I later learned that, unlike honeybees, one wasp can sting its victim multiple times and live another day to torment someone else).

Most horrifying was the entanglement in my hair as I desperately tried to oust these invaders. Two thoughts of gratitude flooded my brain as I fought vigorously: Thank God my hair is short, and Thank God my T-shirt is tucked in.

At some point I realized I was screaming.  While I flailed in the street, I recall seeing a woman standing in a frumpy house dress behind her screened front door, watching me. I must have looked like a crazy person having a full-blown mental breakdown or fit of some sort. An exotic freak show from which she could not wrest her eyes. She did not come out to offer help. She didn’t move a muscle. She just stood there, a motionless voyeur.

I don’t know how long the attack lasted. It may have been just a few minutes.  Time felt suspended.  But there did come a moment when I realized the stinging had stopped. My body relaxed.  My breathing calmed. And I realized I was okay. It was over. So, I sauntered back to my apartment, breezing past the electric meter with the agitated wasps still buzzing in agitation.  There was no fear in that moment.  I was fine!

Safely indoors, I assessed my situation. No question, bumps were popping up all over my body.  I felt lightheaded, probably from lack of food and the heat, but there wasn’t much pain.

I didn’t have a clue that this was the beginning of systemic shock. I did sense something was not quite right, though, and I knew I needed some help.  What to do?  Call Mom! Mother Earth herself always had good advice for home remedies and holistic treatments.

It just so happened that Mom had a visitor sitting with her in the kitchen when I called, which was a rare occurrence for my introverted mother, and a lucky break for me. I started explaining my dilemma to Mom and asked her for some advice on how to treat the stings.  She was low-key and practical and not the least bit alarmed.  She suggested I find some ammonia to dab on the bites to take out the swelling, the pain, and the itch.  Meanwhile, her visitor kept piping up in the background: “Tell her to call 911.  Tell her to call 911!!”  Mom guffawed and said mockingly, “Beryl thinks you should call 911.” We laughed, and I hung up.

I couldn’t find ammonia cleaner, and welts continued to blossom. I started feeling a bit shaky and panicky. Why NOT call 911?  Maybe they could suggest something to help.

I dialed and sheepishly said, “I’m sorry to call an emergency number, but I don’t know what to do.  I just got stung by some wasps and I need some advice on how to treat the bites.”  With a no-nonsense authoritative voice, the operator asked, “Where do you live?”  I said, “Oh, NO! You don’t need to send someone I just need some advice!”  Ignoring me, she replied with greater bossiness, “What is your address?”  It seemed like an overreach.  I protested, but ultimately relented and gave her my address.  We parted with her words ringing in my ears: “Leave your front door open.”

Moments later I heard sirens blaring but could not connect myself to the sound.  My attachment to reality was slipping.  I was more and more dizzy, faint, and my limbs were becoming overcooked spaghetti.  Two Angels of Mercy appeared in my doorway, but before they could enter the apartment, I collapsed on the floor and faded to black. (Literally “faded,” by the way. It felt like a shade curtain being drawn down my entire body, from head to toe, increasingly blocking out the light). It was oddly peaceful.

They must have administered a shot of adrenaline, because the next thing I knew I was lurching up the walkway toward the ambulance, one angel wing on each side of me, propping me up as I tried to feel my feet.

I was maneuvered onto a stretcher in the back of the vehicle, hooked up to an IV, and given pure oxygen.  The oxygen snapped me into full alertness, and I said, “Oooh, this is NICE.” (You don’t know what you’re missing if you’ve never had an oxygen rush!).  I then said to the angel tending me, “I am so sorry to bother you guys for this. I’m sure you have much more important emergencies to respond to today.”

I will never forget how she replied.  With a soft, sweet, very unbothered voice she patted my arm and said, “Honey, I think you need us right now.” Only later did I learn that I had been on my way to never neverland, and without their timely intervention, I wouldn’t be here today writing these words.

The road to recovery from that event was a long one, with many byways and detours along the way. Suffice it to say, the experience was significant, and taught me something valuable.

Before this experience, I did not know that insect stings could kill a person.  Trying to comprehend that I almost lost my life at the age of 36, I did a lot of self-reflection. And I recalled with deep clarity the weeks leading up to the incident. I had been raging against God because I wanted to live as an artist but had to work a full-time job for money and health care.  I was angry and resentful. I cried and screamed and raged at The Universe for days.  “Why did you make me an artist, but not provide the lifestyle to support my creative spirit?”

It is my belief that, on that fateful day, Mother Nature perfectly reflected to me my poisonous anger in the most direct way She could. She was giving me a crash course in the dangerous toxicity of rage, an emotion we should indulge sparingly, or not at all.

Thanks, Mom!

Depression

I listened to a YouTube video yesterday.  The bestselling author of Untamed, Glennon Doyle, was describing her experience with depression and how she came to terms with it.  Her story was captivating and reminded me of my own arduous battle with depression many years ago.

We all know depression is widespread in our society.  But how the individual experiences this affliction is unique and completely personal.  My story is not hers.  My story is not yours.

But perhaps, if we listen to each other’s stories, we can recognize ourselves in them. We may glean some insights that aid us in our own struggle. And if not, at least we discover our shared humanity. Depression may be a personal experience, but the feelings it triggers: grief, despair, apathy, loneliness, terror, self-loathing, low self-esteem, mental and physical immobility, abject wretchedness, helplessness, and so on, are absolutely universal.

So. When did it begin?

My first glimpse of depression descended when I was a sophomore in college.

My childhood dream was to play piano and compose music, perhaps write movie themes one day. So, I chose to major in music. By the fourth semester, I could no longer ignore that practicing piano three hours a day, preparing for weekly lessons that made me sick with nausea (because of my deeply entrenched performance phobia), carrying a full academic load, and working ten hours a week to support myself was just too much. My nerves were frayed and starting to snap.  I knew I had to let go of one of the balls I was juggling to ease the pressure.  So, I gave up music. Which happened to be my identity, by the way. Oh well.

Tremendous relief came with that fateful decision. Tangible though it was, it also was, sadly, short-lived.

I don’t recall exactly when, maybe weeks later, I was struck by IT. Swiftly and wholesale. Literally a systemic shock. Like a lightening flash, my mind, body, and emotions were pierced with a fiery blast and utterly extorted by this Cloud of Darkness. It was a hostile takeover. I didn’t understand what was happening to me.  I had no words.  No preparation. But it was terrifying and completely out of my control. I felt pierced to the core of my being. I could not fight, ignore, overrule, or resist.

So, I succumbed.

Deep grief ensued. Uncontrollable tears.  Self-hatred. Feeling completely lost, alone, inadequate, unloved, and abandoned. I cried all the time.  I ate too much junk food and got pudgy. I drank too much and got myself into some “troubling circumstances,” if you know what I mean. I felt like a complete misfit freak and seriously contemplated quitting school. I was utterly miserable and could barely function.

Somehow, I made it through the rest of the term, passed my finals, and decided to try something different for summer break. Instead of going home and getting a job, I landed an opportunity to waitress at a Poconos resort. Lots of college kids around the northeast were congregating there to work for the summer and have some fun.  And it was a blast!  Lots of concerts, parties, late nights, adventure, and comradry.

Just as swiftly as IT had fallen upon me, my depression lifted.  I could barely remember its presence!  It really felt like it never happened at all. With the dark cloud dispelled by sunshine, it was easy for me to return to school in the fall, even after giving up on a career in music.  I believed IT must have been a one-time thing, a phase. I felt confident it would never happen again.  I was so relieved.

Maybe a part of my subconscious feared IT could return. Some anxiety probably still lurked beneath the surface, but I wasn’t experiencing any symptoms. I was free, happy, and fully functional. Life was great.

What I didn’t know then, and couldn’t have anticipated, was this first bout of depression was only a trailer for the scary movie still to come. I may have won the initial battle, but I surely had not won the war!

Round two returned with a vengeance a few years later.

In response to a writing prompt:  “I Remember When…”

I remember when there was a time in life I embraced risk taking, adventure, and living in the moment.

I was 25, working for the US government, living in Vienna, Austria.  Young and single, with sufficient financial resources to underwrite my whims, I took advantage of every opportunity to travel whenever I was not tethered to my day job.

One such adventure comes flooding back these many years later.

It had been a particularly grueling work week, and my boss and his family were going away for the weekend, so I had a few days to do whatever I wanted.  Hmm…. Where should I go? I felt like exploring someplace new but did not want to venture too far.

Time was ticking. A wacky idea popped into my brain. Why not toss some clothes into a backpack, head to the airport, and let The Universe pick a destination for me?  Within moments of this impulse, I was out the door.

At the airport, I found a check-in station and glanced up at the flight departure board as the woman behind the desk asked for my passport and ticket.  It was about 8:30 Friday morning and I noticed there was a flight to Zurich, Switzerland leaving at 9:10am.

Switzerland sounded perfect!

I explained to the check-in lady that I hadn’t purchased a ticket, yet, and asked her if it was too late to make that flight to Zurich. Apparently not. A few minutes later I was sitting comfortably in a puddle jumper awaiting takeoff.

The flight was pleasant and uneventful until we got closer to Zurich.  The pilot’s low-key voice came on the intercom and suggested it may get a little bumpy as we head into the mountain cross winds.  Just as his words floated in the air, the plane abruptly leapt and the coffee being handed to me by the stewardess flew out of the cup and splashed all over me.  The next 20 minutes were literally a roller coaster ride, but we finally landed safely on the tarmac. My shirt was covered in coffee stains, but I remained undaunted.

It was raining heavily upon arrival, and I knew the first thing I needed to do was find a place to stay, so I got into a taxi and asked the driver to take me to the center of town.  He dropped me off on Bahnhofstrasse, the main drag.  I was grateful for my umbrella, having learned long ago never to leave home without one.

I marveled at the eye candy in the expensive shops as I strolled down the street, then had some lunch.  This was one swanky town.  Banks towered over me, a loud reminder that Switzerland was Mecca for the wealthy to stash their wealth.

At the end of the street I found a hotel and wearily asked: “Ein zimmer, bitte?” I was in luck. A room was available. I trudged up the stairs, changed into dry clothes, plopped down on the bed, and flipped on the television.  Cindi Lauper was crooning “Time After Time.” Her quirky style and lilting melody captivated me. I had no idea she was a huge hit in the United States, having lost touch with American pop culture a long time ago. Lacking motivation to go back out in the rain, I lounged in the room for a while, and then went to a nearby pub for dinner. It was an early night.  Tomorrow would be better.

I was disheartened to waken to another day of steady rain. One peek out the window was all it took to confirm a scenic tour of the mountains wasn’t meant to be. There was nothing to do but make the best of it, so I ventured out to see what I could find.  After some window shopping and lunch, I noticed a nearby theater was offering a matinee showing of “Footloose.” I decided to buy a ticket. It wasn’t exactly the touristy thing to do, but I was always happy to have a taste of home, and at least I would escape from the rain for a few hours!

The movie was great fun, although it was a bit strange watching it with German subtitles. Just like Cindi Lauper’s song, I didn’t know this movie was making a big splash in America.

Walking back to the hotel after the movie, I noticed a poster of Elton John pasted on a nearby building. He was in town and was playing a concert that very evening.  Elton was one of my piano player heroes, so without a skip in my beat, I decided to go to his show.

I don’t recall how I found my way to the arena.  But I remember there were lockers available, so I was able to secure my backpack, which contained all my money and passport. It seemed like the smart thing to do; just in case I wasn’t as safe as I thought I was. It was oddly thrilling to be alone with throngs of people who didn’t speak English. It gave me this uncanny sense of freedom. And the concert was a delight.

Sunday morning, still groggy from the late night, I peered out the window and my bubble of hope was burst for good. Another deluge pelted the street.  By this time, I was worn out from the non-stop wetness, so I decided to sacrifice my last day touring Zurich and head home early.  It wasn’t the weekend I had hoped for, but it was an adventure, nonetheless.

This experience was just one of many I had throughout my youth. Today I ask myself: “What happened to that carefree, fearless, spontaneous girl? Where did she go?”

Graduation, May 1980

As the other graduates wept their copious tears, my only thoughts were profound relief that these four years were over, and irrepressible eagerness for My Future to begin.  College had been a bumpy ride for me, and I was yearning for a fresh start. As we all donned our caps and gowns and meandered to the ceremony, it dawned on me that already these entanglements were fading in my interior rearview mirror.

As the uninspiring commencement speaker droned on, and the Bachelor of Arts degree officially was conferred, I felt exhilarated, optimistic, and fearless. Throughout the day of celebration, no inner alarm blared any hint of warning that, despite my terrific liberal arts education, I lacked specific career training and was ill prepared for launch into The Real World.

I was CONFIDENT.

Sure, the path forward was unclear, but it was easy to make the first crucial choice: where to seek my fortune. I decided to plant my seedling self in Washington, D.C., because this is the city where my older sister and brother had already surfed the waters and found their adult moorings. It meant my fledgling flight to Grown-up Land would have a relatively gentle landing. And I was eager to experience city living, too, after many years chafing from the straight jacket of rural Upstate New York.

Before I embarked on my new adventure, I had a brief sojourn at my parents’ home to spend a few weeks sewing a professional wardrobe I could wear for job interviews and office work, and to finalize my sparse resume. As soon as several skirts, blouses and one suit were stitched, and I had in hand a box of finely printed resumes, I packed up my things and my father drove me 400 miles south to my sister’s place in Georgetown, where she shared a townhouse with several other women.

The initial plan was for this to be a temporary lodging for me, until I secured a job and found a place to live on my own. What savings I had would enable me to eke by and contribute to the household expenses while I commenced the job search.

Thus, began my greatly anticipated Grown-Up Life.