Facebook Fights, or a Few of My Least Favorite Things

I love Facebook.  You will never see a post from me on the evils of social media and the joys of "unplugging."  I use my newsfeed to get my daily dose of world events, political commentary, pop culture and literary reading, and updates on my friends' cute kids.  I don't understand everyone's obsession with Facebook not being the "real world."  I see more of my friends in the real world now that I have Facebook to make plans and keep in touch than I ever did before.  I'm just never going to be that person who picks up the phone and checks in.  I don't like to talk on the phone, but for some reason, Facebook, Google+, and even texting are far less intimidating to me.  (**Note: I am not on Twitter.  I'm not against it.  I don't know why I've never gotten on board.  Maybe one day.)

My favorite part of social media, however, isn't really the social part.  It's the media.  I love reading about people's thoughts on politics and social issues, author's writing about their process, a mother's spiritual journey, an outsider's path to acceptance.  Through social media, I have learned so much about others and myself and the WORLD around me.  New music, obscure writers, information regarding my chronic health issues, indie films -- all of these are things I have discovered via social media.  I have read and encountered people and ideas that have changed the way I thought, or at least broadened my perspective on some things I thought I already understood.  Maybe it's because I'm a writer, but I'd like to think there are other people out there with open minds hoping to make discoveries, not just go on a never-ending search for self-affirmation.

Back to my love for Facebook.  Since opening an account back in 2008, I've been extremely careful what I shared on my homepage.  Too politically divisive?  Not going up.  Too much profanity?  No dice.  Daring to have an opinion on the prevalence of racism in our culture or the legality of gay marriage? Not in a million years.  I saved those gems for my Google+ account.  For some reason, Facebook lends itself to incendiary comment wars.  I like to post articles or links without comment or commentary.  Just food for thought.  You cannot do that on Facebook.  Everything rapidly becomes personal.  You disagree with me so you are evil, and I am the paragon of righteousness and intelligence.  Yes, it seems like almost everyone on Facebook has very strong opinions on nearly every topic imaginable and spends all of their time online scanning for article titles that seem to contradict their fragile worldview.  (Don't even get me started on their inability to actually read the entire article.)

This constant carefulness that I have maintained over the past six years has started to wear thin.  Why when there is so much wrong in this world do I need to worry about being offensive in my desire to see it change?  When did being "nice" become more important than being challenging, innovative, or heaven forbid, provocative?  I'm not talking about being mean or disrespectful.  But is it so much to ask of people to simply look at or listen to another viewpoint?  We each have such a limited perspective.  How can we not benefit from hearing from others?

So twice in the past week I did it.  It wasn't easy.  I've seen the shit storms other friends have endured when they posted something that went against their friends' beliefs or views.  I took a deep breath and posted a video and brief article about one of the beatings of a young African American man in New York by a police officer.  I know, maybe you're thinking what I was: How could my belief that all lives matter and deserve justice and fair treatment be considered controversial or offensive?  But deep down I also knew I was going to get the righty-rants about respecting the police and not resisting arrest.  Because my belief that no one should be beaten by the police apparently puts me one step above an anarchist.  And yeah, it happened.  My hope that humanity would surprise me this time did not pan out.  So I tried it again today.  Different topic, similar result.  Apparently, I am intolerant and ignorant and just plain wrong.  Here's the thing, I have never posted opposing rants on any of their links.  I don't even argue with them when they make absurd comments on my posts.  I'm not out to change minds here.  This is SOCIAL media, you know, like, sharing and stuff?  You share stuff that's important to you, and I do the same, and we all have a good time.  Or not.

What makes me saddest about all this (or really, sad at all, because otherwise I'm not sure I would care) is that so much of the arguing and downright hate gets blamed on Christianity.  Speaking as a Christian, this makes me unspeakably sad.  I am so tired of reading about people who call themselves Christians blaming Scripture for their intolerance and lack of caring.  Some days, I'd just like to sit all of these people I'm "friends" with (many of whom I know from religious circles) and explain to them that Jesus was not a Republican.  And the Constitution was not a God-inspired document on par with the Bible.  And our founding-fathers (at this point even that term gives me the willies) were not additional apostles.  When did loving Jesus become about being right (in either sense of the word)?  When did it come to equal financial prosperity and an inability to imagine the lives of others who are different or less fortunate?  Why do we damn everyone who interprets Scripture differently?  Why are we so worried about what everyone else is doing?  Why are Christians so obsessed with sex in all its permutations and controlling/policing women's bodies?  When did we become so fixated on policing the thoughts and behavior of others? 

I, for one, am so very tired of the whole thing.  It's so disheartening and discouraging to only see Christians portrayed in the media as preachy, judgy pharisees, but I certainly understand why it's all the media shows. Because in America, it has become S.O.P for evangelicals to think and act in this way.  We've forgotten the message of the New Testament, of Jesus, to love one another.  That's it.  If we screw up everything else, that's what Jesus wanted us to do.  So, how is being adamantly against our government providing food for hungry families or health care for people too sick and poor to afford it showing love for others?  Showing love to others means all others -- regardless of race, class, or sexual orientation.  And by love, Jesus means not some theoretical goodwill toward our fellow man, but real, actual compassion.  We can do nothing less and still call ourselves followers of Christ.

So, I guess I said all of that to say this: Today, I hate Facebook just a little bit.  There won't be a status/post declaring this to my friends or a veiled or oblique reference to "some people" in a post.  Here's what I will do: If you like what I post, great.  Say it or don't.  I'm not necessarily looking for affirmation.  If you disagree with what I post, great.  Say it or don't.  I'll even discuss it with you if you like.  But if you slip in to a self-righteous rant that invalidates others' viewpoints, I'm going to put you on the restricted list.  Because life is short, and I don't have time for hate and ignorance.

"Let me explain. No, that will take too long. Let me sum up."

I am so tired.  Like running-away-from-home-fantasy tired.  Like thank-God-for-preschool-and-can-they-have-class-on-Fridays-too tired.  Sickness has once again hit our family.  Kiddo came down with a nasty cold (a rare occurrence, I'm happy to say), and of course, I succumbed as well.  We're pretty much past all the coughing and mass tissue consumption, but the exhaustion remains.  So does the I-didn't-get-any-writing-done-for-over-a-week guilt.  Sometimes (actually most of the time), it feels like I can't keep a regular writing schedule for more than a week or two before I'm sick and confined to bed or busy with a school holiday (meaning an energetic and chatty four-year old full-time.)  Fatigue and frustration are gnarly bedfellows.  Needless to say, my state of mind isn't stellar today -- or this week, for that matter.

But there are small wins.  Like today, I'm up and writing while Kiddo is at preschool instead of collapsing back into bed like I did yesterday.  Also, I got a superbly helpful critique back from a friend/former professor on my story.  I'm excited about the prospect of working on the revisions she suggests (which are spot-on), though not excited enough to face yet another complete rewrite TODAY.  Did I mention that I'm so bloody tired?

Another good piece of news is that I checked online, and my class for Spring term is already at fifteen students! (That's a lot for a small southern women's college.)  I am mostly thrilled and only a little terrified.  Should be fun.  After Christmas, the planning begins.  I've already ordered the latest Best American Essays, and it's sitting on my nightstand awaiting my perusal.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to fit one more woman writer into my year of #readwomen2014, and so I started Autobiography of a Face, by Lucy Grealy, last night.  I've been wanting to read it ever since I devoured Ann Patchett's Truth and Beauty a couple of years ago.  Found a copy of Grealy's book at my local used bookstore the other day for three dollars, so I snagged it.  It's pretty short, so who knows?  Maybe I'll be able to squeeze in one more woman before 2015 dawns (sounds a bit illicit, doesn't it?).  I did put Station Eleven at the top of my Amazon and BN Christmas wish lists.  It will be difficult, though, to top my Christmas present last year, Meg Wolitzer's The Interestings, which has become one of my favorite books I read all year.

Now, while you the reader were unaware of any break, I just returned to my desk after fetching a steaming cup of British Breakfast (shout out to Republic of Tea!) to warm me and my icy fingers.  Seriously, I was holding my trembling hands over the teakettle and burner like a freezing camper over a roaring fire.  The caffeine probably won't got amiss either.  A few sips, and I'm feeling more human already.  Too bad most of this blog entry is already written and won't benefit from my sudden burst of warmth and energy and general goodwill toward men (okay, maybe that's a stretch.)

So as the year draws to a close (how's that for a sleep-deprived cliche?), I am thinking about the final writing topics I want to wedge into my blog before midnight on December 31st.  There will be a big 2014 reading log wrap-up (try to contain your excitement.)  Probably a Christmas/holiday post (don't worry, I won't overdo it.)  Maybe a post on my reading/writing plans for the new year?  (No, I'm not talking about New Year's Resolutions.  I HATE those.)  Nothing terribly earth-shattering (we have enough of that in real life) or innovative (we probably have enough of that, too.)  Just me.  And my steaming cuppa. And hopefully those fingerless gloves I asked Santa for.

Grinch-Begone, or How I Banned my Bah-Humbug

One short week ago, I was listening to Kiddo squeal with delight over the Macy's parade while my husband and I worked on Thanksgiving dinner.  I didn't feel well, I hadn't slept, and my four year old was jacked up on holiday spirit, and looming on the far side of all the festivities was the dreaded Christmas decorations.

Allow me first to explain my dread.  I love Christmas decorations.  I've always loved Christmas decorations.  Maybe not so much on November 1st, but in their place, yeah, I'm all about them.  But here's the thing: we (meaning me, my husband, Kiddo, our giant dog, and our geriatric cat) live in a 1700 square foot house, and you know what Christmas decorations do?  They eat up prime real estate in my living room and dining room and kitchen, so there's that.  Also, as my lung damage has progressed, my distaste for anything that increases the dust level in my house has also grown.  So yes,  Virginia (or whatever your name is), there is a Scrooge.  It's me.

Nevertheless, my husband hauled everything down from the attic, and Saturday evening we went to work.  Kiddo was ecstatic (and occasionally helpful.)  Alas, I am a control/neat freak, and I had to leave most the actual tree decorating to Steve since he is better equipped temperament-wise to deal with a four-year-old decorator whose definition of "that spot on the tree is full" translates to "move that ornament one centimeter to the right."  Last night I finished up the final decorating project and can now relax a bit...at least until the shopping and gift wrapping mania begins.

Days later, Kiddo is still in love with the tree and lights and nativity scenes.  It's all so magical for her in a way I don't really remember it being in my childhood.  Her confidence that Santa will bring her requested "Sofia headquarters" is almost intimating.  I'd like to be that sure of one thing in my life, you know?  One Christmas quirk that I can remember from being a kid, though, is my near-obsession with turning on the lights.  I could not be inside that house without the Christmas lights being plugged in and glowing.  Kiddo has inherited this trait from me, and I have to say, it is adorable.  How do I forget every year how excited she gets in December, how ornament crafts light up her face, her eternal pursuit of another cup of hot chocolate and can she have a spoon to scoop out the marshmallows?

So, after a brief interlude into Grinchdom, I am back in Christmas elf mode.  No, not that Christmas Elf.  Here are some pictures of my happy little holiday house (including Kiddo's mini-tree that belonged to me when I was a kid.)

Note the little tree skirt.  My mom made that when I was little.  It's reversible.  She's fancy like that.

I'm loving the happy Advent lights this year.  It's a new addition to the decor. 

Yeah, she made that ornament.  By herself.  Just in case you were wondering.

And last but not least, a quick pic of the decorating madness that was Saturday night...

Just Ask

There's nice and considerate, and then there's me.  Not only am I nearly incapable of saying no, I generally prefer to gnaw off an appendage sans anesthetic than ask for a crowbar to pry open the trap.  On the rare occasion that I do make a request of others, I obsess over the language and presentation of said request to the brink of madness.  Maybe it's partly my upbringing.  I can't recall ever seeing my parents ask anyone for anything.  Maybe it's my independent/competitive spirit.  I like to be right.  I like to win.  On my own.  End of story.

But here's the thing: Asking for help isn't always a bad thing.  Sure, being the leech who perpetually feeds off the talents and generosity of others is never where you want to be.  But sometimes, people are just waiting for someone to ask them for assistance.  They want to serve others.  They find it fulfilling and edifying.  And sometimes, you just need help.  There are some things that you simply cannot do on your own.

Here's one: Writing/publishing.  I don't care if you're a Pulitzer prize-winning author; somebody read your shitty first drafts.  Even if they didn't have dedicated draft readers or workshops or writing groups, they had editors and agents.  Lots of people had to read their writing before the public at large got even a first glance.

I'm lucky.  I have a dear friend who also happens to be an amazingly gifted writer.  We swap manuscripts and critiques.  It's one of my most treasured relationships.  But there's still a gap.  My friend sees my work in multiple stages of draft and revision, and I have a short story that is (I hope) reaching the end stages of revision, and I need somebody to read it who hasn't seen it in all its previous permutations.  And this is a recurring problem for me.  Ever since completing my MFA, I've battled a paralysis resulting from the loss of paid faculty mentors.  Who reads your work when you're no longer in school?  I need someone I can really trust, whose writing I admire, and who won't feel the need to be kind or precious about my feelings when reading my work.  I've been left with one option, but for the past three years, I've avoided it.

Back to my very best friend.  Her literary talents are not the only thing that makes her wonderful.  There are so many other ways in which she is nothing like me, my near opposite in countless ways.  One area in which we differ is her complete willingness to talk to/write to/ask questions or favors of anyone.  She is fearless.  There are areas of my life where I might be considered fearless (if you squint really hard and completely ignore the definition of that word), but this is not one of them.  I operate on the assumption that I am always bothering someone.

So fast-forward to yesterday.  I was tapping away at my revisions while sipping hot chocolate at B&N. It was a lovely, peaceful morning.  (We won't get into my hellacious afternoon and evening.  Ah, parenthood.)  But I couldn't stop thinking about the next step for my current story-in-progress.  I want to start sending it out, but I'm at the point now where I can't tell what, if anything, it is missing.  I'm just too close to it.  Is everything working, or am I just deluding myself?  It's a common thought pattern for me.  But yesterday was different.  When concerns began to plague me, I pulled up the email app on my Mac and started typing a message to one of my professors from undergrad, a woman who is a talented writer and who I consider a friend, and -- get this -- asked if she would be read my story once her semester is over.  And of course, being the gracious person she is, she said yes.

Was this really so hard?  The short answer is, "Yes.  Yes, it was."  But I did it.  Did I analyze and obsess over the content and wording of the email the second I clicked "send"?  Absolutely.  Was it worth is?  I think so.  I need this help, and I need to ask for it.  I may not yet be up to my friend's level of intrepidity, but I am a work in progress.  Just like my story.

R.B.F

Here I sit in my other favorite place to write -- the local B&N cafe.  I'm such a cliche.  Between my location, my MacBook, and my black nail polish, my husband would be making lots of hipster jokes at this point (he's got a million of them.)  I think he's in denial, though.  If anybody in this family has hipster tendencies, it's him.  I love him anyway.

So, my other favorite place to write is my little nook in the guest room.  I have a sprawling desk upstairs, but it's a room I share with my husband and every piece of junk that doesn't have a home elsewhere.  I simply can't work in that kind of chaos.  It's really kind of crazy because B&N isn't exactly the quietest or most visually soothing place these days, but it's different somehow.  It's somebody else's chaos.  In my strange little mind, that makes a huge difference.  I can block it all out (with the assistance of my earbuds) and crank out work like a machine.  And sometimes the change of venue makes a real difference in how I write.

Of course, when you write in public -- especially as a woman -- you risk inviting the attention of others (a benefit of the home workspace -- it has a door.)  This is where my spectacular case of Resting Bitch Face comes in handy.  I can repel others subconsciously just by looking like myself.  Actually, this particular affliction has served me well over the years.  For the most part when I'm out in public, I want to be left alone.  I don't want to chat. I don't want to hear about your grandchildren or complain about the long wait at the doctor's office, and I especially don't want to explain what I'm reading or writing.  Enter the snarling bitterness that is my natural expression.

You know what cancels out Resting Bitch Face, though?  Having a four year old.  A gregarious four year old.  A cute one.  And just like that,  her inability to pass a stranger without speaking becomes my problem.  If I have an adorably friendly child, I must be a charming extrovert regardless of my facial expression, right?

Ummm, no.

Kiddo has killed my anonymity, my invisibility.  So it's been a learning process, a season of growth, as the touchy-feelys would say.  I'm learning not to stare blankly at people who speak to me in grocery store lines.  I paint that smile on my face that I fear mostly looks like a grimace of excruciating pain, but oh well.  Turns out I'm not a hipster so much as I am just a misanthrope. Or maybe I just don't like idle conversation.  I suck at it, and I have no desire to master that particular skill.  You know those people who only speak when they have something meaningful to say?  I love those people.  I aspire to be those people.  In the meantime, you can talk to my child...she has enough to say for both of us.

The Big Psych-Up

This wasn't a terrible weekend.  It wasn't great, but it also wasn't disastrous.  On Saturday evening, I got to meet my best friend for our weekly coffee (or in my case, a skinny hot chocolate) while my husband took care of the Kiddo.  Yesterday was church AND spaghetti day, which always makes for a good combo.  And last night I finished Lolita and started on Elizabeth Gilbert's The Signature of All Things.  That's a pretty good start to the week.  Also, most of my Thanksgiving dinner shopping is done (aside from picking up -- uncooked -- Tom Turkey on Wednesday morning at Whole Foods.)

So why am I just not feeling Thanksgiving yet this year?  Don't even get me started on Christmas decorations and music (with this one exception.)  Don't get me wrong.  I'm thankful.  I have a lot to be thankful for, but as far as the usual traditions go, I am all out of steam before I even start.  Usually, I am chomping at the bit to start cooking for Thursday.  This is my favorite holiday, and I look forward all year to cooking this one meal.  Admittedly, the Celiac diagnosis from nearly two years ago has taken some of the fun out of cooking and baking in general, and this carries over to holiday meals as well.  But we managed last year without any trouble.  Maybe some of it is my continued poor health.  It is discouraging, disheartening, and seemingly never-ending.

It's certainly not my little girl who is already chattering about turkey and mashed potatoes and the Macy's parade on tv and setting up the Christmas tree.  I'm hoping that her excitement will overwhelm me come Thursday and kick my ass into gear.  Tomorrow is their Thanksgiving feast at preschool, and Kiddo is so excited.  I wish I could be the proverbial (and mega-cliched) fly on the wall during that little shindig.  Wednesday evening we'll probably go to the Thanksgiving devotional at church, which is always good for getting me in the right frame of mind.  I'm sure I'll rally.

In the meantime, I have writing to do, housework to plow through, and reading to squeeze in between.  This brisk morning (not as brisk as it's been, but brisk nevertheless), I broke out the sherpa blanket, the shearling boots, and the British Breakfast tea (because Earl Gray just wasn't going to cut it.)  Now that I'm toasty warm from nose to toe, it's time to get down to work.  I've got editing to do and maybe even some straight up new material to write.  It's going to be a good morning.  Or at least a highly caffeinated one.

Soy un Perdedor

Want to feel like a real loser?  Watch the tutorial on your MacBook Air's new OSx, Yosemite.  If you're like me, you're using a fraction of all the powerful tools your MacBook offers.  It's like this awesome machine is wasted on me.  But hey, it looks pretty, and it's fast when I need to look up a word on Thesaurus.com, and that's what matters when you're a writer, yes?

Reading Lolita in the US

So today is probably a good day to work on editing my most recent short story as it's set on a cold night, and it is FREEZING here this morning.  We keep the heat set very low in our house because of my breathing issues and our giant dog (who LOVES the cooler temps) and, let's be honest, the savings.  But now I can put my shivering and layering down to suffering for my art, like "The Method" for writers.  I feel so meta.

Speaking of meta, what could be more meta than reading a book about reading books?  A few weeks ago, I read the memoir, Reading Lolita in Tehran, by Azar Nafisi.  (Yes, I know I'm seriously late to that party.  It came out in 2003.)  The book explores the plight of women (and in particular, academic women) in Iran.  I admit that it's a tough read for a feminist (or I'm hoping, for anyone.)  These women endure such violence and oppression just for lacking a Y chromosome.  Never mind that they are trying to get an education and learn something about the world outside their narrow existences.  Professor Nafisi writes about a secret book club/class that she taught for women she'd encountered before she was ousted from her university jobs for "subversive" behavior.

The memoir is made even more powerful by its structure. It is divided into sections named after the individual books they studied, western books that are forbidden in Iran.  Remembrances and commentary are interspersed between literary analysis in a construction that is so seamless as to be nearly invisible.  Because Nafisi is something of a Nabakov expert (she's written a book about him), much of her most passionate and detailed writing is in the "Lolita" chapter.  There are so many parallels between these women's experiences and those of the title character, and Nafisi seems to feel the resonance deeply.

Because I recently read this book (and another) that referenced Lolita heavily, I felt it was finally time to read this much maligned and praised novel.  I'd been warned many times that it is a difficult read, but I was undaunted.  It seemed like a big gap in my reading, and I was determined to fill it quickly.  So this weekend, I purchased Lolita (the 50th anniversary edition, not the annotated one which was really pricey.) I began it late Saturday night after finishing an admittedly frothy Amy Tan novel, so the transition was a little tricky.  Nevertheless, I'm plodding forward.

At first the most challenging part was all the French that the narrator uses.  (I knew I should have taken French and not Spanish in high school and college.)  Also there is the rather convoluted language that H.H. uses in his narration.  At least he admits it: "You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style."  So there is humor.  And the narrator is highly educated and well-read.  I was making progress.  Then I reached the point where H.H. encounters the titular character, and all bets were off.  I am still chipping away at his attempted seduction of the twelve year old.

First let me say, I get it.  I realize that this isn't a book about pedophilia.  I understand that Nabakov is making far bigger points here.  This doesn't make it any easier to read about a grown man drooling over a child.  And I haven't even gotten to the point where he does more than pine from a distance. I may need a drink or two to get through that part.

Of course, this is not the first time I've read a difficult book (difficult in terms of stomach-churning content.)  Lionel Shriver's We Need to Talk About Kevin was not an easy read, and getting through the last hundred pages was almost untenable.  But there's something so much more repellant about Nabakov's unreliable narrator.  Maybe it's the perversion.  But maybe, some of it is the self-delusion.  Self-delusion is frightening to anyone who is even remotely self-aware because we know we all do it but by very definition are not able to see it in ourselves.  What are any of us capable of doing, of justifying in our own minds?  Sure, it may not be assaulting a child (at least I hope that's a rarity), but it's something.  We're all capable of doing something truly terrible.  And perhaps that's the most stomach churning part of all.

Trainwreck, or My Life as an Imperfect Writer

I've been playing catch-up the past few days after more than a week of illness knocked me out of commission.  One of my biggest frustrations when I deal with these setbacks, however, isn't the piled-up laundry or the grocery shopping that keeps getting postponed.  It's the fact that my writing schedule/discipline gets gutted every time.  In fact, it's as if I can't ever really develop a good schedule because every time I build the least bit of momentum, sickness takes me out again.  I miss the regular, disciplined writing of graduate school.  My writing feels stuck because I never write for enough consecutive days to get back in the swing of things.

Hence the return of my blogging.  I know I need to be sitting in front of my MacBook on a daily basis.  It doesn't matter if I make progress on my novel or most recent short story every single time I work.  I just need to keep writing.  It's the same advice every writer I admire gives.  Just keep writing.  Daily.  And for whatever reason, I am able to keep up with blogging without the massive procrastination that I usually employ (and yes, I know that writers are famous procrastinators.  I tell myself this frequently to at least try to arrest the shame spiral.)  So once I tap out my latest blog entry, I'm already in place for my writing and editing.  That's the strategy anyway.

My last blog ended with my completion of graduate school, so it's been a while since I've done this, though I've read tons of blogs in the interim.  I just wasn't sure what direction/content/etc. I would want for a new blog.  The world doesn't need another "mommy blog," and I certainly wasn't going to bring anything new to that party.  And as for my writing, well, I've been so sporadic that I felt like a fraud writing blog posts solely about that.  I read voraciously, but I didn't want to just do book reviews.  That's when I decided -- the blog was just like my other writing.  At this point, what I write is far less important than the fact that I'm writing.  Typing out words on a daily basis is what is going to bring everything back together (including my sanity.)

Ever since I completed my MFA, I feel like I've been putting limits on my writing -- limits to the point of paralysis.  I'm my own worst editor.  There are all these voices in my head: professors, fellow grad students, writers whose advice I've read, and it's been really difficult to drown them out and just type.  So I have given myself to permission to write badly (as I've been told to do repeatedly) in this blog.  Don't wait for the brilliantly witty and well-constructed post to come to you in a dream.  Just write it, check for typos, and get on with it.  Because life is too short for perfection.  Here's hoping for a week where I read and write more than ever before.

Just Trying to Help, or 7 Things You Shouldn't Say to the Chronically Ill

I have serious long-term health issues.  I have good days and bad days, but there are no days that the threat of illness doesn't loom in the corner of my mind.  There are multiple doctors in my phone contact list.  The people at my pharmacy pretty much know me by sight, and some days it seems like I swallow more pills than food.

The good news is that I am surrounded by supportive people who love me and who step in when I am unable to do the important stuff.  My husband, of course, bears the brunt of this burden, but we also have friends and family who help where they can with babysitting, food, or just a sympathetic ear.

All of that being said, it must be stated that all forms of assistance are not equal.  When you are chronically ill, many people (complete strangers included) feel that the best form of support they can offer is pummeling the ailing person with questions and unsolicited advice.  These people are rarely medical professionals.  Rather they are just somebody who heard something from their second cousin who used to be a nurse, or read half of an article on a holistic medicine site five years ago.

These people are well-meaning, but good intentions are not an excuse for bad behavior.  Do you know how the sick person feels in that situation?  They have been doing battle with their own bodies for years, and now someone with zero understanding of their condition (and absent of any medical training) is suggesting that if they just did a little more research and tried this thing they heard about they'd be all better.  In fact, you're just choosing to be sick because you haven't really exhausted all your options.

Please don't defend these people.  Much like when I was pregnant, people suddenly lose their filters when faced with my illness, and I can only presume they do it to others.  I don't offer information or details about my health.  They are generally pried from me with probing, invasive questions.  It doesn't matter what the questioner intends.  Chronically ill people hear unsolicited advice on a daily (and sometimes hourly) basis.  It is exhausting and insulting, and if you're guilty of this, please stop immediately.  But, just in case you're not sure if you're an offender, here is a list of things you should never say to a chronically ill person:


1.  "I know [      ] who has [    ]."
I get that people are trying to connect with you, but, seriously, why do I need this information?  Also related to this statement is... 


2.  "You should meet [    ].  They have [     ] too."
Because  nothing bonds people like sharing an auto-immune disorder in common.


3.  "I heard about this treatment on Dateline, the internet, etc.  Does that not work for you?"
Why yes, it would.  I was just too stupid to take it.  Now I'm saved!  Thanks!


4.  "Have you tried vitamins, yoga, meditation, acupuncture, chiropractor,  natural medicine?"
Actually, my doctor recommended all of those things, but I'm refusing to do them just to piss him off.  Plus I enjoy being sick.


5.  "I would lose my mind if I were sick all the time/had to give up gluten/couldn't exercise/had to take lots of medication.  I just couldn't do it."
I understand how hard that would be for you.  Fortunately, I'm having a blast, so don't worry about how you're pointing how badly my life sucks.  For me, it's just all fun, all the time.


6.  "I don't take prescription medication.  It's unnatural poison."
How lucky for you that you have that option.  


And last but certainly not least....


7.  "I have [     ] symptoms.  Do you think I have what you have?"
First of all, I don't profess medical proficiency like you, O helpful-advice-person, so I cannot diagnose you.  But yes, you probably have it.  Only worse.  Allow me to give you some advice.

First-Time Mom, Long-time Writer

It's been nearly five years since I had my little girl.  She was my first and will be my only.  It's been three-and-a-half years since I finished my MFA.  My thesis manuscript remains unfinished, and I've been working on the same short story for the better part of a year.  I'd like to say that I've just been too wrapped in the joys of motherhood to have time alone, just me and my MacBook.  But that would be a lie.  Kiddo goes to preschool four mornings a week, and next year will be kindergarten. I can only barely remember the person I was five years ago.  Of course, that's not necessarily a bad thing.  Having a child teaches you patience and priorities (and a relaxing of boundaries, a good lesson for me), and I love my little girl with my whole being.

But there is still a loss there. Nobody tells you about that.  There is so much focus on warning new parents about the time they'll lose, the sleep, the ability to remember why you walked upstairs.  Nobody tells you that in all the fulfillment of having a child there can be an emptiness as well.  Your identity changes, and you mourn that old self that disappeared the first time you had to step away from the computer to feed the baby or watch an insipid cartoon rather than the cerebral indie film.  Sure, that sounds selfish and shallow, but if a parent tells you they've never felt that way? They're lying.

My brain doesn't function the way it did before I had a child, the way it did when I started my MFA.  It doesn't even function the way it did when I first had a baby.  Raising a verbally precocious toddler is exhausting in a way I could never have imagined.  In theory, it would seem that I would run to the computer to write every time she slept or went to preschool, but the truth is that by then I often have nothing left.  Even on days when my sweet husband takes her school and I have four straight hours to work, I often find myself procrastinating.  Of course, writers are famous procrastinators, but I have taken the trait to new heights in the past few years.

There is more to this story.  I'm chronically ill, and the past two years have been a roller coaster ride (pardon the terrible cliche, told you I was out of practice) of new drugs, new diagnoses, and new symptoms.  Some days it's all I can do to drag myself out of bed and care for my child.

I've said all of this though not to complain or elicit sympathy.  I just want to give context to what I plan to write here.  It's been quite a few years since I last had a blog, and I decided that rather than try to revive my previous blog that was no longer a good fit for who I am, I would create a new one.  This is not a "mommy blog."  No offense to you mommy (or daddy) bloggers out there.  You're doing good work, and there are plenty of you whose writing I enjoy on a daily basis.  But I'm not that woman.  I'm not the mommy type.  I'm not a super-mom.  I never pureed my own baby food.  We don't do crafts unless they are incredibly simple and come with minutely detailed instructions.  But this is the mom that I am:

I love to read.
I love to read out loud to Kiddo.
I love bookstores and libraries and quiet restaurants and funky little holes in the wall places.
Most children's television programming and movies make we want to pound myself in the head with the remote.
I don't allow toys to "live" in the living room.
I can't whistle, and I've never been stung by a bee.
I avoid tight spaces, large groups, and reality television at all costs.
I'm a bit of a snob about what I read.
I'm a bit of a snob in general, though a mostly good-natured one.
Sometimes my poor health makes it difficult to enjoy parenting, and this is one of my greatest heartbreaks.
I love my Kiddo and sweet husband even more than books.  Really.