From the Desk of Toilet Dictator.

Heard from the bathroom tonight, Henry screaming, I'M A PREDATOR, TOO. The little shit was shitting and eavesdropping on Anna and my conversation at the dining room table! We were, of course, talking about predators and prey as one does over dinner. 

Setting aside the awkward layout of my tiny house that would allow for this indiscretion, I was amused that he couldn't stand to miss a moment of life on the outside. Then, he was yelling at me to not let Anna finish all the strawberries while he was indisposed, so I told him I would save two for him. He said, TELL THEM I'LL BE RIGHT BACK. I was confused by his misuse of pronouns until I realized he was commanding me to convey a message to the strawberries. And then, TELL THEM THEY'LL GET TO JOIN THEIR FRIENDS IN MY TUMMY AS SOON AS I'M DONE.

As an act of rebellion, I did not tell the strawberries that. I decided right then and there that I draw the line at taking orders from toilet dictators. You have to stand up for yourself sometimes. 

TODAY IS NOT GOING AT ALL LIKE I EXPECTED

Henry was thick with snotty tears the other morning when Robb finally coaxed out of him what he was feeling and why he was a soggy mess. He said, TODAY IS NOT GOING AT ALL LIKE I EXPECTED. 

I think he was disappointed over a playdate falling through, and for some reason had believed he deserved marshmallows for breakfast and was devastated when he got toast instead. The details are inconsequential. I was really proud that he was able to articulate the core of how he felt. 

So much of our adult beef with people and jobs and life and dreams comes down to THIS IS NOT GOING AT ALL LIKE I EXPECTED. How much anger is actually, at its root, disappointment, or hurt feelings or fear? 

Identifying and then being able and willing to put words to what is actually making us feel the miserable feels is hard as a kid, but I think it's even harder as an adult.

"I'm lonely."  "I feel disrespected but am afraid to ask for more."  "I don't feel seen or heard." "I am so afraid no one likes me." "I don't feel worthy." "I am so sad because I thought myself/my day/my life would be different." "I am so anxious because I know I'm not enough. "I am scared to try because I think I will fail."

This is what I thought in middle school, and high school...and college...and more college...and this is all shit I've thought THIS WEEK. Am I alone? (Be careful how you answer. You already know how very fragile and lonely I am). 

It's hard to human. Inside our heads, we are all pretty certain we're getting it wrong. I gather from my extensive research of asking my friends over wine and ice cream.

Sometimes I feel more confident than other times. Some seasons I'm brave and wise and pleased with the Sarah that I'm becoming. Other times I am really disappointed in this Sarah project I've been working on for so long and wonder why she is taking so long to get it right?!

I feel better when I share my worries with another human bean. I'm not great at it. I tend to do this polite dance of the listener instead of the talker. I am afraid that my ideas will be rejected, that I will be rejected.

I'm learning to push through. Therapy has helped with this. I'm learning to force myself to share, in person or in writing. I find that drawing my voice out of my head and into the space outside me makes me feel more concrete and less like a slip of a person keeping to the shadows. 

Ironically, writing is both my safe happy place and my monster under the bed place right now. It's been for a long time, a place where I feel solid and confident in my voice and where I can say things how I plan to say them (not awkwardly blurting them out like I do all day long in real life). The pulsing, potential audience on the other side of my writing is safe and comfy to me, less scary somehow than talking to a live person...BUT right now, writing is also the source of huge insecurity and anxiety for me. 

I keep wondering what the next step is. How far should I try to take this? I have ideas! I'm working on a novel. I'm re-writing a screenplay I wrote a while back. I'm looking for an agent to help me find my path.....but then as I entertain any of these thoughts,  the evil poop gnomes that live inside my conscience tell me not to bother because I'm not good enough or special enough and it will just end in that rejection I'm trying so hard to avoid. There are better writers who have done all this before. My ideas are unworthy, my voice is unnecessary. 

These poop gnomes are pretty convincing. It would be less scary if I just kept it in my pants and stopped thinking I could be a thing (a "writer"). It would be easy to just stick with the things I know how to do to date and stop pushing to learn a new craft at 35. It's too late. I'm going to get boring, crazy, or broke developing and promoting my dumb art. 

So, here I am. Half trying and wholly scared. I don't know how to stop, but I don't know how to keep going. 

I think it was pretty astute and brave of Henry to identify and share that he felt low because his expectations weren't being met. 

I'm trying to be self-aware and brave like that, too. Share the fears, but do the scary things anyway.

This is the thing that I want. Stop. 

This is the thing that I'm working on getting. Stop. 

I'm going to do what it takes to get what I want, poop monsters be damned. Stop. 

Don't stop. Stop. 

Sad Face. Confused Face. Blank Face. No Face.

On my phone, there is a quiet book, where everyone is thinking. 

In that book, there is a story, a well-composed story, where everyone is thinking. 

In that story, some characters are teaching me, in the quiet book, where everyone is thinking. 

In those characters' words, there is poetry, designed by a passionate author, in that story, in the book, where everyone is thinking. 

From that author, I am gifted peace and growth, from the poetry, through those characters, in the quiet book, where everyone is thinking. 

On my phone, there is another app, where everyone is yelling. This app mocks the poetry, suspects the peace, can't take the time for the characters, judges the author, fears the quiet, and is sure it's heard that story before. 

In that other app, where no one now is thinking. 

(That was bastardized from the brilliant "The Napping House" by Audrey Wood and Don Wood)

---------------------------------------------------------------------

How do you spell a really loud sigh? 

Haaaaoooooaaaahg. Something like that, I guess. I'm not going to use an emoji because I'm bitching about social media in this post, and also because I have a fancy new emoji to introduce you to later. Hang on to your butts, it's a doozy. 

Boy, this has been a shitty, emotional few weeks to be human, huh?

And we're all trying to figure our way through it. But we're doing it in this weird, new-ish common space on social media. And it's really bringing me down, how that's all going.  

I find myself wanting to go fetal every time I pick up my phone.  I've almost got myself trained to read the novel I have in a book app on my phone versus compulsively checking FaceBook because I realized when I was doing that, I was feeling sick to my stomach, getting a headache, wanting to cry. 

I have assumed it was the details of the tragedies I was reading in the news that made me feel that way. But then I dug a little more and found it's not the news, necessarily, it's the loud, insistent, critical response to it on social media that makes me feel like I can't breathe right. 

There was a mass murder, there was a death of a small child, there was a rape and miscarriage of justice. It's been a rough, rough few weeks inside this country.  (I will have much more to say on this particular hero and her trial and violence against women in another unfunny post not about my kids doing silly things you can look forward to at a later date).

I'm grieving. But what is throbbing in my head is the judgement I'm reading, coming from left, right, up, down. Personal assessments and assumptions as facts, twisted emotions, bent around flags planted hard in the ground and unmoving. 

We on social media are all the mean girls in middle school. We are snide and quick to tear up anything we encounter. We're better and right-er and we're competing to be the first and loudest. Like the middle school Monicas with their perfect skin and hair, they were protected by their posse of mean girls, we have this sense of anonymity. And we REALLY like the way it flatters our egos to see ourselves published and post all the pictures of ourselves doing all the things. 

I find it's hard to process my thoughts and feelings when everyone else's voices are throwing sarcastic knives and judgmental blows into my ring. The voices that have meaning to me get lost in the shuffle. Plus, I get the sense a lot of people live in a scared and angry place, and I don't want that influence getting into me, more than I already struggle with it my ownself. 

It seems like we're such a know-it-all, NOW, sort of people, there's no space to deliberate and quietly, cautiously pick our feelings off the floor and try to assess them, to adapt to the new information. We're afraid we might be left behind as the social tide passes. We have to jump in and just try to keep our mouth out of the water so they can keep talking.

At it's most sinister, social media connects people with a violent agenda and allows them to sling violent, threatening, horrible things at people anonymously. Cyber-bullying, we call it. 'Inside Amy Schumer' recently did a BOOM sort of sketch about adding a "I'm Going to Rape and Kill You" emoji to Twitter, to save people the characters of having to type all that out against the women they are hating, so they could reserve them for more important things like telling the stranger she is fat. Watch it. It will make you laugh/wince/laugh/sob. Like most things Amy Schumer does.  

And....Ms. Schumer is on the cover of Vogue right now, with the headline, "I don't want to play the game; I want to redefine it" which makes me cry tears of hope and excitement! She posted the pics from the photo shoot and....well, I screen captured some of the comments I was going to show you as proof of people living up to their role as pervy shitbags in her sketch, but I'm going to refrain. I don't want you to have to see it, because it doesn't add anything to your day. 

So. I'm reading and writing things that I choose and not superficial, mean things that are slung around. That shit will stick to something it lands on, but I'm hoping it won't be me. I'll still post to the FB page dedicated to this blog, but I'm going to to try to see how my ego is without the reinforcement of people laughing at my jokes on my personal  page. It's not like some sort of huge accomplishment to not be a social media junkie, it should be no big thing. I'm mortified I have to go through stages of separating from this addiction. But there it is. I want to see if I have clarity when I cleanse myself of the voices. We'll see how it goes. No promises. I'm weak. 

I am reading a good book on my ibooks app on my phone, so that helps. (I mean, I can't be expected to poop without playing with my phone in some way, right? Think of my poor colon! No, you don't have to. I was just kidding. But now you are, aren't you?)

Words, Words, Words.

When I drove up to the vigil, there were a lot of police. I was afraid they were there to prevent the gathering, to power over the people feeling raw and powerless. They weren't. They were there to defend the mourners from attacks that didn't come. 

A whole world is reeling after a man gunned down 50 people in a nightclub in Orlando, FL this week. A gay night club. Investigations are ongoing, but it seems he was there because he was fighting for some religious conviction or personal one that determined LGBT people deserved to be dead. 

I just fell silent because I can't find the words. Words, words, words. They're so meaningless and stupid. I don't have the energy to even feel anger. I want to, but my lungs won't expand fully enough to shout. I just feel crumpled. 

My therapist says we're getting used to these killings and becoming numb to them. That might be true. I feel empty and sick and wordless.  As we grapple to salvage some sort of understanding after this happens, many people's words come fast and loud and focus on the weapon used to destroy lives, on policies that might decrease access to that weapon, on who's an American, who's an outsider. How religion and governmental policies that support religious discrimination feeds this kind of hate. Yeah. Yeah. It might be all that. It might be. I don't know. I just don't know anything, I can only see through sad, slow tears. I don't know. 

We turn to our deities, right? In time of confusion and grief. We turn to the beings that we think are the essence of love, when we're confronting hate. But....but....the organizations/businesses that are founded on these deities have dropped the LGBT community into the mud and only now come out with prayers and enthusiastic rainbow colored remorse. 

I'm guilty by association. 

The discrimination against LGBT folks in the US is staggering-  jobs, housing, personal freedoms, healthcare, financial security, their homelessness and suicide rates, the list is endless. Even the right to donate blood to their fallen brethren is limited. They're marginalized, mistrusted, judged. We as a society have pushed them down and away. 

Despite this, in my understanding, the LGBTQ community is a powerful force, and tight, close-knit society of people. And, in my experience, so, so loving. So open. They're literally fighting for love. I always feel a little twinge of 'do I really belong here?' when I take my straight self and my family to Pride fest and other functions, this vigil tonight....and I always get nothing but welcomed and embraced and encouraged. And I know this isn't about me, but out dancing with girlfriends, where's the place we'll have the most fun and the least be disrespected or assaulted? A gay night club, obviously. It's a safe haven full of men who don't want to abuse me.

It's not about me. No one snears or threatens when I hold my husband's hand when we're walking down the street. We can kiss in a movie theater and not hear a word of contempt. I've never been told my love is an abomination. I can't put myself in their shoes. My heart breaks but it doesn't totally understand. 

So. What do we do? I think we listen. We let the people who do know this hurt, this injustice tell us what our next move should be. How can we change attitude and policy? Lead us. 

I'm so disappointed in us. This was one person with a gun, possibly a crazy person, but more likely just acting on a crazy hateful belief. A belief that has been encouraged.  We do everything we can in this country to make it hard to be LGBT. We don't support them, we don't defend them. It's a triumph that the Supreme Court decided on behalf of gay marriage this past year, but also an embarrassment that it took this long, and there a million other outdated policies still keeping them shut out from protections and freedoms the rest of us take for granted.

This is a shocking violent crime but an unfortunately familiar, unshocking anti-LGBT state of mind. We need to fix that. We knew it was there, now it's bloody well there, in too many coffins in Florida. If it's hate reform or gun reform that will reduce these mass murders, gun control reform will be faster, I think, but will it solve all of this? Fear and hate is what we need to dig out from the roots.  

How? I don't think silence is the answer, but where do we direct our words so they have meaning and impact? If you have any idea, please let me know. 

 

Henry, Age 5

Henry turns five today, and he's sick. Plans were made for a fun day at school with cupcakes, followed by a LEGOLand visit with some friends. But nope. He has a cough and a fever, so birthday celebration will be adjusted and postponed. That's life, right?

When I explained all this to him this morning before I left for work, he registered barely disappointment before he asked when he could open his presents. He was up the majority of the night. I think it was, like, 15% dealing with the fever, and 85% anticipating the presents. He was in our bed, staring at the clock all, IT SAYS 147, CAN I GET UP NOW, MOMMY?....NOW IT SAYS 453. CAN I GET UP NOW???? 

So, when I told him "Happy Birthday, Love!" on my way out this morning (at 609), and he instinctively replied, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOMMY and then laughed at his faux pas, I was totes OK taking some birthday credit, too. 

For the sleepless night last night, and all the others over the past 5 years. There were a lot.  For the fears and funs of parenting. For the fact that he's a funny, empathic, interesting, kind, intentional, weird and wonderful person. I'm taking some credit for all that. Not much. He came out pretty great and he's working on his own Henry goals, I just mostly stay out of his way and let him do him..but I will accept a cupcake for my involvement. 

He's at an exciting time of life. I keep telling him that kindergarten is some of the best years of my life. ;) (No, it's true. I did it twice. I think because of glue eating). It's so much learning how to be a good friend, learning how to slot new knowledge into useful places in your brain bank, so much maturing intellectually, physically, and emotionally. He already has his own perception of how things work and opinion on how they should go, but is also so very absorbent of new ideas. He really wants to understand how things work. Robots, human bodies, trees, jokes. He asks brilliant questions, and uses his information gained like a tiny lawyer. "Henry, when we get home from dinner, it's going to be time to take a bath." YEAH, BUT I'M A CAT AND CATS HATE WATER. (There's simply no way to argue with that, so he's going on 9 days unbathed). 

He's sensitive and loving. He shows great compassion and worry when people or animals (even on TV) are being mistreated. He's tender with his sister, who is often not. He's a pretty cautious kid, precocious most of the time, but timid when it comes to trying new things. It's neat watching him know his own boundaries, but also choose to take risks and be brave. (His sister is a good influence here). He's also gaining control of his reactions to change and disappointment and such. He's developing a way to describe the huge spectrum of emotions he feels and to learn what to do with them. This is important stuff and it's thrilling to see him improve there.  

Anyway. He's a great person and I'm so thrilled to have him living in my house all these 5 years. Even when it means he's awake in my bed going, MOMMY, THE CLOCK SAYS 503. CAN I WATCH A SHOW NOW?

It's possible he's actually nocturnal and we just haven't caught on yet. We're all still learning each other. It's only been 5 years. It's still a new relationship, really.  

 

All of Our Hearts Actually Do Bleed, It's How Humans Work

I exited a stairwell today in the hospital while I was making my rounds on patients, and walked right in front of an extra young, extra thin, extra bald guy in a hospital gown pushing an IV pole. He smiled and we kind of shared a laugh about how I almost knocked him over in my rush and clumsiness. 

And I thought. 

That could easily be me. I mean, maybe not the good-natured, gracious part, but certainly the cancer part. My cells could start dividing and wreaking havoc. They haven't yet, but they could. I'm only the one in the white coat and he the one in the gown so far, by luck or circumstance or divine intervention or some other abstract, crazy thing. I didn't do anything right. He didn't do anything wrong. It's just where we are today because life is weird and random and sometimes very, very unfair. 

There's no "us" and "them." There are no providers and patients. Providers become patients all the time, when our bodies break as bodies do. And patients, if you ask them, have probably been providers for their loved ones before and, if they've been patients for long, know a hell of a lot about conditions and treatments. 

There's no "us" and "them" any other time, either. This filthy, throbbing, puss-filled abscess of a U.S. primary election season has demonstrated again that we humans like to square off into teams. We are freaked out by people not like 'us.' We are threatened by people who look, sound, love, believe, behave differently than us. We point guns and wave torches and build walls to try to protect our impression of the tribe that is ours. I think it's natural self-preservation to clump together in homogenous tribes. We like to think we're evolved from this, but clearly we're not. We're the melting pot or melting salad or whatever we're now calling ourselves proudly when it serves our needs. We're a big 'ol combination tribe, right? But are we. 

I'm not surprised there are a lot of people who want to promote some Great America relic and who mistrust anyone who is identified as 'them.' The most recent immigrants to the States are always mistrusted and despised for a while, and then they're worked in. Remember how shady the Irish were? Me, either. That hate was before my time.  

That's American History. It's bullying the new class until there's a newer one. 

Some people, for example, those who were tortured and bound and dragged here to work with no rights, dignity, or provisions, might be the newer class for a long, long time. 

I'm told it's a childish fantasy to think everyone could get a fair shake. That 'we' can't possibly protect and promote everyone. That identifying injustices for some might mean we'll be asked to accept the extra justices we ourselves have...and potentially will be required to give up some of those. That we should just take what we can for ourselves and not wallow in others' suffering. That we shouldn't feel guilty over our 12-course meal when others didn't eat tonight. It's just the way it is. 'They're' different. I work hard. I deserve it. Perhaps they didn't want to eat. Perhaps they don't work hard enough. Perhaps they don't deserve it.

That there are always going to be roadkill people and driver people. Just be sure you own a car. 

I try to stay aware of my privilege because it's kind of everything. I didn't do anything special by not getting cancer and getting to be the healthy person. Just like I didn't do anything special by being born into an area, into a family, where I was safe, well-fed, educated and wealthy. I made some good choices, yes, but mostly I just landed a role as a heterosexual white, rich lady. My ancestors immigrated here long enough ago that I'm just generic, safe American now. Non-threatening. I'm even straight! I'm a woman, yes, but I'm a modern woman born here, so I'm allowed to go to school and drive and support my family and stuff. Neat!

And just as I didn't do anything especially right with my ancestry and biology, people who were NOT born into safe, affluent area and demographics didn't do anything wrong.  In fact, some have family history of torture and murder in the name of building this country and they have been reduced and reviled since. They're just more recent immigrants...or, you know....not immigrants exactly. 

That their effort to take care of themselves and their kids looks different than mine, when they have different experiences and expectations and way WAY different obstacles, should not be a surprise. 

I point out my privilege because I'm aware that I'm not up against the same things other people are. I've never walked in their shoes. I don't know what it's like. I do know we're all people, all part of what should be the same tribe. Supposedly our country is about all people. The 'us,' the 'them,' and the 'we.' We should be taking good care of each other. We should feel pain when we witness others' pain. We should be doubled over by now, for what some of our fellow men are suffering. Instead, we're doubling down on protecting our 'us' and punishing the 'them' for being 'them.' 

I have no answers. I don't know who to vote for. I don't trust anyone. I don't know if government or church or synagogue or mosque or individuals or corporations or schools can make a dent in this, if it comes back to human nature's flaws. I can parent my kids in a loving direction and I can *try* (and often fail- fancy food and lattes, oh my!) to use my resources in ways that I think are good for the whole big tribe.  I can rant on the internet. That seems like something no one else is trying. I'll start there. 

Watch this 10 minute video for a little hope and perspective. It is scienc-y and data-y but also FUN (I promise). It's an illustration on how we're empathetic beings by nature and we're actually getting better at it through history...there's evidence, so I guess I have to believe it. I want to believe it. I really, really want to believe. Empathetic Civilization, by the Royal Society of Arts.