It's all roses or something

Of finches and fear

lisieux — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 22:24:24 +0000

Anxiety is a funny thing. The best way I can describe it is this. Anxiety is a collection of words in your head. Jumbled words. Some of them fit together well,and make sentences and pictures that wrap around your chest in a way that stops you in your tracks, gasping for air. Others are words that don’t match with much of anything, but they keep trying. And so the words that have no match fly around and around in your head like finches in a cage, never really settling anywhere for very long. A jittery driving force that drains you of energy and leaves you too tired too function well but not tired enough tosleep or relax.

I am not fond of putting the words that do have a match to paper. I don’t like how people judge. How they take them and turn them, twist things to fit their view of the world and leave you shattered and still in the aftermath. And so I stay quiet.

It is New Years Eve. For those of you who understand and struggle with anxiety for whatever reason, as we all do one time or another, I wish you a new year filled with opportunities to speak your matching words. And lots of branches for your finches to settle.

Never the same.

lisieux — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 01:07:49 +0000

The doors open. We are treated to tea and cookies and treats in the director’s office. Afterwards they walk us to meet the little person we had been waiting so long to see. Doors flung open left and right. Joshua, barely able to keep from vomiting. Something about the unusual smells and triggers he is unprepared to face. People of all ages and levels of disability stand. And watch. And one after the other speaks the word: “Amerikanskis”.

The word multiplies and follows us like the roar of a huge wave. No one believes that these Americans have come to their mental institution. Could it be true? Are they coming to adopt a child from HERE??

Plastic slippers. Flickering TV screens. Oriental rugs. Cracked windows. The smell of mold. Urine. People with Down Syndrome. Cerebral Palsy. Cleft Palate. Deformities. Mental illness. Hidden from society, where only the perfect are welcome. Discarded. Unwanted. Alone. Day after day here, never leaving this building.

She sits in a ball pit with colorful toys surrounding her. The six month old baby with the sweet little hat that makes her look like a little old lady. Her eyes crossing. Cute. Now where is Masha?

But wait. This is an Eastern European mental institution. They only take ages 4 and up. A second look. There is no freaking way.

There is no way in heaven or hell that this can be…..she is almost eight……

I drop to my knees, grab the tiniest baby hands and stare into the eyes of the eight year old trapped in a body no larger than that of a small six month old infant. What in the name of God….

“Masha. It is Mama. Mama is here”.

I manage to say these words while the room suddenly fills with caregivers. People in white coats. Women weeping. So many crying women. I ask permission to lift this tiniest of humans and she immediately rests her weary head against my shoulder as if to say :” You have finally come. I assume this is what little ones like me do with ladies like you.” Little did we know she was so sedated she could barely keep her tiny head up.

I tell her :” Hi beautiful princess” and a caregiver behind me bursts into tears. “Princessa Masha!” she exclaims, now crying so hard that I am worried for her for a moment.

We are asked if we will accept the referral of this child. We accept. And as we spend a month daily visiting her in the only home that has cared for this beautiful small girl after she aged out of the baby orphanage , we learn about the reality of the imperfect people in this country. Beautiful people. Tucked away as far from society as possible. Out of sight. Out of mind.

But we walked among angels. The souls that live out their lives under these conditions have left their mark on mine. And as everyone rushes around for that perfect Christmas gift, buying and worrying and buying more, I think of the doors that flung open, and the faces. I see their eyes. I still see their eyes.

I used to say I could never go back. After she had a seizure in the city, and we witnessed first hand exactly how poorly people with Down Syndrome are treated, I thought I could never ever set foot in that country again.

But on days like today, all I want is to go back. And sit on that couch in the hallway. I long to hold the children I came to love while I was there. I want to tell them they matter. Oh, how they matter. I want to blow kisses to little Luda. I want to simply walk the halls and make eye contact with the forgotten. I see you. And you. And you. And you. Oh god, who will see? How can I make people SEE?? See these amazing spirits, these survivors, these precious people?

The baby princessa has been home a year. My heart is still somewhere in that mental institution. It wanders the halls, looking for a way to reach, to comfort. And that is fine.

Because I don’t seem to really need a heart here. It seems that money and material goods are considered enough around these parts, in this country we call home. We stuff ourselves at restaurants and ignore the people right under our own noses who need help. Love. Hope.

I don’t really want to deck the halls. I want to walk the halls, one more time. If it only shows one person that they matter, that they have infinite value, then it is worth it.

It’s been too lung.

lisieux — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 01:48:25 +0000

I have been going to weekly acupuncture sessions for nearly 3 years now. And because my acupuncturist thinks that my brain is actually fairly functional and worthy of input and information, he teaches me a lot about Traditional Chinese Medicine. This makes him a very cool dude.

One of the things I have learned is that grief, in TCM, tends to affect the lungs. Especially unresolved, long standing grief. Let me tell you, have I noticed that to be a truth or what! And in that spirit, this blog will be a place where things will end up from now on, instead of just holding things in and letting them swirl around in my head and possibly settling in my lungs. Because then I would have to cough it all up later. And that is just gross.

So. Hi! Thanks for stopping by. If you’re cool with honesty and being real, I am sure this will be a decent read. Word of caution, my husband frequently refers to my verbal expression as “crap that comes out of your mouth”. Don’t worry, he used to be married to someone with mental health issues, and as a result he seems to have nearly completely lost his ability to tolerate the vocal sounds of the female he cohabitates with, unless of course these vocal sounds occur between the sheets. I have decided that I could take offense to that, or I can just go ahead and share my crap with the world, where I am sure there must be someone with a fetish for it. Or something.

Let’s do this thing. Welcome.