Alabama Blues

When I moved to Seattle, I took a job at YouthCare as a Case Manager for a program called Civic Justice Corps. It was a job readiness program that worked with young adults coming out of prison or jail and was intended to teach these young folks job skills.

I started work three days after I moved to Seattle and after working in San Francisco, working as a case manager with formerly incarcerated folks, first in a court diversion program, then designing and running a post-prison/jail reentry program. Unfamiliar with the Seattle landscape, I dove in like I did in San Francisco because, that's what I do. I learn where I live.

My caseload consisted of 15 young adults between the ages of 18-24, mostly young African American men. Young men with children, young men who never really got to be children, young men who got into trouble for being children.

As I dove into Washington's criminal justice system, I was shocked with the differences in law and policy. Arrest records and juvenile records were showing up on background checks, young folks were getting convicted for "malicious mischief", ban the box was a new concept, kids were going to prison. Where the hell am I?

One of the young men on my caseload was a 21 year old young African American man from the "Souf End" of Seattle who had just been released from a four year prison stint. Meaning he went to prison at the age of 17.

Quiet and cold, he showed up to work with this job readiness training program every day. I didn't appreciate his attitude but I did acknowledge that he was showing up. A couple of times early on, he challenged me and I challenged him in a group setting. I remember pulling him aside one day after a particularly irritating battle, telling him "you are very intelligent, you don't have to prove it all the time. It is seen."

We became friends after that. The final ice breaker was when we talked about how one must grill a cheeseburger. Rapport. Connection. Good energy. Visibility.

I jovially called him by his last name and he, in private and eventually in public, called me his "work mom." He started to make friends with his peers and started to relax and extend his personality. It was fun to be a part of. I encouraged him to get his license and we ended up going to the Department of Licensing four times for that-twice for him to fail his written test, once for him to fail his driving test and finally, to get his license. That fourth time, after he and I had collectively spent about fifteen hours sitting in a licensing office, he walked out of the testing area with a look of pride on his face and an eagerness to share his good fortune. He had passed.

The following day, he showed up to work and out of nowhere, started talking about his family roots in Alabama. He wanted me to google his family's home in Alabama so we did. We went to Google street view and the screen filled up with an image of a mobile home in the middle of a wooded area somewhere in rural Alabama. The family home. I felt his combined energy of pride, roots and determination.

He graduated from that job training program. His mother attended the graduation and he introduced me to her. A small woman who carried her hard life on her face and bones, she was there to support her son, amidst both of their hard circumstances. When he introduced me, he said "tell my mom what I did while I was here" and I proceeded to tell her about the different certifications he achieved, the good work he did and the progress that he had made. She listened intently, longing for hope but bracing herself for bullshit, and finally accepting that some genuine and positive truth had been spoken about her son, relaxed into a feeling of pride. So did her son.

He and I lost touch after he graduated from the program. Life happened and I was his Case Manager. Two years later, I received a letter at work from Coyote Creek Corrections Center. He had been convicted of robbery and sent to prison for five years.

We wrote to each other for the next five years. He attended accounting classes while in prison and I attended graduate school. I listened to his plans and dreams and I kept him updated on what Seattle was up to.

He was released the year I graduated with my MSW. We connected on the phone I congratulated him on his accounting certification that he earned at Coyote Creek and he congratulated me on my Master's degree. We lost touch again and haven't spoken since.

What a beautiful and tangled web we weave. Beauty and love in all of it if you make the right choice and get tangled in it.

Sometimes

Sometimes I cry for the way that we hurt each other.
Sometimes I cry for the way that we hurt ourselves.

Sometimes I cry for the way that we love money.
Sometimes I cry for the way that we have to work so hard.
Sometimes I cry for the way that we really don't have to.

Sometimes I cry for the way that we treat animals.
Sometimes I cry for how well they treat us in return.

Sometimes I cry for the way we hurt women.
Sometimes I cry for the way we hurt men.
Sometimes I cry for the way that all of our tears are disregarded.

Sometimes I cry for how our country is going down the tubes.
Sometimes I cry for how little we do about it.
Sometimes I cry for how little we can do. 

Sometimes I cry for how quickly we get old.
Sometimes I cry for how young we never got to be.

Sometimes I cry for all that we have lost.
Sometimes I cry for all that we have and will gain.
Sometimes I cry for the way things should be.
Sometimes I cry for the way things could have been.
Sometimes I cry for the way things once were.

Sometimes I cry for all of them at once.

And that's ok.

Let's all just take the time to do so. That's ok too.

Strawberry Wine

Not long ago, my relationship with someone ended. The catalyst for the end was surprising, the end itself was disappointing and heartbreaking and the aftermath was unsettling. I've had to simultaneously struggle with  mourning the loss of what was and what could have been, reconciling the reality of that relationship and navigating the confusing end. It's been hard.

This relationship was ultimately not meant to be but it was not in vain. I learned more about myself than I ever have, experienced a tremendous amount of growth and was challenged time and time again in the lessons of what I want in love, what I bring to love and how important it is to honor myself with love. Another lesson learned is how hard change is, how hard honoring oneself can be, how hard it can be to walk away from something you wanted and how hard but crucially important-for yourself and the other person-it is to walk away with unconditional love for yourself and them.

As the Universe works in synchronicity when you are connected with it, just a couple of days after the end of the relationship, I was invited to Corn Planting Ceremony with my Native brothers and sisters. A gentle ceremony, it gives time to reflect on the past year and look forward to a new beginning. Akin to the planting of corn seeds that will, with love and attention, grow into healthy, enriching nutrition, this ceremony calls upon us to practice the same love and attention in our internal lives so that we may continue to cultivate and enrich our souls and our exterior life as well.

A couple of days at Council House did me good. Fellowship with people that care about me and I them, peaceful rest in the woods and sleeping under the stars in the bed of my truck with nothing between me and the night sky. Intentional reflection around the sacred fire in the Council House calmed my rattled nerves and comforted my shattered heart.

The sacred fire, an important piece of most ceremonies, is started the first morning of ceremony and burns until the end, tended to by all. Since the fire burns day and night, fire tenders sign up for "shifts" to tend to the fire. It is an honorable task. My first shift was mid-afternoon on a 91 degree day and it took strength and courage to sit in the Council House with a hot fire. I was joined by people moving in and out of the Council House but spent most of that afternoon with a twelve year old boy who decided that he'd rather stay in the hot Council House tending fire with me than play in the hot sun with his friends because, as he simply put it, "I like talking with you." I felt honored and greatly appreciated the young, innocent energy that he brought into that afternoon when I felt anything but young.

My second shift, a shift that I was called to take by Creator, was the 4am to 6am shift. Typically an undesirable shift, I committed to it with honor and gratitude and was looking forward to having quiet, peaceful time alone with the Old Ones to ask for love and protection to heal my heart. At the suggestion of one of my spiritual Elders, I brought tobacco to throw into the sacred fire with my prayers.

I set an alarm on my cell phone for 3:45am to be sure that I was up in time to relieve the previous fire tender and spend this time that I desperately needed. I woke up at 3:30am and looked up to see more stars than I could ever recall seeing. Bright stars, twinkling stars, huge clusters of stars that looked like a million galaxies, all shining down on this early morning. It was beautiful.

As a walked towards the Council House, tobacco in hand, I was hit with a sudden pang of anxiety and grief. Could I let go? How hard was this going to be? What was going to happen next, both in the context of this relationship that just ended and with my intimate relationships overall?

I entered the Council House and met with the previous fire tender, a Cherokee woman. We talked for a bit about how the night had gone, marveled together at the starry landscape and, as these things go, an old story, one of Cherokee origin, came into the conversation. While she did not present this story in the context of my current struggles, it hit me like a bolt of thunder in how relevant it was in its synchronicity to them:

How Strawberries Came to Be

In the beginning, First Man and First Woman lived peacefully, although the would sometimes argue, often about trivial things. One day, the couple got into an argument over something trivial, however the argument escalated and both ended up quite upset with each other. The woman, as equally upset as the man, ran off in anger and the man let her go, not interested in talking with her further. As time passed, the man realized that he did not remember what the argument was about and began to miss her. He looked over the ridge and saw that the woman was still running. He attempted to catch up to her but, with her feet fueled by anger, he could not catch up to her. He asked Creator to put forth roadblocks to stop her so that he could reconcile. Creator listened and put up a mountain. The woman quickly went over the top of the mountain and down the other side. The man asked Creator to attempt to block her again. Creator put forth a large forest but she ran straight through with ease. The man asked a third time to block her and Creator put a wide, rushing river in her path. She swam across with ease. After a few more failed attempts, Creator went to the man and said "it seems that she is able to cross these obstacles because she is familiar with them. Perhaps if I put something new and different in her path, it will slow her down" so he put a large field of wild strawberries in her path. Although the woman's feet were still fueled by anger, she stopped to marvel at the sweet smelling, heart-shaped berries and began picking and eating them, enjoying this new discovery. As she enjoyed this bounty, the man was able to catch up with her and soon after, they both realized that neither of them remembered what the trivial fight was about and spent the rest of the day in the berry patch, enjoying the sweet berries and enjoying each other. So when arguments happen, whether they are trivial or not, take time to think of new ways to block the anger and focus more on loving one another than focus on trivial fights and disagreements. In other words, share some strawberries with those that you love. 

This story, like all old Native stories, resonated with me in its simplicity and kindness in message. However, it was more than that. Just a mere two weeks before the end of our relationship, I noticed a couple of rogue strawberry plants in my garden. Transplanting themselves, they ended up on the outer edge of my garden in the path. Not wanting to destroy them but also wanting to get them out of harm's way in the path, I offered them to my partner for his porch. We had just bought a bunch of flowers to cheer up his deck and we both agreed that strawberries would add to the joy. I offered to teach him how to care for them along with the other plants, something he was looking forward to. We both were. 

That was not meant to be. The relationship was not meant to be. Fueled by anger, he is running and I have no roadblocks for his path. Our time together has come to a close, like the slamming of a door.

 After the woman told the Strawberry Story and left, I spent the next hour in prayer. I prayed for him. I prayed for his children. I prayed for strength. I prayed for wisdom gained. I prayed to keep my heart open. I prayed to not make the same mistakes again. Each time I prayed, I threw a pinch of tobacco on the fire. Each time I threw tobacco into the fire, the flames jumped higher, quickly grabbing and taking the tobacco and prayers up to the sky. But when I prayed to get through the overwhelming sadness that I have over this loss and the grief that is drowning my broken heart, the tobacco did not catch fire right away.  Instead, it lingered on the wood for a while before eventually becoming engulfed by the flames. I cried. Big, pain-filled tears, I cried.

This sadness will linger for a while. A piece of it may always be there. Or perhaps it will just take my heart a little more time to heal and, like the tobacco, it will be taken up and away when it is time. It is a personal call for me not to rush this particular matter of the heart. I loved him and a part of me always will. Grief is just love with nowhere to go but all things in time.

And again, like the Strawberry Story, the focus must be on unconditional love and gratitude that I have for this person and this relationship, not on the pain and hurt. I do hope that one day, whether it's in this lifetime or another one, we can enjoy some wild strawberries together. 

Swing Low Sweet Chariot

Had some stuff and things on my mind last night so I decided to cruise by the garden then extend that into an evening stroll. On this stroll, I found a little park about four blocks from the garden. Baseball diamond, full playground including my favorite, playground swings.

Playground swings were my favorite as a kid. Floating and flying, fast and slow, I got to be a kid and I got to be a different kind of brave-that kid brave where you swing as high as you can, then leap off of the swing. I was always a cautious kid but that caution went out the window on the swings. I still love them for the same reasons, although I will admit I'm not quite as brave in taking the leap anymore. There's a metaphor for ya.

I spent a good half hour on the swings last night, tripping on the sunset and listening to tunes. My head felt more clear and a little bit of energy was gained back.

I decided to head over there again tonight to play. I've still got stuff on my mind and I'm also trying to be really mindful of keeping a work/life balance at the new gig and be sure to prioritize living life more. My recent stint of funemployment really gave me a chance to appreciate life, warts and all and I'll admit that I like the way that feels. So I cruised through the garden for a minute before heading over to the park. The park was quiet except for a dad teaching his son how to play baseball. As I lifted off, I appreciated the weightlessness. We all carry so much weight sometimes, it's nice to shake it off, even for twenty minutes. The sun peeked out for the first time all day. And I took some time to let some of that weight fly off.

Grateful to have found another neighborhood clubhouse and thinking spot :)

Lost in the Supermarket

As a kid, eating healthy was not only something that we didn't do, it was something that we weren't taught to do either. My family on both sides have never eaten healthy-lots of processed foods, sugar, carbs. Growing up in Alaska added another element to the formation of unhealthy eating habits. Food is incredibly expensive in Alaska, especially things like fruits and vegetables due to the high shipping costs. In addition to that, the long transport times tend to deliver less than ideal produce. So we grew up on cookies, candy, carbs and other cheap meals. A lot of times in the morning rush, my mom would throw three Rainbow Chips Deluxe cookies on a plate and that was breakfast. I was addicted to sugar by the time I started school, if not sooner. I don't blame her for it-she was in an abusive relationship, struggling with alcoholism, didn't get that education either from her parents and was working a menial government job and couldn't afford healthy foods. I would've done the same thing in her situation.

My weight has fluctuated since grade school and I think I'm once again overweight by about twenty pounds for the fourth time in my adult life. This wreaks havoc on my self-esteem and gives me another way to put undue pressure and criticism on myself. It's a bit of a constant thing.

These habits transported directly into my adult life. At first, I found the taste and texture of fruits and vegetables to be repulsive. They also didn't hit my pleasure center like sugar did-and still does. Eventually I got over that but I certainly wasn't eating healthy food on the regular. My depression and sexual trauma feed into my unhealthy eating habits as a subconscious way to try to make myself unattractive or beat myself up while simultaneously provide short lived pleasure and comfort. Fucked up, isn't it?

It seems like 2016 on into 2017 is more shedding of old skin. First it was my relationship to work, then it was my ability to give and receive love. Now it appears to be time to tackle my longstanding body issues and learning how to care for myself in this way as well. There's a steep learning curve here-I wanted to buy beets today but wasn't sure what they looked like-but I'm going to do myself a kindness and learn.

This is another reason that my little garden is such a healing place for me at such a divine time. And I did find those beets eventually.

 

Alaska and Me

I think I'm ready to talk about this.

After my contract with UW ended, I was out of a job. I wasn't overly concerned about that, as I was good and done with UW and had an interesting gig ahead of me. I had taken a job working with the small Native village of Kivalina, Alaska. They were looking for a Wellness Coordinator to help create community support and projects primarily focused on youth and young adults but because of the small population, would no doubt affect and involve most of the villagers.

Kivalina is in the Arctic Circle, in an area known as the Northwest Arctic Borough and has a population of just under 500, many of those residents under the age of 18. Less that two square miles in its entirety, Kivalina is only accessible by bush plane. They struggle with many social problems-alcohol abuse, domestic violence, depression and other mental illness and lots and lots of sexual assault-something that Alaska has had a shockingly long and intense reputation around. No accountability for violent offenders and no escape for victims. However, the catalyst for a Wellness Coordinator was the staggering rate of suicide in the Borough and specifically in Kivalina. In the last nine months, three young adults committed suicide.

In January, I spent four days in Kivalina essentially on a working interview. Meeting with villagers, learning more about the current state of the village and how it got that way. I stayed in the only school in the village, a school that had been rated substandard over twenty years ago. The building smelled of backed up sewage, there were three working toilets out of six and none of the showers in the lockers rooms worked. This was the nicest building in town and the only building with plumbing.

I met many villagers-some welcoming, some suspicious-but I was always invited in and fed. All homes in Kivalina and HUD homes mostly building in the 70s or 80s and most all are ranked substandard as well. Holes in floors, broken windows, no plumbing. People literally shitting in buckets. Third world country conditions in the great America that we need to make great again. Amidst all of this, however, were all of these beautiful people! Mothers raising young children, often alone. Grandmothers and grandfathers wanting to spend time with the young people of their village. A Tribal Administrator that wanted something different for his village. And survivors. So many survivors of so many things.

A few villagers that captured my heart were the four young adult interns working with a newly formed project called Kivalina Food Sovereignty Project. The brainchild of my colleague and friend in this adventure, a UW PhD Anthropology student, it was a chance for young adults to invest in their community in a real way. The interns were all in their early 20's but had already lived the lives of someone two, even three times their age. Some of their experiences are ones that many will never have to endure. Their internship was to be five months long and would culminate with a trip to Seattle in May to present at the Indigenous Food Symposium at University of Washington. What an exciting prospect for young people who have never left the confines of Alaska. I remember how liberating it was to leave too.

I was intrigued by the opportunity to work with this village. My heart went out to them regarding their circumstances. I felt good about the opportunity to work with Native people, my people. I found it curious that life had brought me back to my home state almost twenty years to the day. I was up for the interesting adventure that this promised to be. The Tribal Administrator was too and offered me the job. I would spend two weeks on and two weeks of in Kivalina for one year.

About a month later I made my first trip out to Kivalina. The first couple of days I stayed under the radar but by the third day, word had gotten out that there was someone from "down below" staying in the village. I started getting long glances, propositions, questions like "are you wild?".  Shit was starting to get real.

It was then that I started to struggle. I had left Alaska twenty years ago because of ten years of childhood abuse, paired with a rape that last year that I was there and numerous other sexual violations throughout junior high and while I was homeless. Like I said before, Alaska has had a shockingly long and intense reputation regarding sexual assault. Now I'm back in Alaska twenty years later and it is all too familiar and a little disconcerting in the ways that it was familiar. Suddenly I was a light sleeper again. Just like that I was on autopilot, looking for vulnerable places in the house that could either be broken into or that I could be cornered in. Surveying the house for all potential weapons and hiding them. Sleeping with a weapon. Triple and quadruple checking the lock on the front door and my bedroom door. Putting force into both doors to see what it would take to break them. Sleeping in the room closest to the front door.

My fifth night there it happened. I woke up at 3am to the sound of boots crunching on the snow. I was up like a shot, sitting in pitch black and completely still. I hear someone fumbling with the door, trying to break in. Oh fuck, they're in. Weapon in hand, I sit on the edge of the mattress in the dark. I hear my door knob jiggle. Yep, he's after me.

I'm up like a shot, light flipped on, phone in hand and foot wedged against the door as I beat on the inside of the door with my heavy Maglite flashlight yelling "who's that?!", being sure to cease from making noise to hear where he is headed. Texting other villagers that I know are safe and are up. I get responses right away and within minutes I had five people coming to my rescue. We found the intruder hiding in an empty bedroom in the dark, highly intoxicated. It was someone that I knew had been tracking me for three days.

The next morning or rather, four hours after the incident, I went to work. Another survival mode practice on autopilot. That day was a blur in a parallel universe-I was harassed and verbally abused by the Tribal President and blamed for the incident. When I asked for my money back for the lodging that I paid for that I was no longer going to use, I was denied and verbally abused some more. I was attempting to make travel arrangements to get the hell out of there but all airports were closed due to a heavy winter storm. Alaska State Troopers weren't able to come out to apprehend my intruder, not that they would have made much of a priority of it anyway. The stress was intense within that situation but that wasn't the only thing going on. A coworker was crying because the young child in her charge had eaten laundry soap and she wasn't sure if he was going to get flown out to a clinic in time to be saved. Another young woman left crying after finding out that her paycheck wasn't ready; she was crying because she owed her father money and she knew he was going to beat her up if she didn't have it for him. I just wanted out but I was stuck.

I spent the next two days riding out the storm by taking copious amounts of NyQuil and sleeping. I spent some time with my rescuers who were so kind to come to my aid and take me in for two days while I waited to depart. I left Sunday afternoon to get to Anchorage for the red eye and was back in Seattle 430am on Monday with another layer of trauma compliments, once again, of the last frontier.

As the shock started to fade, I felt a range of emotions-violation, humiliation, anxiety, depression. That wasn't the hardest part. The hardest part was the deep full circle that this experience was. Sexual violence, violation of space, verbal abuse, victim blaming, Alaska. Almost twenty years to the day. There is a lesson here but I do not understand it.

It took me almost three months and an intense four-day depression crash to understand this lesson. If I were to be truthful however, it is a lesson that has been waiting for me to understand for twenty years. This most recent experience in Alaska was an opportunity, a fork in the road. A do-over. It was the gift of strength in self to decide not to carry trauma in the same old, tired and hurtful ways I had carried it my whole life. It was the universe, in it's strange yet straightforward way, giving me agency to not define myself by my trauma. To no longer carry the shame that had become second skin. An opportunity to forgive myself for the sins of others and be happy. I decided to give that gig a shot.

A few months later and I feel different. Different in the way that I process, the way I carry myself, the way I live in my body and in the world. It's a new way of living for me and I still have a lot to learn but so far I like the road I'm traveling.

Last night I came across the GoFundMe for the young adult interns with the Kivalina Food Sovereignty Project. They are raising money for their trip to Seattle next week for the symposium. They were short of their goal by a bit and without question, I covered the difference which, in an ironic twist was the same amount that I got ripped off for. But I was proud to be in a position in my life to support the hopes, dreams and hard work of these young folks and proud of them for pushing against all odds to find a bigger and brighter world out there besides the pain and trauma that they are so intimately acquainted with.

It took twenty years, a trip to Kivalina, Alaska and four young Inupiaq men and women for me to realize that it was okay to be happy.

Push + Pull

"We are never so vulnerable as when we love, and never so hopelessly unhappy as when we lose the object of our love." 

Sigmund Freud

I would elaborate on this quote further by saying that we are never so hopelessly unhappy and out of control as when we make the choice, consciously or unconsciously, to push away the object of our love. 

I have been guilty of this dynamic. Sometimes called the "push/pull" dynamic or the "idealize/devalue/discard" phase, it is a pattern of behavior that hurts both people involved. The non-clinical description of this dynamic is feeling closeness (idealize/pull), followed by an incident where one or more parties feel hurt and, in reaction to the hurt, push the person away on an emotional level (devalue/discard/push). 

This is an incredibly painful process for all involved, regardless of who is "calling the shots". It is exceptionally painful if both parties are participating in calling the shots. The pain magnifies if one or both parties don't realize or acknowledge that they are engaged in this pattern. 

These behaviors tend to sprout from the fertile yet toxic soil of childhood and/or adult abandonment, betrayal, infidelity and abuse. It is a subconscious and poorly formed defense mechanism to avoid hurt. However, it is a surefire way to hurt yourself and others. 

Andy Weir, author of "The Martian", wrote a short piece called "The Egg". In this passage, he writes "Every time you victimized someone you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”

Thinking of this push/pull dynamic in this context brings different life to it. Why would I want to do this to someone else? Why would I want to do this to myself? Why wouldn't I want to prioritize love and joy? Why do I feel like I don't deserve happiness and love, because someone told me that once? Because someone treated me without happiness and love at different points in my life? Those situations were painful lessons but that's all they were. Lessons.

When you start attending school, your goal is to get to the next grade, obtain the next degree. You don't stay stuck in kindergarten learning how to tie your shoes for eternity. As you walk through life, your goal is to reach comfort, happiness, joy, love, enlightenment. You don't stay stuck in trauma learning how to further traumatize yourself. 

So re-frame this push/pull dynamic. 

Instead of pushing people away, push negativity, hurt and bad habits aside. Push yourself to love yourself and be happy.  

Instead of pulling people in to act as balm to your wounds, only to find out that that's an impossible to task to put on someone, pull people in to love them and let them love you. 

Pull good energy in. Push good energy out. 

When I went to my first plant ceremony last September, I kept hearing these same words from the ancestors over and over again: "let them love you." On the surface I understood what this meant, felt it was a basic concept. However in practice, it was and continues to be one of the hardest lessons I am learning. I am learning, but I certainly have not graduated from this particular school. 

But I am learning. In a recent situation where I felt pushed away, hurt and confused I chose to push negativity out and pull happiness and love in. A hope for happiness for this person and happiness for myself. Love for this person and love for myself. While I felt wounded and frustrated that this person was not seeing their own push/pull dynamic, I acknowledged my own long and arduous journey towards understanding and owning my push/pull dynamic and compassionately understood how hard it is to own this particular dynamic, given how painful and how deeply ingrained it is. 

It is not my responsibility to guide this person into seeing the "error of their ways." It's not an error. It's a reaction that hurt and traumatized people engage in as an effort to avoid future hurt. Does it work? Of course not. Does it happen? Of course it does. 

My responsibility is to choose to love myself and love the people in my life in an unconditional way. And that includes pulling loved ones in closer and pushing love and energy towards them, even if they can't see it. For with that love and energy comes the confidence and trust that they will eventually see and if they don't see, I can continue to wish them love and peace on their journey even when it doesn't align with mine.

Learn fast and walk slow but in those times that you learn slow and walk fast, love each other anyway. 

Gardening at Night

Shortly after I moved to Northgate from the U District, a friend and I were out taking a walk and found this lovely community garden tucked away in a neighborhood a block away from my apartment. The community garden is part of the City of Seattle Neighborhood P-Patch Program. I decided to get on the waiting list for a gardening plot back in September. I doubted I would get a plot any time soon but figured I had to at least try, considering how close the garden is to my house.

So I was thrilled when I was called a few weeks ago and told that there was a 100 square foot gardening plot available at the Pinehurst P-Patch. As a lifelong apartment dweller, having a little piece of ground that I could call my own was a thrilling prospect.

When I attended my new gardener orientation, I was led to 100 square feet of dirt covered in weeds. I couldn't have been happier. I waited with baited breath for it to stop raining so I could go pull weeds and prep for planting. The weather finally cooperated last weekend. I cancelled all of my casual Sunday plans to run out to buy dirt, pull weeds and work with the soil.

I spent five hours over the next two days pulling weeds and raking dirt all over my 100 square foot paradise. Rocking out to Blues on the radio, wearing my worn out flannel shirt that belonged to my mom, faded Levi's, muddy Converse and big purple 1970's sunglasses. Singing, laughing and talking to myself, I was the baddest babe in the garden. Shit, if I walked by and saw me, I'd talk to me.

But more important than just feeling physically in my element, I felt calm. My mind wandered to current goings on in my life, memories, songs stuck in my head. Wandered to my grandma and my gratitude towards all of the knowledge I have gained from her about gardening and pride in now being able to do something with that knowledge besides just hold onto it. Wandered to happy thoughts about people I love. Wandered to how fun it is to plant food for myself and the fuzzy children. Wandered to things I'm currently struggling with. Wandered back to the garden where my biggest challenge was finding these weeds that are obnoxious in their abundance but satisfying in the way that their little bulbs pop when you crush them. It felt good to just..... wander.

I spent a couple of hours in the garden today as well. It was a gorgeous spring day but, as Seattle spring goes, it promises to be an isolated sunny day, with rain predicted for the rest of the week. I cruised over to the nursery, excited to get new babies into the ground, especially right before a Full Moon. I had had a bit of a weird day; a lot of things didn't make sense today and I spent a good part of it feeling misunderstood and unheard.

Then I opened the garden gate. For the next ninety minutes, I soaked in the early evening sun, heard some beautiful bluegrass music on the radio and planted my new babies. I gave thanks as I planted white sage, good medicine that lives in the Eastern quadrant of the Medicine Wheel and represents healing and emotional health. My mind wandered to the events of the day. I processed them with unconditional love and without anger and at one point, was briefly moved to tears because the collision of hurt feelings and the song on the radio gave me permission to feel those feelings. Despite the overall discomfort and funk of the day, I walked out of that garden feeling incredibly grounded and happy. My problems of the day weren't problems, they were useless noise sucking up energy that should have been spent on more important and rewarding things. And just like that the choice was made to be happy. What a gift.

Hope

Healing

Growth

Secret

While I tend to have a general distaste for most formal mental health diagnoses, there is one diagnosis that I will readily admit that I struggle with. But even that diagnosis has been a struggle to accept and even more difficult to admit to others.

Major Depression.

I have struggled with depression since my early teens, perhaps even earlier. It slowly but surely built itself in as a part of my life in my 20's and, now in my mid-30's, depression has been around so long that I have been able to subconsciously normalize it. Depression hangs on me like a tar, constantly dragging me down but giving me just enough mobility to fool myself and others that I am OK.

Given my back story, it isn't all that surprising that I am depressed. Having experienced constant, consistent and intense trauma for the first fourteen years of my life has rewired my brain in some ways. So has enduring what feels like a lifetime of insults, judgment and criticism from myself and others. High levels of hurt, bad choices and a series of failures in my adult life helped the cause as well. However, I think it's the shame of "not having it together" and having to wear a mask and pretend that everything is OK has given depression so much power in my life.

Since my early 20's, I have had distinct cycles of depression. The cycle starts with losing interest in things that I enjoy doing, followed by disruptive sleep patterns, moving on to isolation from or the pushing away of others, often coinciding with periods of heavy drinking (or wanting to drink heavily and battling against the urge to do so these days), and typically ends in four or more days of not leaving my room except to use the bathroom and getting pissed off that I have to do that. A catalyst for these cycles can be numerous-the loss of an opportunity, work-related stressors, criticism from someone close to me, or simply being worn out by the negative self-talk that creeps in at a consistent pace. The cycle doesn't unfold overnight, sometimes the cycle takes up to six months to really crash down on me.

Last year was an incredibly hard year for me personally and professionally. It was a tremendous growth year,  something that I am grateful for. However, in order for that growth to occur, I had to take a lot of long, hard looks at myself-my behavior patterns, my coping skills or lack thereof, my personal narrative. A lot of what I saw wasn't pretty. This growth also had to run in tandem with numerous stressors around my job and relationship, which was no accident considering that those are the two areas that needed the most growth. I was being tested last year. I still am.

I had a dream about six months ago that I am realizing spoke to me about my depression. Given the timing of the dream, it was almost predicting, trying to warn me about my most recent crash. I was sitting in a clubhouse box seat at the racetrack watching the horses run the track. Every single race, a horse went down, broke a leg and had to be put down. Sometimes the jockey was hurt, sometimes not but the horse was always hurt to the point of death and in some races, multiple horses went down.

This dream was jarring to me given the level of death and the symbolism that horses represent in Native culture, my culture. Horses represent Western medicine, healing medicine and strength, so to see horses in your dream signifies that you are given an opportunity to heal, that good medicine is headed your way if you are open to it. Seeing horses die one after the other in this dream shook me awake with anxiety.

My spiritual advisor had a different take on that dream. He said that the "medicine is saying, look, this is why when you take a tumble you get down. If instead of trying to run a race the horses/jockeys were out for a stroll, this wouldn't be happening. Life is not a race to be run or a career to be had, or anything else than what it is.  The ability is there (the jockey), the strength and will to overcome is there (horse), the path is there (a track) but it is all organized for going around in circles and careening out of control into a fall that could be fatal.  And every time that happens then you go into the next race . . . same outcome.  Always, same ingredients, same structure, same outcome.  So what is going to change?  Well, it has already changed: you are not one of those horses or one of those jockeys.  In the dream you are a witness on the bleachers.  That is the only place where consciousness abides, in the internal witness.  Only the witness doesn't get all wrapped up in the next drama, in the next race, in the next win or lose-success or fail situation. The witness watches and lets be and lets live, lets life . . . then you can see love, perfection, wisdom and beauty flower out of it all--truth."

Flash forward to now. I had another crash. I suffered a surreal, full circle blow that was wrapped up in old wounds and patterns of both a personal and professional nature. I won't talk about it here. I held on for a month after the incident, dragging myself through the days, doing "what I needed to do" because that's what I've been conditioned to do. Two weeks ago I found myself laid out in my bed, not eating and not moving unless I had to use to the bathroom. Here we go again. The horse had to be put down again.

Then something changed. I told someone close to me what had happened. Then I told another person. And another. And another.  I was met with love and compassion from all of them. Many of them related their own struggles with depression. I felt understood. Normalized. Not alone. It felt good.

I'm feeling a crash coming on again and I'm disappointed in that considering that it's only been two weeks since the last one. Certain events and circumstances have made it difficult for me to take the time I need to dust myself off and care for myself in the way that I should. I've spent the space in between worried about a close friend and most recently, feeling kind of picked on by someone close to me. I don't say this to make others feel guilty, their current circumstances and their choices are theirs, it's my choice to let them affect me. I actually say this to acknowledge my personal growth. The fact that I am identifying a potential crash coming means that I am actively centering myself and giving love to myself. The fact that I am being open and honest with myself and others about this potential crash is growth. These things combined give me a level of genuine inner strength that I have never felt before.

Time to slow down from a sprint to a walk. 

This horse isn't breaking down this time. 

That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore

I started my social work career in early 2008, shortly after moving to Idaho. I got a job at a small mental health services agency providing community-based care to those experiencing severe mental health issues, sometimes known as Axis I and Axis II diagnoses. Schizophrenia, Bipolar I, Major Depression and Attention Deficit Disorder were some of the more common diagnoses cropping up on my caseload.

Another diagnosis that would come up often would be Borderline Personality Disorder. Mostly women, these clients were some of the hardest to work with at times, primarily due to the lack of consistency in their patterns of behavior. Caring and kind one visit, completely out of control the next. Sometimes you knew what set them off, other times it was pretty well under wraps.

I had also heard about Borderline Personality Disorder in a different context prior to and since the start of my social work career. "Borderline Bitch" was one of those derogatory terms used, typically by men, to describe women that they had come across. It seemed like this was the de facto term to replace "moody" or to absolve men of hurtful or inconsiderate behavior.

Borderline Personality Disorder, according to DSM-IV (Diagnostic & Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders)*, is as follows:

 A pervasive pattern of instability of interpersonal relationships, self-image, and affects, and marked impulsivity beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts, as indicated by five (or more) of the following:
(1) frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment. Note: Do not include suicidal or self-mutilating behavior covered in Criterion 5.
(2) a pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation
(3) identity disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self image or sense of self
(4) impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging (e.g., spending, sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating). Note: Do not include suicidal or self-mutilating behavior covered in Criterion 5.
(5) recurrent suicidal behavior, gestures, or threats, or self-mutilating behavior
(6) affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood (e.g., intense episodic dysphoria, irritability, or anxiety usually lasting a few hours and only rarely more than a few days)
(7) chronic feelings of emptiness
(8) inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger (e.g., frequent displays of temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights)
(9) transient, stress-related paranoid ideation or severe dissociative symptoms

Now, some people that know me professionally and have fallen victim to one of my rants about the DSM know that I hate this book. Written by what one can assume was primarily wealthy, white, male doctors, this book has been used as the primary diagnostic tool since the 1950's. There have been updates but it does not negate the fact that homosexuality was once listed as a mental illness, nor does it negate the lack of compassion throughout the book. On a good day, I call DSM the "billing book", used merely to select the juiciest disorder within reason to ensure that clinicians gets paid for their services. On a not-so-friendly day, I call it the "stigma book" or "oppression manual".

I have been informally diagnosed as Borderline in my own life. According to the criteria above, technically I guess that could be true. It was especially true in my 20's. I have always been hesitant to accept this diagnosis fully, in part due to the stigma around it ("Borderline Bitch") and partly due to the bleak "treatment options" and expected "recovery" from this condition. As with most mental disorders, a combination of therapy and medication is recommended but when it comes to Borderline, most researchers and healthcare professionals have decided that it is unlikely that one can recover from Borderline. A death sentence by way of DSM.

This is where I call bullshit. Re-read the diagnostic criteria with an open heart instead of a clinical mind and one will find that whoever has been diagnosed with this disorder has been hurt by others. Badly. And most likely often. This diagnosis screams abandonment, trauma, violation, violence and most of all, betrayal of trust. Over and over and over again. No surprise that mostly women are diagnosed with this.

Why do we, as a society, find it necessary to pathologize hurt? To pathologize pain and mistrust? Why have we accepted that a death sentence according to DSM is good enough in relation to trauma and betrayal of trust? Why do we, as a society, make each other sick and then blame each other for getting sick? Get me off of this ride.

I will be the first to admit that I am not always easy to get along with. I am not always easy to get to know. It takes a long time for me to let someone in and oftentimes, even when someone thinks I've let them in all the way, it's so far from the truth it's almost heartbreaking. Im getting better as I get older and further removed from my childhood and adult trauma experiences but I can still be difficult to navigate. I live with myself every day and sometimes I find myself difficult to navigate. 

So what has worked for me? Medication? Talk therapy? Hardly. Both have been expensive and stressful wastes of time.

What has worked for me is a small but powerful circle of support consisting of friends I've known for a year to over fifteen years, a man who patiently loves me and sees me through the noise, a spiritual advisor who challenges me to heal myself through loving myself and a couple of fuzzy kids of the cat and rabbit variety who are the only beings on this planet to have "seen it all" when it comes to me, and love me unconditionally anyway.

So how do you treat Borderline Personality Disorder?

Love.

Fierce, patient, real love.

Because that's all a Borderline Bitch wants and that's all that this Borderline Bitch wants to give.

I Want You To Want Me

Love is the most complicated emotion out there. While this is not an earth-shattering statement, it is a statement that can't be more true. There are countless songs sung about it, books written about it, art made as a result of love found and love lost. Love is beautiful in its complication and can also be incredibly hurtful.

I have realized that I have spent a lot of my life refusing love. I have had men love me or want to love me in the past and have turned it away. I have chosen men who have been uninterested or unable to love me. I have had opportunities to live with an open heart and participate in the grace that comes with being vulnerable and allowing love in and have chosen not to.

I had a rough start with love. People that were naturally supposed to be "assigned" with the task of loving me failed. Decisions that I have made in the past have disallowed love from coming into my life. I have treated myself with less than love in many ways-drugs, alcohol, sex, food, anger, criticism and physical harm.

Things have changed and are changing. I love fiercely. I give love. I ask for it back. I fight for it. I stand up for it.

I still get shot down sometimes. It still hurts. I still ask for love in clumsy ways at times. It's still complicated. But instead of engaging in old patterns of pushing it away or reacting in anger, I sit with this vulnerability, move through the feelings by feeling them all, dust myself off and look for more opportunities to love.

If I've done one thing right in my life, it's been my decision to love myself and others no matter what.

Finest Worksong

About six months after I graduated from undergrad, I had quit my job at the racetrack and taken an admin job at the American Heart Association. As someone who had been working in the fast-paced environment of a horse racetrack and as a smoker of almost ten years at that point, this job was an ill fit. I was bored out of my skull and didn't really connect with anyone that I worked with. The pay was alright but the commute sucked.

I quit that job on the spot one day. After another long, boring lunch in a nondescript office park, I came back, put my belongings in a box and, on the way out, told the office manager I was leaving and not coming back. The shocked look on her face barely registered with me as I walked out. I spent the next nine months unemployed.

This period of unemployment would end up being the catalyst to one of my longest running problems in my life, my unhealthy attachment to work.

I have put a lot of emphasis on work before I was even old enough to do so. I could hardly wait to get a work permit in high school and have pretty much worked nonstop since I obtained that permit. I've worked two, sometimes three jobs at a time and that nine-month stint had been my only period of unemployment. I have always been on a career track, never satisfied with just having a job. My family had never been a big advocate for the career track. Most of them had nondescript government jobs or, in my father's case, barely worked and found a way to live off of others as quickly as he could. So where on earth did my drive come from?

One root was fear. Without the safety net of stable and supportive parents, options for borrowing money or moving back in with my parents were nil. I would live on the streets again before I moved back in with either of them. Another root was my need to control something. In many other aspects of my life to date I had had no control over my circumstances-my childhood, my parents, where I lived, who touched my body. Work was similar to school in that there were certain things that were not allowed to happen there without repercussion and, since I was good at creating and engaging in routine, work presented as a mirror to the lifelong security of education.

Another root was pure spite. When I was thirteen, one of the many drunken rants out of the mouth of my stepfather aimed towards me was one where he predicted my future. He said "that bitch is going to be on drugs and pregnant by the time she's sixteen!"

That statement stuck with me and I made a promise to myself that day that I would prove that fucker wrong. It lit a fire under me that has done me a lot of good in many ways, but has also been highly destructive to my self-worth, my unhealthy need to control and my over-indulged ego. I gave that statement-and that man-an obscene and exhausting amount of energy for more than twenty years.

That nine-month period of unemployment smashed my ego. I felt useless and worthless. Even though I was living with a boyfriend at the time and he was being incredibly supportive of me financially and otherwise, I was in a deep depression. I made the impulsive decision to move to Idaho to get a job, made the impulsive decision to move back to California less than three years later, have taken jobs that weren't a fit, didn't pay enough, had bad commutes, bad bosses, bad benefits, you name it. All so I could say that I have been employed.

I'm currently unemployed and have been since January of this year. I lost my job at UW in a tough, "blow to the ego" type way. I had started and run a successful program for three years and had only gotten paid for one of them, only to get laid off at the end of the first and only paid year. The program was my baby and I was cut out of it.

While the last few months have had good and bad days in relation to my feelings of self-worth, they are nowhere near as devastating as they would have been in the past. I have a few job prospects but not many, a small financial safety net, a large student loan and Trump-era anxiety. But I have a strong support network, a professional network that respects me, I don't want for much, and I have this current gift of time to process, heal, grow and get to know myself. I've met amazing people through work that I am proud to call friends. I am able to be defined by so much more than my work these days and now realize that I always have been. 

Oh yeah, and I'm not pregnant or on drugs ;)

Precious Things

When I was in my sophomore year of college, I went to my first dance club. It was an all ages club and I was looking forward to this rite of passage. I got dolled up, got picked up by a couple of girlfriends and headed out.

Since we were underage, we of course shared a fifth of whiskey in the parking lot before going in. Simultaneously overwhelmed and overjoyed by all of the flashing lights, people and heavy bass, we walked into the club feeling and acting like we owned the place.

We danced in a small cluster, knowing almost instinctually that we needed to protect each other. Men would come through the circle and dance with us but would typically move out of our circle in the pleasurable and organic flow of dance. This energy was short-lived. As we were dancing, a couple of men joined our group and began to dance with us. Suddenly, I felt my skirt being pulled up and a man's hand attempting to work its way into my panties. I turned around and away from him, looking at him with shock and disgust. He gave me a look of pleasure and entitlement and walked away. Needless to say, I felt violated.

As someone who had been violated sexually before I could even understand what that meant, this was an especially cruel experience. It also shot me back to another loss not so many years prior.

I was couch surfing after I left home and was staying with my friend Emilia. Her parents were immigrants from Mexico and owned a small residential and commercial cleaning business in Anchorage. Many of their jobs were after hours so most evenings at Emilia's were without adult supervision, which was ideal for a homeless underage runaway. She had an older sister who was somewhere around the age of twenty-one. One of the nights that I crashed there, her sister was having a party.

Even though Emilia and I were only thirteen, we were allowed to join the party. I had a couple of beers, a welcome addition to my sad circumstances. Since I was so young, the beer hit me pretty hard and soon after, I left the party to go lie down in the bedroom that Emilia shared with her sister. I shut the lights out and drowned out the party noise, slipping quickly into an alcohol-induced sleep.

I was awakened by a man over me, biting my neck and grinding my breast into my ribs with one of his hands. He was using the other hand to pull my pants down. I was half asleep and still feeling the effects of the alcohol, so it was difficult for me to register what was happening or do anything about it. I started to struggle but he was much older and bigger than I was. I could hear other voices in the background but the lights were still out so I couldn't see anything. In the parallel universe that is rape, I consider that its own bizarre blessing. As this man violated me, I could hear the other men laughing and saying "come on man, bone the bitch so we can get out of here."

I was an errand to be completed, a party favor, and all I did to get here was have a beer and go to bed. I was thirteen years old and had had one positive sexual experience. I shouldn't have had any sexual experiences at that age. What is happening? Why?

Unsurprisingly, my adult years have been fraught with struggles around sexual intimacy. I spent a good portion of my adult years violating my own body through my actions and struggling with distrust and anger towards men. I have been informally diagnosed as borderline in the past and struggle with the shame of that diagnosis and the shame around how I've gotten to a point where someone could feel that they know enough about me to relegate me to a label as simple and derogatory as that. I struggle with anger that people can violate others to the point of sickness, then arrogantly slap a detached and academic label to it and express frustration that the violated can't "get it together."

When a precious gem is tarnished, it is cared for. It is not re-labeled and tasked with polishing itself. Instead, the gem's caretaker knows that there is beauty under the dust and understands that it takes time and patience to unearth it. Why is that same honor not extended to women, one of the most precious things on earth?

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

One of my first jobs and my longest-held job was at Bay Meadows Racecourse, one of the last-standing horse racetracks in Northern California. I was still in high school when I started working there and didn't leave until after I graduated from college. When I was eighteen, one of the admins in the group sales office, Angie, gave me an expired ID to use as a fake ID and told me the places to go that wouldn't card too closely. There were a lot of old school bars near the track that catered to track personnel (racetrack rats, we were called). Armed with a fake ID and other folks from the track, I was hanging out at bars most weekends, three years before I was legally allowed to.

These early bar experiences were the start of a couple of journeys. The first journey was my slow but eventual descent into struggling with alcohol abuse. From the age of eighteen until I was about thirty years old, I struggled with fairly consistent episodes of drinking to excess. I wouldn't drink every day but by the time I was twenty-one I couldn't exactly count on one, or even two hands, how many times I had been drunk. My struggle with alcohol would take on different circumstances and different levels of severity over the next twelve years but my early days at the track were certainly the training ground for all of them.

The other journey was one of learning how to socialize. Given the variation in types of bars, ranging from upscale to pretty damn rough and skeezy and my comfort with going into any of them, I was conditioned pretty quickly on how to identify dangerous situations, how to engage in humorous banter, how to listen to strangers and their struggles and how to spend time in a bar alone. My upbringing helped me ease into some of these dynamics but these experiences overall have certainly helped my social work career. Relating well to different people in different situations and the ability to size up these situations quickly are minimum requirements of a good social worker and are skills that certainly don't hurt when navigating life.

I drink a lot less these days. I made a decision a handful of years back that I didn't want to follow in the footsteps of my mother and chose a different path. I still know how to get a healthy buzz going but I also know when to stop, a skill that took a while for me to grasp.

However, I still socialize in bars often. Sometimes I have a few drinks. Sometimes water, sometimes coffee. I've been a regular at different bars over the last few years and can slide into this role easily; an attractive and kind girl who is willing to listen to and care about people, laugh at jokes and crack her own, and handle herself is most always a welcome addition at any bar. I also get the fulfilling privilege of meeting people from all walks of life-the divorced jokester with the Wisconsin accent who loves his kids and struggles severely with depression, the sad 20-something cutie struggling with a cocaine habit, hell, even the tweaked out, shit-talking painter with a bad habit of stealing have all contributed countless stories in my repertoire and has given me a unique window into how people deal with their circumstances and each other.

I've sat with a man who was having a couple of drinks alone because his son was in the ICU again for a debilitating chronic illness. I've listened to men and women process their broken hearts. I've been present for conversations about babies being born, children going to college, memories of peoples' favorite concert experiences and have learned a lot about different cultures, bands, books and places around the world. I've certainly dropped my joys and sorrows off at bars over the years. I've sung "Me and Bobby McGee" at the top of my lungs at a bar. A bar was the first place that someone told me that I was a talented writer. Just last night, I met a guy that I'll probably never see again, but we cracked jokes, solved the Jumble, had a fun conversation about old movies and he taught me how to two-step.

Each of these conversations typically begin and end with a raised glass and an acknowledgement that you exist.

Bars aren't for everyone, of course. But having a place where you can connect with people, step away from your day-to-day and really, step out of your own bubble is one of the greatest things about being on this planet. Connect. Enjoy. Acknowledge each other. Raise a glass.

Canon in D

When I was sixteen, my dad let me get a cat. As soon as I heard the word go, I was off to the humane society to find my new friend. The first cat I saw upon entry was this little black kitten sharing a cage with another little tabby kitten. I found her to be very cute but figured I should check out the other cats before I made a final decision. As I cruised around looking at the other cats, I couldn't get that little black kitty off my mind. Looping back around to the front, I looked in on her again. As I was watching her I saw her get up, get a bite of food, then move back over near her cage mate. As she sat back down, she sat on the head of the other kitten in the cage. Soon after she sat down, the tabby reached his paw up and tapped her a few times, like he was saying "hey uh, excuse me could you move a little?" The little black kitty just squinted her eyes and dug in further. I laughed, appreciating her attitude. This cat was mine.

She came home with me that day. Tiny and shy, she hid under the bed for the first three days. I named her Raven.

Raven was my companion through college when I was living alone. Shortly after I graduated from college, I started dating a man that I had met through a mutual friend. Raven was very territorial of me and was really a one-person cat so this new man in my life was not a development that sat well with her. She was combative and aggressive towards him. One night, he was drunk and messing with her and she scratched him. Hard. In a drunken fit of rage, he picked her up and threw her. I should have dumped him right then.

Raven traveled with me through this relationship, a move to Idaho, a move back to California and multiple houses and apartments in between. She lived through the addition of three cats and a rabbit to the household. She hated all of it.

I didn't give her as much attention in the last three years of her life as I had for the first six. I was wrapped up in stress, depression and an unhealthy relationship. I was making poor and impulsive choices, and a lot of them, the first few years after undergrad. She was still my girl and I still loved her, but my life was full of other chosen distractions.

When we moved back to California into a tiny basement apartment in San Francisco with the other three cats and rabbit in tow, she started to deteriorate. She spent a lot of time in a room by herself because she didn't like the other cats. My current cat, Noodle, used to look at her through the window of this room. I always thought he had a bit of a crush on her.

About a year after we moved back to San Francisco, she started to lose weight rapidly. She stopped eating and her once soft and shiny coat, like black silk, had begun to dry out and became dull. I took her to the vet. Raven had cancer. The options were expensive and painful surgery that would extend her life for six months at the most or put her down. The decision was obvious-I wasn't going to make my little girl suffer-but the decision was heart-wrenching. I knew that Raven had given up.

I felt tremendous guilt for the life I had given her in her final three years. She was my girl and I had let her down. I spent the last night of her life on the couch with her, crying and pouring love on her, the love that she deserved. The next day, I took her in to the vet and let her go.

After she was gone, I felt a strong urge to listen to Pachelbel's Canon in D. It was the first classical song I had ever heard and I loved the beautiful, flowing sadness mixed with pieces of joy. Much like Raven's life. I listened to it over and over again in the days after she passed. She died eight years ago and I haven't listened to the song again until now. It's been too hard to do so.

I still feel guilt around the way her life turned out. I think that's the reason that Noodle is spoiled rotten. And I'm ok with that.

Pish

Midway through my first year of college, my dad came to visit. We took a day to go to the grocery store so that he could stock me up with groceries to last me for a while, then went to a consignment shop so that he could try to find a dining table set for his place in Washington.

At the consignment shop, my dad and I split from each other to look around. He was on the hunt for his dining set and this amazing purple couch had caught my eye. It looked like something Hendrix would have and it was oh so comfortable. I was relaxing on the couch when one of the employees came up to me, a young guy about my age. He said something shitty to me and I responded in a similar fashion. He followed up my response by calling me a bitch.

I found my dad and told him what had happened. The shop owner was apologetic and my dad demanded that she make the boy apologize to me. The boy refused. The matter was not pressed and my dad and I began loading his newfound dining set into his truck. As we were loading the set into the truck, my dad looks at me and says with a chuckle "I would have returned this dining set because of that situation but she was offering the set at such a good price."

My worth was less than the price of a consignment dining set.

Go Your Own Way

My first year of college I worked at a dog grooming business. The owner was a nutcase. Mitchell. A mid-30s white man who struggled with his sexuality.

I started out as a cashier at the dog grooming place and was soon working in the back room as a dog bather. I worked with Cindy, a glamorous but aged and world weary blonde and Ruth, a 70s throwback lesbian who had a girlfriend and a crush on me. I had a crush on her but had no idea what to do with those feelings. Ruth and I smoked a lot of weed together, on and off the job. She took me to my first concert in California, Fleetwood Mac. It was amazing. Prior to the concert, we went to her house to pre-game on some weed and beers. I was nineteen. She went to go get ready, which I can now say meant that she went into her bathroom to do a couple of lines. She asked me to roll a few joints for the show. I had no idea how to roll a joint but I sure did know how to grind up shake and I gave it my best effort.

I quit that job at the dog grooming place. The owner lost his shit one day and started calling me an idiot and a bimbo and I told him to go fuck himself. I started walking home, with tears in my eyes. Halfway home, I turned around, walked back to the shop and demanded my final paycheck. He told me that I could wait. I told him that wasn't happening. Something about the way I said it made him think twice about his choice and he cut me a check. That was the first time I had stood up to someone of authority in that way and not the last time that I would experience conflict at work. My disenchantment with employment had begun. 

Long Snake Moan

I started college at San Jose State University on my 18th birthday. Aside from my paternal grandfather, I was the only one in my family to attend college. School had been my source of stability for my entire childhood so I was thrilled to be able to stay within the safe confines of an academic institution.

My first year was a shock to the senses. I was nowhere near college level in any subject and didn't even test into college level math. I was sent to a remedial math class, reviewing algebra with a professor that had the thickest East Indian accent I had ever heard. I still hadn't adjusted to all of the different cultures in California and, having no hearing in my right ear, the variety of accents paired with the large class sizes of undergrad was overwhelming. I flunked that first semester of remedial math.

Shortly after my first semester ended, I received a letter from San Jose State informing me that I was going to be given one more shot at completing remedial math. If I didn't pass this time, I was kicked out of university. This school didn't mess around. When I showed up for my first day of class and was met with another huge class and a professor with a thick Asian accent, I felt that I was doomed.

I reached out to my former high school math teacher, Mike Coutts. He was my favorite teacher who happened to teach my least favorite subject. I'm pretty sure I passed math in high school with pity grades. I explained my predicament to him and he quickly agreed to tutor me through that semester. I passed with a C but I passed. We spent hours on the phone and hours at his house, toiling away at high school math, over and over again. Most of the time I was high, which didn't help.

I was working two jobs at the time and carrying a 12 credit courseload. I was commuting by train twenty-five miles each way. I had no social life and no time for the great college experience. My father had moved out at the beginning of my senior year of high school so I had been deep in the work world for a year at that point. I was making $9 an hour at one part-time job and $11 an hour at my full-time job. I was exhausted.

In my second year of undergrad, I struck up a friendship with a guy named John in my plant biology lab. He was a long haired metalhead who had an affinity for the band Tool. So did I. He did a lot of acid and soon after, so was I. He lived with his parents in San Jose so we'd get together and trip on acid, try to do lab homework and marvel at his collection of pet snakes. He had about seventeen snakes in his room in all colors of the rainbow. I was afraid to touch them but loved to watch them move silently and delicately around their tanks.

I am still fascinated by snakes to this day. Their solitary existence, their quiet beauty. The level of fear that even the most gentle snakes can instill in people, including me, is mesmerizing. Snakes are often attributed to a negative and deceitful person, someone evil. Master strategists, snakes live their days in silent travel, only bearing fangs and striking when necessary.

John and I lost touch after college. He wanted me so bad, but I was still dating my high school boyfriend and never took him up on the offer. He used to draw these intricate fine pen drawings consisting of small circles and lines that would fill the page. Each 8x10 page had to have had at least 10,000 lines on them and the page was filled with brilliant colors done by colored pencil. It was an artful manifestation of a brain on acid. These gifts were a bone of contention between my high school boyfriend and I and I eventually threw them away to keep the peace. I wish I hadn't done that.

Only God Can Judge Me

Two days before my fourteenth birthday, I had become a resident of California. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of people, the tall buildings, the traffic, the palm trees, the weather. I had to start school in a couple of weeks and I was nowhere near ready for that.

My dad had enrolled me in a private, non-denominational Christian school. He wasn't really sure what he had gotten himself into, taking me on. We shopped for school uniforms at the uniform supply store and I started school.

The first week was a nightmare. I had uniform store-issued clothes while all of the other boys and girls had more stylish, mainstream options. The misfit from Alaska was now the misfit from California. I was confused, angry, depressed.

The Friday of my first week at that school, I overheard a couple of girls in the bathroom gossiping about me and was crushed. I went home and told my dad that I hated that school and didn't want to go anymore. We got in a big argument, which resolved nothing. Later, after we had cooled down, his only remark was "you fight in a very logical way." While I didn't completely understand what that meant, I took that as a compliment and aspired from that day forward to be sure and be logical.

The school was its' own private hell. Non-denominational meant that they could change denominations depending on what mood the administration was in and what sort of punishments they wanted to put forth. If they wanted to ban certain things, they were Southern Baptist. If they wanted to scare kids, they were Pentecostal. As someone who had very little experience with organized religion, it all felt like confusing bullshit to me.

Conformity was key. We had weekly chapel service on Wednesdays that required the girls to wear long skirts and the boys to wear dress shirt and tie. We were forced to recite "Good Reports Edify and Testify-that spells GREAT" over and over again. When I was a junior, it was found out that two seniors were having sexual relations and they were forced to admit their sin to the entire school, K-12. As I grew more into my high school misfit persona and less of a shy, mousy girl I started getting into trouble. I rolled my shirts to make them shorter, dyed my hair black, wore Doc Martens, got caught smoking. In my senior year I was suspended for three days for refusing to pray. I couldn't wait to get the fuck out of there.

I graduated on honor roll and was accepted into college at San Jose State University. My dad was beyond proud and took me to the nicest dinner I had ever had up to that point, at Van's Restaurant. I wasn't even sure if I wanted to go to San Jose State, that was the first school that accepted me. But he was so happy and proud that that's where I decided to go.

My graduation ceremony was stressful. My mother and her parents and my father's parents flew in from Oregon and Seattle, respectively. My mother and father had not spoken in years, or at least not cordially. My father and paternal grandfather sat on one side of the room at the reception, refusing to talk to my mother and her folks. I spent my graduation day jockeying back and forth between the two parties, ensuring that everyone was having a good time. My dad and grandfather were indignant and rude, too wrapped up in their personal melodramas while my mother spent the day looking stressed and hurt. None of that day was about me.

King of the Road

After almost a year at Covenant House, staff attempted to facilitate family reunification with my mother. They called her in and didn't tell me. I came home from school and one of the social workers led me into a small conference room, where I was sat across from my mother. A state social worker and another shelter staff were also in the room. I was blindsided. I don't remember what was said or who said what, I was in that disassociative fog that I can still get into to this day. The talking seemed short because my mother started yelling and verbally abusing me, calling me a whore, a homewrecker and a mental case before grabbing her purse and storming out. I had said nothing in this meeting. The social worker and shelter staff looked at me sheepishly before excusing me to the common area in the shelter. I walked down the hall to the common area in a fog and played Sim City on one of the computers until it was government cheese and jailhouse slop time.

A couple of weeks passed, I think. I was still going to school daily but had to have been physically showing the wear and tear of my experience. Cheryl, the mother of a classmate that I didn't know well approached me at the end of a school day and asked if I would be interested in staying with her family.  She was a City Councilmember in Anchorage, that was all I knew. I moved in.

Her home was full of love and warmth. She had three kids-a son my age, a daughter who was nine and a three year old daughter. Her husband was a quiet, nice guy and she was a happy, Christian woman. She was a good mom. She had her two daughters share a room so that I could have my own room and let me use an old radio/CD player/tape deck because she knew I loved music. She did too. I had been able to retrieve some of my belongings from my parent's house with a state escort and took a few childhood mementos and all of my CD's. I listened to Pink Floyd "The Wall" and their live album, "Delicate Sounds of Thunder" endlessly. I had insomnia most nights and when I would get tired of playing my same handful of CDs over and over again, I would tune in to a late night conspiracy theory show on a local radio station.

That was the first time in my life that I had received love and discipline in healthy and equal doses. When I did something wrong I was reprimanded, not abused. When I needed love, I got it. The house always had music playing and the food was always good. One night, Cheryl had some friends over and they drank iced tea and listened to AM radio. Her favorite song, "King of the Road", came on and she blasted it, singing and dancing with abandon in her kitchen.

About three weeks into my stay there, I developed what I thought was a rash on my right hip. It was about an eight-inch series of small black dots from the top of my hip to the middle of my thigh. It was incredibly painful. I couldn't sleep on my right side and taking clothes off and on was excruciating. I said nothing. One day, I bumped into the refrigerator door in her kitchen and started to cry. Cheryl asked me what was wrong and I told her that I had a rash that really hurt. She asked to see it. I pulled my pants down and showed her and she reacted with shock.

"How long have you had this??"

"A couple of weeks."

"We need to get you to the doctor right away! Why didn't you say anything?"

I didn't know how to answer her. The answer was too big.

We rushed off to her family doctor and it was determined that I had shingles. I was in a lot of pain, scared of what I had and feeling guilty for stressing Cheryl out and making her have to take time out to deal with me. Cheryl held my hand as the doctor scraped a sampling off of my thigh. We both laughed when I said "that didn't even hurt, she said it was going to hurt!"

I stayed with Cheryl and her family four about three months until my biological father in California was identified as "next of kin" and moves were being made to unite me with my father. In August of 1996, I boarded a plane with my biological father, a man I barely knew, to San Francisco to start my new life there.

Wheel in the Sky

I left home for good the winter of 1995. I was clocking almost ten years of sexual abuse at that point and a good three years of physical and verbal abuse. I had been suspended twice in junior high for fighting and was the scapegoat for everything fucked up my household. I was the resident slave, tasked with cleaning the house and picking up after the drunks. I was done.

 I spent the next six months couch surfing and sleeping outside. It was winter in Alaska so it was cold and snow covered. I would find deep piles of snow and dig out burrows to sleep in over at the park adjacent to Baxter Bog. I would squat in abandoned buildings downtown with the drunk pedophiles and fucked up young folks. The police would find me from time to time, toss me in McLaughlin Youth Center and toss me back out. I continued to attend school, as it was the only stable sanctuary I could find. Most teachers turned a blind eye to my deteriorating physical and mental state until I got into trouble in English class for falling asleep, drooling on my notebook and sliding out of the chair. I was sent to the principal's office where I unloaded my life. I still remember the look on that principal's face. He was probably in his mid-30's, with a full beard and a fitted plaid shirt. The look of horror and helplessness that emerged and remained on his face made me feel guilty for bringing this to him. I knew firsthand that this shit was overwhelming. He informed me that he was mandated to report this to the police and I was happy to hear it.

About an hour later, a detective from the Anchorage Police Department showed up at the school to take me to the police station and record my statement. She was an older woman, probably in her mid-fifties. She was stoic and all business but nice enough. I was brought to the police station in the back seat of a cop car and escorted into a soundproof room equipped with a set of government-issued table and chairs and a recording device. We spent what felt like two days going over everything that had happened in my household to date. She then led me to a small waiting room filled with children's toys and a TV blaring some sort of cartoon. The reception was so shitty and my brain was so fogged that I couldn't tell, nor did I really give a shit. It is unclear how long I was in that children's waiting room but I do know that I slept the hardest and darkest that I have ever slept. No dreams, no recollection of falling asleep or waking. I was sleeping the sleep of the dead.

I was woken up by the same detective, told I was going to need to call my parents to do a wiretap on their phone to try to get them to confess what they did over the wiretap. I hadn't spoken to them for months. The detective set up the wiretap equipment and made the call, giving me no direction on how exactly I was supposed to get them to confess all of this over the phone. The wiretap failed. It was a five minute phone call, answered by my stepfather, who proceeded to verbally abuse me over the phone and hang up. "Well, guess that's not going to work", the detective sighed, as she shuffled me into the back of another police car.

I was transported to Covenant House, the only youth shelter in Anchorage. I was passed off to some intake staff and told that I was going to stay here for an emergency overnight while they got me hooked up with a CPS worker and completed the process of making me a temporary ward of the state.

That emergency overnight turned into almost a year. In my typical fashion, I created order out of chaos and had my daily routine of getting up to shower for school in the group shower, get my sack lunch and two bus tokens and take the People Mover, Anchorage's public transit system, to school. I'd come home and eat government cheese and jailhouse slop off the food line at the shelter and go to bed.

I bunked with a girl named Mariah in a room that held about six girls at a time. I had the top bunk and she was below me. She was a beautiful girl too and had the same hair and features as Alanis Morrissette. She was my age but had the looks and figure of a girl in her 20's. We became close, two girls bonded in our trauma. She had been brutally sexually abused by her grandfather. One night, she had come back from the showers and the room filled with the smell of rotten fish. Other girls started to remark and make cracks about the smell and I saw Mariah looking sheepish and ashamed on the edge of her lower bunk. I asked her if she wanted to come up to my bunk for a little bit and she agreed. She confessed to me that the smell was her-her grandfather had stuck scissors up her vagina and caused major damage. The smell was a side effect of that physical damage. We spent the rest of the night listening to Journey's "Wheel in the Sky" on tape before we fell asleep next to each other. A week later she was gone. I never knew what happened to her.