Someone on a committee somewhere at my high school asked us to write a letter to ourselves to be opened ten years later. My letter went astray, and so the current alumni coordinator sent my mother my letter 21 years after my graduation. Mom forwarded it on to me, and I opened it, reading my thoughts at age 17.
The letter is as follows, with the opening quotation appearing on the back of the envelope.
Who Wills, Can.
Who Tries, Does.
Who Loves, Lives.
--Anne McCaffrey
Well, my dear, here you are, ten years later. I hope life held about half of the promise you thought it would. I wonder if you could share with me a little wisdom…I guess I’ll share some with you. Laugh and the world laughs with you; cry and you ruin your makeup. Don’t forget to smile often, laugh heartily, savor the precious times, and cry when necessary. Are you still dreaming? I hope so. Are you sitting next to Gilbert right now? Are you content? Remember to love life…and don’t forget—I have faith in you!!
Love, wisdom, beauty, smiles, sunshine, teardrops, daisies, and starlight,
Your Young Self,
Wendy
The first thing that struck me was the phrase, “half the promise.” Half the Promise? How much promise did I think I had, and what would half of that be? I chuckled with Young Self, a cynic at that age, already assuming that life would not live up to youthful expectations.
Hmmm…Half the Promise. I don’t quite think Young Self had a vision of the future clearly laid out, but I know it was something along the lines of the American Dream – Classic Edition. I expected to graduate from college and get a “good job,” hopefully working for a magazine. I hoped to be sitting next to the spiritual equivalent of “Gilbert,” the name of the boy hero in one of my favorite novels, Anne of Green Gables. I’m sure that I expected have economic security and independence.
Did I get half of what I wanted? Well, I graduated from college, and I have a “Gilbert,” my man, T., who is a stellar human being. But I don’t have a “real” job, nor do I have economic security. I have neither children, nor a dog, nor a white picket fence. Hell, I don't even have a lawn.
It all goes back to this idea of expectations. In a way, Young Self is still at work in my head from time to time, still pushing for that American Dream, never quite content with the way things are. But then, my life has been much harder than I expected. Young Self probably knew that there was such a thing as mental illness but had only a vague idea of what that might be. Nowhere in the Grand Plan of Wendy's future did it involve manifesting a chronic mental illness, bipolar disorder, with catastrophic consequences attached. I was totally unprepared.
But Young Self basically had it right: laugh heartily, savor the precious moments. Keep Dreaming. I am still dreaming...I'm going to dream my way right into graduate school if I can help it. I may not be walking up the "primrose path," as Anne of Green Gables used to say, but I'm walking up my path, and the terrain is getting smoother all the time.
Young Self, after sober evaluation, I think I did right by you. I think I got more than half the Promise, and my glass is way more than half full.
Thanks for the vote of confidence!
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Forgiving the Fraud in Myself
I was at the NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) Inspiration Awards Dinner, and at the end of the evening, a speaker got up and raved about a NAMI program called “In Our Own Voice.” IOOV is a public speaking program on mental illness delivered by people who have mental illness. This is the signature “stigma busting” program in the organization, where a human face replaces the ugly stereotypes of mental illness.
Presenters were asked to stand.
Now, I have been a presenter for over five years and have given over fifty IOOVs, yet I was reluctant to stand. In that room of 200 people, I didn’t want to be identified as a person with a mental illness. This was even after the keynote speaker gave us a passionate call to action as advocates. Even at this event, when I was with “my people,” there was an unexpected tendency in me not to be made to “come out.”
Embarrassed, I stood along with a handful of other people, and the audience applauded heartily. I was not proud but uncomfortable, and as I felt exposed, I chided myself for feeling exposed. Was I not supposed to be the advocate extraordinaire? The poster child for mental illness? The Great Recovered One?
When I sat down, my sister-in-law next to me rubbed my back and whispered, “I didn’t know you did that. That’s cool.”
Yes, it was cool, but I wanted it to be cool on my own terms. I wanted the people that saw my presentations to see my humanity, see my strength and courage, and then never see me again. I still wanted to be a “normie” in my daily life.
Case in point: I had dressed carefully and thoughtfully for the occasion, sporting a jacket with a dragonfly motif. I wanted to be known as the woman in the dragonfly jacket, not as the one with the mental illness. I was tired of that. I thought I’d outgrown the “mentally ill” label.
Of course, it was the wrong time and the wrong place to be tired of it, to feel beyond my label, when all the people there that I knew, which were many, already knew my story. But was a little anonymity among strangers too much to ask?
This thought took me aback, for I had come face to face with my own hypocrisy.
My two closest friends at the dinner had already gone, and so there was no one to talk to about my conflicted feelings. They were men, besides; I really needed a girlfriend to talk to, but there was no one. And T. had strategically avoided attending the event in the first place, so I was alone.
I watched as a man at the next table over put money in a donation envelope, a donation that was going to sponsor the public speaking program. I didn’t put money in the envelope; I didn’t feel like sponsoring myself.
As soon as the evening was winding down, instead of mingling with the crowd, I bolted for the door. I called my buddy who had left early, chastising him. I didn’t mention that I was made to stand up, that I didn’t feel like being an example that night. I don’t know if he would have thought I was being childish or that I was being what I was: a sham.
On my way home, I had some time to do some thinking. I thought about my therapist and what he would say about all of this. He would talk about the spectrum, about life being lived mainly in the grey area. He would tell me that I didn’t have to be the perfect advocate all the time; I was allowed to choose another identity, even in the most ironic of places.
He would have told me it was OK if I had kept my seat, period. That it was my right to respect my own privacy.
As I mulled over some of this therapy philosophy in my mind, I remembered a woman at my support group once saying that she felt as protective of her identity a someone with bipolar disorder as she did with her credit card numbers, and she held her numbers close to her chest.
Now would she be a marvelous human rights advocate? No. But this anecdote served to remind me that I can’t wear my illness on my sleeve all the time, even in a crowded room of people who applaud what I’ve done, what I do. Being bipolar all the time is exhausting.
I think I just need a break, and when I’ve had a bit of a break, I’ll tell my story once again, and my audience will appreciate the challenges of living with mental illness, and they will applaud, and I will go on, living as well as I can.
Even sometimes as a normie.
Presenters were asked to stand.
Now, I have been a presenter for over five years and have given over fifty IOOVs, yet I was reluctant to stand. In that room of 200 people, I didn’t want to be identified as a person with a mental illness. This was even after the keynote speaker gave us a passionate call to action as advocates. Even at this event, when I was with “my people,” there was an unexpected tendency in me not to be made to “come out.”
Embarrassed, I stood along with a handful of other people, and the audience applauded heartily. I was not proud but uncomfortable, and as I felt exposed, I chided myself for feeling exposed. Was I not supposed to be the advocate extraordinaire? The poster child for mental illness? The Great Recovered One?
When I sat down, my sister-in-law next to me rubbed my back and whispered, “I didn’t know you did that. That’s cool.”
Yes, it was cool, but I wanted it to be cool on my own terms. I wanted the people that saw my presentations to see my humanity, see my strength and courage, and then never see me again. I still wanted to be a “normie” in my daily life.
Case in point: I had dressed carefully and thoughtfully for the occasion, sporting a jacket with a dragonfly motif. I wanted to be known as the woman in the dragonfly jacket, not as the one with the mental illness. I was tired of that. I thought I’d outgrown the “mentally ill” label.
Of course, it was the wrong time and the wrong place to be tired of it, to feel beyond my label, when all the people there that I knew, which were many, already knew my story. But was a little anonymity among strangers too much to ask?
This thought took me aback, for I had come face to face with my own hypocrisy.
My two closest friends at the dinner had already gone, and so there was no one to talk to about my conflicted feelings. They were men, besides; I really needed a girlfriend to talk to, but there was no one. And T. had strategically avoided attending the event in the first place, so I was alone.
I watched as a man at the next table over put money in a donation envelope, a donation that was going to sponsor the public speaking program. I didn’t put money in the envelope; I didn’t feel like sponsoring myself.
As soon as the evening was winding down, instead of mingling with the crowd, I bolted for the door. I called my buddy who had left early, chastising him. I didn’t mention that I was made to stand up, that I didn’t feel like being an example that night. I don’t know if he would have thought I was being childish or that I was being what I was: a sham.
On my way home, I had some time to do some thinking. I thought about my therapist and what he would say about all of this. He would talk about the spectrum, about life being lived mainly in the grey area. He would tell me that I didn’t have to be the perfect advocate all the time; I was allowed to choose another identity, even in the most ironic of places.
He would have told me it was OK if I had kept my seat, period. That it was my right to respect my own privacy.
As I mulled over some of this therapy philosophy in my mind, I remembered a woman at my support group once saying that she felt as protective of her identity a someone with bipolar disorder as she did with her credit card numbers, and she held her numbers close to her chest.
Now would she be a marvelous human rights advocate? No. But this anecdote served to remind me that I can’t wear my illness on my sleeve all the time, even in a crowded room of people who applaud what I’ve done, what I do. Being bipolar all the time is exhausting.
I think I just need a break, and when I’ve had a bit of a break, I’ll tell my story once again, and my audience will appreciate the challenges of living with mental illness, and they will applaud, and I will go on, living as well as I can.
Even sometimes as a normie.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Farewell, Benson & Hedges Menthol 100’s
It will be a month tomorrow that I quit smoking, but I realize that saying goodbye to smoking is like getting out of a bad relationship. We know it’s a bad relationship because we feel the often unspoken disapproval of our loved ones; we see the gnarly anti-smoking commercials on TV. (One of my favorite anti-smoking commercials had smokers turn into skeletons, and then the skeletons would fall off of a conveyer belt and onto a veritable skeleton mountain.) All smokers know that smoking is bad, but what non-smokers don’t know is just how good smoking can be. Hence, even a bad relationship is hard to get over.
There are several kinds of cigarette moments one can have, but I’m just going to illustrate a few:
Smoking to Get Away from Non-Smokers: Since to be a “polite smoker” you have to excuse yourself from non-smokers, this provides a perfect avenue for slipping away to indulge in your vice simply to indulge in a few minutes away from an onerous dinner party, etc.
Smoking to Meet Other Smokers: If you see an interesting-looking smoker, it is quite easy to find a segue into a conversation with that individual. Just ask for a light.
Smoking Socially: Smoking is extremely ritualistic in nature, and quite often you develop a social pattern with another smoker. The classic case in my life is T. We used to share coffee and cigarettes on Saturday mornings at the homestead, and I can no longer be a part of that. Similarly, I have a close friend who used to indulge in my sinfulness with me, and now we no longer share that. It makes me sad.
Smoking PeacefullY: Having a quiet cigarette to yourself is probably the quintessential smoking habit. It is a way to get away, a way to get a moment, a way to calm down. Last night, in fact, I had insomnia, and when I can outside on the patio, I was struck by the lack of cigarette in my hand. I just had to appreciate the fresh air, emphasis on “fresh.” The feeling that there was something missing was fleeting, but I felt the pinch nonetheless.
Smoking as Medication: Smoking to relieve stress is a classic reason people don’t quit. Smoking can be an antidote for anxiety, nervousness, boredom, any number of ills. Now I have to find new medicine, hopefully new medicine that isn’t food. I’ve taken up exercise.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m proud of myself for quitting. But I know that every so often I’m going to feel a pang or a twinge. And I’m going to miss that occasional smoke with my friend on the roof of the El Cortez, or miss that cigarette with a glass of the best red wine in the world on my friend’s lush patio. These are moments that can’t be substituted for anything else.
They say that a person with mental illness lives ten years less than someone without. One of the main contributors is cigarettes.
I would like to be one of the people who changes that particular statistic.
There are several kinds of cigarette moments one can have, but I’m just going to illustrate a few:
Smoking to Get Away from Non-Smokers: Since to be a “polite smoker” you have to excuse yourself from non-smokers, this provides a perfect avenue for slipping away to indulge in your vice simply to indulge in a few minutes away from an onerous dinner party, etc.
Smoking to Meet Other Smokers: If you see an interesting-looking smoker, it is quite easy to find a segue into a conversation with that individual. Just ask for a light.
Smoking Socially: Smoking is extremely ritualistic in nature, and quite often you develop a social pattern with another smoker. The classic case in my life is T. We used to share coffee and cigarettes on Saturday mornings at the homestead, and I can no longer be a part of that. Similarly, I have a close friend who used to indulge in my sinfulness with me, and now we no longer share that. It makes me sad.
Smoking PeacefullY: Having a quiet cigarette to yourself is probably the quintessential smoking habit. It is a way to get away, a way to get a moment, a way to calm down. Last night, in fact, I had insomnia, and when I can outside on the patio, I was struck by the lack of cigarette in my hand. I just had to appreciate the fresh air, emphasis on “fresh.” The feeling that there was something missing was fleeting, but I felt the pinch nonetheless.
Smoking as Medication: Smoking to relieve stress is a classic reason people don’t quit. Smoking can be an antidote for anxiety, nervousness, boredom, any number of ills. Now I have to find new medicine, hopefully new medicine that isn’t food. I’ve taken up exercise.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m proud of myself for quitting. But I know that every so often I’m going to feel a pang or a twinge. And I’m going to miss that occasional smoke with my friend on the roof of the El Cortez, or miss that cigarette with a glass of the best red wine in the world on my friend’s lush patio. These are moments that can’t be substituted for anything else.
They say that a person with mental illness lives ten years less than someone without. One of the main contributors is cigarettes.
I would like to be one of the people who changes that particular statistic.
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