Saturday, April 05, 2014

BUT


Buffy: [to Giles] Uh-oh, you have but-face.
[Giles looks confused]
Buffy: You look like you're gonna say 'but'.
Buffy the Vampire Slayer, "A New Man" (2000) 


Words are important to me. I'm a writer; words are my life. As far back as I can remember I've enjoyed some word games (puns, limericks) and detested others (guilt trips, shaming statements). I'm a card-carrying member of the Say What You Mean and Mean What You Say Club.

Which brings me to but. This has come up countless times, often as I'm parenting. I've made a point of being very mindful in my parenting, which includes being very careful about what I say and how I say it. Dozens (!) of people have asked me to write more about parenting (though I can assure you this will not turn into a mommy blog!) and my philosophy on it, especially after they meet my kids. It is very nice to know that when people meet my kids, they immediately want to know what I did—or didn't do—as a parent. And one of those things is the use of but.

But is a course correction, a turn in the road, a change in the meaning of what preceded it or in what we expect to come after it. 
  • He was going to answer the phone but then thought better of it. (He didn't answer the phone.)
  • She went with her friend to the restaurant but didn't order anything. (She didn't do what one normally does in a restaurant.)
  • Pilots thought they spotted debris on the water, but it turned out to be fishing equipment. (The objects were not what they thought they were.)
  • I wanted to go out with you, but I was busy. (I didn't want to go out with you at that time.)
What does this have to do with parenting? These:
  • I know you want your toy, but we didn't bring it with us. (You can't have your toy.)
  • You may say you're warm now, but it's cold outside and you'll need your jacket. (I know better than you.)
  • I'm sorry I hurt you, but you shouldn't have made me angry. (It's your fault.)
It's that last one that I promised myself I'd never do. Because if you say you're sorry and then follow it with but, no matter what reason you have, you're really saying you're not sorry.



Instead, replace but with and. It changes everything.
  • I know you want your toy, and I forgot to bring it with us. (I empathize.)
  • You're warm now, and I know it's cold outside so we'll bring your jacket just in case. (You are warm now, and I could be wrong about how the cold will affect you. Just in case, we'll have the jacket.)
  • I'm sorry I hurt you, and I felt really angry. (I'm taking responsibility and apologizing, though there should be more to the apology than this.)
I'm not the only one who has this problem with but:

I'm Sorry, but "I'm Sorry" Isn't an Apology

Try and next time. Just try it and see what a difference it makes. 

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Purim: Legislating Joy?

It's almost Purim.

I've been invited to costume parties, drinking parties, dancing parties, book parties, and one Lent observance. All I really want to do is burrow under the bedcovers with a pint of Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream and not think. Or feel.

I started to feel better on Monday, to the point of being able to go to an afternoon meeting at school, despite trembling and perspiring from the sheer effort of being in public. Tuesday I felt well enough to take my older son to the regional competition for History Day, where he competed for a spot at the state competition. (His website, Disney and the Responsibility to Oppose Racism/Sexism, did not move on, but several of his classmates are going to state.)

Today I'm back to dealing with fatigue, anxiety, physical pain, and a talkative negative inner critic. Two steps forward, one step back. Overall it's improvement.

And Purim is still coming.

Online and on the doors of Jewish organizations around town are the signs ubiquitous at this time of year: Be Happy — It's Adar! I blogged about this seven years ago, writing, in part, "some people have really good reasons for being unable to be happy and are not necessarily in control of whether they are happy or not. When I'm in the midst of a depression, I simply cannot just be happy."

Yet Jewish practice places a great emphasis on happiness. Rebbe Nachman said,
מצוה גדולה להיות בשמחה תמיד
"It's a great mitzvah to be happy always!"

If you accept that a mitzvah is a commandment from G-d, then G-d wants us to be happy, which I'm totally down with, but if G-d wants me to be happy always, then why do I have depression? If we were happy always, happiness would become the norm, and there would be nothing to which to compare it. It would cease to be happiness. So perhaps depression is a way of savoring happiness, when it favors me with its caress, far more than if I didn't experience depression.

Image: Flickr/Brian Snelson: exfordy

But before we get comfortable with that, a couple of years ago, fellow author Amy Ariel wrote about how Purim is not just about how we Jews survived, or the piety of Esther, or the eventual triumph over the evil Haman, but that it's also a very serious story about sex trafficking. Francesca Littmann on Orthodox Social Justice writes,
"A closer look at the texts shows that the search for the new queen is far from the innocuous beauty pageant that was told to us in Hebrew school. Women are captured from their homes, rounded up into a harem, and given one by one to be raped by the king. After that one night, they are imprisoned as concubines, their freedom and dignity stolen from them. This part of the Purim story mirrors the cruel reality of human trafficking today."
If it was hard to be jovial during the reading of the megillah before, it's really hard now. And with this year's neverending winter, cabin fever and SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder—a form of depression), it's unclear if Purim is coming at just the right time or at the worst time of year.

But perhaps I'm just taking Purim too seriously. Or perhaps this is the real reason alcohol goes hand in hand with Purim. Drink until you do "not know the difference between 'cursed be Haman' and 'blessed be Mordechai.'" (BT Megillah 7b) Drink until you do not know the difference between a beauty pageant and sex trafficking. Drink until you do not know the difference between depression and ecstacy.

And don't give up drinking just yet; the four cups of wine at Pesach are just around the corner. It's really too bad that Jewish Disability Month was back in February, because I would imagine that Purim and Pesach are landmines every year for anyone who must avoid alcohol due to an addiction.

Maybe I can fulfill the mitzvah of not knowing the difference between "cursed be Haman" and "blessed be Mordechai" by curling up under the bedcovers with a pint of Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream. And not thinking.

Monday, March 10, 2014

What's in your book?

I'm not talking about novels. I'm talking about a life book. We all have one.

Growing up, I learned very quickly that credibility and legitimacy were earned only by having letters after one's name: PhD, MD, JD. D's count for more than M's: MA, MS, MEd, MSW, MBA. I have two master's degrees, and half of two more, but you can't trade them in and level up.

And so, after re-releasing Destined to Choose last year, after winning my company's sixth award for books I've published, it was odd when someone from my past congratulated me on my second master's. It's been 13 years since I was in school.

At the time I didn't know what to think about it, so thanked them and went on. But I started thinking about it again, in a general sense, and thought, "My personal and work accomplishments count for more than a handful of letters after my name, in my book."
Image: Flickr/Mike Licht

Then I realized: What book is this? What is in my book?

So here are a few entries:
  1. Nobody gets to bully me. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. No more.
  2. I have a right to be acknowledged.
  3. I have a right to my own opinion.
  4. My experience is my experience and doesn't need supporting documentation.
  5. I have a right to be angry, disappointed, or otherwise upset when I am snubbed by someone else.
  6. I have a right to state my anger, disappointment, or upset, in an appropriate manner and venue.
  7. I have a right to expect others to respect me, my opinions, my experience, and my knowledge.
  8. Nobody gets to make me feel "small" or "less than" or "unqualified" because I have years of experience rather than a university degree in my specialty.
  9. Nobody gets to snub me, insult me, degrade me, or disrespect me just because they have letters after their name.
  10. I have a right to my own boundaries, and I have the right to set those boundaries where I wish.
I've been nice. I've been diplomatic. I've given respect to teachers and rabbis and community leaders because I believe people deserve 1) respect for what they've accomplished, and 2) respect for simply being human. Have they returned that respect? No. Not all.

Recently a rabbi told me that if my kids weren't in his class, it would be a shame because then they would "forget so much of the skill learning that [they] worked to get over the years."

Excuse me?! 

Why does not being in this one class mean that my kids will no longer learn Torah or speak Hebrew? Does he think that his class is the only Jewish learning my kids get? (He shouldn't. He's known me for nearly two decades.) See Entry Numbers 2, 5, 7, 8, and 9 above.

I taught my oldest both Torah and Haftarah trope for his bar mitzvah, even though the shul offers a tutor. My son didn't work well with the tutor, and I had the skills, so I taught him. It was a lot of fun. He knew most of the prayers from being in shul, and I taught him some of the fun, non-standard tunes for the prayers he'd be leading. He met with a different tutor occasionally to show that he did, in fact, know the prayers.

The day of his bar mitzvah, after services (in which he was, of course, awesome and mistake-free), the tutor with whom he didn't work came up to me and said, "He did really great. Now everyone will think that we taught him, but that's okay. We'll take whatever credit we can get."

Excuse me?!

It is a Jewish value to give credit where credit is due. The Talmud goes to great lengths to specify who learned what from whom, which is why you read things like "Said Rabbi Elazar in the name of Rabbi Chanina" in the Talmud. (Because everyone reads the Talmud, right? Of course right.) So, we have Jewish teachers, preparing kids for their bar or bat mitzvah, doing the exact opposite?

The Jewish school to which I sent my kids for eight years, and to which we paid many, many tens of thousands of dollars (even going into debt to do so), to which I donated hundreds of hours of time, drove dozens of field trip carpools, worked in the office, brought snacks, wrote marketing material, helped with fundraising, and even designed a custom science/Jewish image, has done a spectacular job of pissing me off. Again and again. I've been ignored, snubbed, insulted, and had my contributions gone unrecognized (and I'm not asking for a plaque; a thank you would have been quite sufficient—something beyond an email saying, "Oh, and thank you for that thing you did last month."). 

I've noticed that in our community, having volunteered in nearly every Jewish organization locally at one time or another, that they are very good at tapping volunteers until the volunteers are tapped out, then spitting them out and moving on. Those plaques I mentioned? They're only for those who give a lot of money. Bonus points if they have letters after their name (though one could argue that many of those D acroyms—MD, JD—also usually come with plenty of donatable income, at least once they pay off their student loans).

The funds are necessary; that's common sense. But so are hours of effort, expertise, passion, time given to do the things that the generous checks don't pay for. 

Those who give of themselves are at least as important as those who give of their money. 

In my book.

Wednesday, March 05, 2014

Smile and the world smiles with you . . .

. . . cry and you cry alone."

That was a popular refrain in my house, growing up, and it persists to this day, especially in English-speaking countries where people Do Not Talk about what's really going on with them. It's from a poem called "Solitude" by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850 - 1919), and that saying has done society a great disservice. Many interpret talking about personal things as "airing dirty laundry in public," yet that's only if it's real people talking about real things. It may not apply to gossipy tabloids, reality TV shows, or TMZ. 

Image: frontriver/Flickr
At the other end of the spectrum is oversharing, something that, if you count Facebook users as a representative population, over half of people don't like. But oversharing can consist of anything from blurting out relationship status changes to the status of the baby's diaper.

The line between what should be kept private and what needs to be talked about, despite some discomfort, is imprecise. In the Jewish community, where there is already a concern about how we're perceived by other communities, the list of things that we Do Not Talk about is long and the stigma is real. But it is slowly changing.

The fact is that as much as 25% of the population, 1 in every 4, will experience a serious mental illness. In Israel, 14% of men, 25% of women, and even 3-5% of teens suffer from depression alone. And many, arguably a majority, don't seek help.

Talking about depression using statistics and quoted sources is all fine and well, but it's removed, sanitized, impersonal. It's one thing to say, statistically, one person in every family of four will experience a mental illness. It's quite another to read about someone's actual experience, the downs that evade description and the successes, both big (I wrote a book!) and little (I took a shower!). Sometimes those little successes are just as meaningful as the big ones.

Today I had a few little successes: attended a webinar, made some website updates, did some more tax-related work, and stood in a hot shower for twenty minutes, feeling for the first time in more than two weeks like I might relax just a bit. Maybe.

Tomorrow I'm supposed to be out in the world, and right now that is very, very frightening. It's hard to feel competent, able, proficient. It's hard to find the strength and the momentum to keep going. So tonight I will try to rest, and tomorrow, I hope—I pray—it will be better. 

Sunday, February 23, 2014

Putting together the pieces

I hope that I am perhaps climbing out of this funk. I was able to get up and do a few things around the house today, though only for about an hour and now I am trembly and exhausted and overwhelmed again. But it is progress.

I have a very big week coming up. Initially I thought I would be lucky if I had any time to myself at all, and now I am realizing that I need to take time for myself. Taking a few minutes to blog might wind up saving my sanity.

Image: Valentin.Ottone/Flickr
See, I have a [censored] load of work to do. It's only when I'm hurting and vulnerable and unsure of myself that I really feel it. I need to finish (still) the re-writes on Strength to Stand, which I've been promising for four years will come out "soon," and then I work on other people's books instead. I need to create my new website, now that I've built the new company website and learned how to create a truly custom site. I need to create a mailing list (and a newsletter—Gaak!) and find people who might write blurbs and honestly, I need to take a little bit of my brain and really start thinking of myself as an author.

I was an author. And then I became a publisher, and the author part kept getting pushed aside. If I can integrate myself and Rivka, I can certainly integrate my publisher self and my author self into my workday. Can't I?

People have no idea what goes into being a publisher, which is something that I'll write more about on the Yotzeret blog sometime soon. I'm very much a one-woman shop. I read queries and consider possible acquisitions. I read manuscripts for possible contract offers. I negotiate contracts. I am editor (though when sales are good enough, I will contract out for editing, to free up my time to do other writerly or publisherly things). I am book designer, cover designer, web designer, publicist, pre-press editor. I will drive 200 miles one way to pick up a print run of books, schlepping them into my van, then into the (small) warehouse I rent for inventory. I pick and pack books to fulfill orders. I am office manager, shipping manager, customer relations, collections, and accountant. Among other things.

People depend on me for all of the above. Authors' royalty checks are determined in part by how well I do my job. As a somewhat-recovering people-pleaser, this is both a source of pride and stress. (Guess what the number one cause of fibromyalgia flares is? Stress! Ah, but I digress.)

I am also a mom, chef, chauffeur, house manager,  gardener, repair woman, school volunteer, etc., etc. All those things that go into why an at-home mom should be paid some $113K a year.

Somewhere in there, I need to reclaim myself as an author too. Because everyone needs at least three full-time jobs, right? Writing is the one thing that makes me feel fully alive. Writing is one of the key things that makes me feel Jewish. Writing helps me discover who I am, how I relate to the world, and how I relate to G-d. Writing takes me out of my body; it takes the dis out of disability. And writing is the one thing that I've been willing to give up in order to tend to all of my other jobs.

And now I realize why. Because all my other jobs, whether they benefit me tangentially or not, are primarily for other people. Writing is the only job that is just for me.

This morning I woke up to the critical voice in my head saying, "Okay, enough with all the whining all over your blog. Two posts is probably two too many. Way to alienate your readers, girl."

That's when I realized: I was no longer writing what I thought others wanted to hear. I was now writing what I wanted to write. I was writing what most needed to come out. I am writing for me.

That said, I hope you'll come along for the journey.

Saturday, February 22, 2014

For every action

. . . there is an equal and opposite reaction. —Newton's Third Law of Motion

I'm waiting for it to come. Because it always comes. My history has proven that.

The depression causes extreme fatigue, somewhat similar to the fatigue I experience with fibromyalgia, but much longer-lasting, going for weeks or even months at its worst. It's not currently at its worst. I've been way, way worse than this. But I'm still sleeping as much as 15 hours a day, when I can sleep and I'm not up with a depression-induced insomnia.

Image: Kaitrosebd-Stock
And so it was that I woke at nearly noon, having missed shul again. But that was kind of okay, because although I posted my "coming out" late on Erev Shabbat, and I knew that most of the people I would see in shul wouldn't have seen it, or read it, I still harbored this fear that I would walk into shul and get verbally attacked by people hissing, "How could you say that about us?!"

That's always been my fear: that I would tell the truth, or the truth as I experienced it, without embellishment, without judgement, and it would be followed by retribution.

That's the reason I kept all of the really personal stuff on my Rivka blog and kept the happy, interesting, writerly stuff here. I figured people wanted happy. And I didn't want a backlash. But the result is that I split myself as well.

The writer part of me couldn't also be the publisher part of me because then I'd be labelled "self-published" and in 2003, that was a dirty word. Eleven years later, I've built a company with global ties, published five award-winning books, and proven (I think) that I know what I'm doing. I can be both writer and publisher now.

I could admit that I have fibromyalgia, and that it was most likely triggered in 2007 (the same year as my worst depression in years) during the incredibly difficult pregnancy that ended in stillbirth. Physical and emotional trauma is nearly always the trigger for fibromyalgia, though why that is, no one knows quite yet. It's fantastic that science has now found that it's caused by a neurovascular disorder in the hands and feet.

I even admitted, albeit offhandedly, to having depression, anxiety, OCD, and PTSD. But reconciling my writer/publisher self with Rivka was harder, because as Rivka, I was completely, brutally truthful. I never named names (and still won't). I was extremely careful about lashon hara (gossip). I wrote about my experience, my truth, without embellishment, without judgment. And I exposed how things were not working, how congregants were getting marginalized, how I could be in the middle of a crowd of people who had known me for over a decade and still be invisible.

And that is where the fear comes in. Because I've had some very positive experiences in shul, and some very negative ones. I wrote each one truthfully, as I experienced it. No holds barred (a wrestling term, even though I hate wrestling). Now that people know who I am, what I've experienced, what my experience has been like in my Jewish community, will they be angry that not every experience was positive? That I exposed hurtful words and actions, brought some of the shul's closet skeletons out into the light, and dared identify them as problems?

What will they do about it? Will they make sure it doesn't happen again, to anyone else (which is hard work and takes commitment)? Or will they attack me (which is easy and often makes others feel better about themselves, even as their target retreats, broken and bleeding)?

I guess I will find out.

Friday, February 21, 2014

I am Rivka

I've been thinking about posting this for two days. Actually, that's not entirely true. I've been thinking on and off about posting this since 2011.

There's a piece going around Facebook about "10 Ways to Show Love to Someone With Depression" and the timing was impeccable. Because I'm intimately familiar with depression. In fact, I wrote a list from the other side in 2007: "What not to say to someone who is depressed." I joked (only in part) that it should be a chapter in a book titled The Care and Feeding of Your Bipolar/Depressed Friend.

For those who click that second link, you might be confused. Wait, you might say, this is another blog. By someone named Rivka."

Yes. It is. I am Rivka.

My Hebrew name is SheynaRivka. I blogged about depression and Judaism for five years, between 2007 and 2011. It's taken me seven years to lose enough of my fear of being cast out, rejected, shunned, blacklisted, or whatever else might happen to "come out" as Rivka. I'm not going public on that blog. It stands well on its own, giving voice to so many who feel they don't have a voice, so many whose circumstances make it too dangerous for them to speak up.

I was first diagnosed with major clinical depression and anxiety when I was 15, but that was only after it got so bad that I couldn't hide it anymore. After child protective services stepped in and made therapy a requirement to avoid foster care. I can't say exactly when it started, but I remember the feelings as far back as age 12.

My mother had it. Her mother had it. There's some indication that her father had it too. And so when my youngest told me a few months ago, "There is no use for me in the world" after a couple weeks of low energy, low appetite, zero motivation, and bouts of crying, there were huge red flags waving in front of me. I was able to get him in to the doctor the next day to be seen.

Because depression isn't something to mess with. I'm not going to risk my child's life by saying, "He's a tween; it's hormonal."

Today I'm realizing that my own unrelenting fatigue and growing withdrawal and increasing sadness that's been going on for a couple weeks now is not my usual fibromyalgia-related depression, which comes with the pain and goes just as quickly. No, this has a different flavor. This is dark and heavy and makes even the smallest daily tasks nearly impossible. This is the real thing. And it followed a couple weeks of high anxiety and near obsession with finishing and perfecting the website for work. My depression is back, and while I know it will pass, I have no idea how long it will take me to climb out of the hole this time.

Seven years ago, I got through one of the worst depressions of my life (and the subsequent death of my unborn daughter) by writing about it. Maybe it will work again this time.

Seven years ago, as Rivka, I wrote about viewing my depression as an adversary. As the adversary—the yetser hara. I wrote:

  • it breaks me down and consumes me and spits out what's left, and

  • I have this black cloud over my head or in my head and I can't see (both from here)

  • [it] takes that and twists it all around, that I don't deserve success, that my faults are too many, that I'm simply not good enough (from here)

  • I'm ... under the influence of my unstable emotions (from here)

  • It left me questioning my contribution to my marriage, my contribution to anyone, my value to the world (from here)

  • It's that I just feel less. Less everything that is meaningful to me, and

  • It diminishes everything important. It corrodes what makes my life meaningful and powerful and profound. It eats away at what makes me me (both from here)


  • Today, as I sit here, unable to come up with the strength to bake challah, or contemplate going downstairs to light candles, or even to reheat my coffee, all I can think of is that I'm letting my family down, that I'm letting down my child fighting depression because he loves lighting candles, that somehow I'm betraying my Judaism.

    I know that's the depression talking. I know that giving in to it will only sap my strength further. I know that I need to tell it, "Stop! Enough!" even as I'm yelling it from the bottom of this pit. Someday soon (please, G-d) I will see my lifeline again.