I’m guest posting on Tonya’s site, Letters for Lucas today. A year ago, I wrote this about parents hosting sleepovers and inviting children of parents they’ve never met. It’s saddening how it still rings true today and seems to be worsening.
Please visit me there where I give a few tips and let me know if this is an issue in your life as well.
I’ve been waffling lately. I sit at the computer and can’t write. OK, maybe it’s more like I won’t write. How about more Skittles? That sounds better. Also, screw you, blank page; YOU STOP STARING AT ME. I have been in desperate need of motivation. I’ve been disgruntled at work, questioning the amount of time I’ve spent in a position that is not a good fit. I needed to escape, think about something else. I had no idea that an escape would soon be offered or that it would reshape my focus, my goals.
A couple of weeks ago, when Lara asked if I could go to New York midweek OOOOOOH, I said yes before I had a chance to think about whether I actually could. But I was determined to make it work. Chevy was introducing the all new 2014 Impala. And by all new, y’all, I mean it’s NEW. Forget what you thought about the old Impala. The new one is sleek. It is roomy. It is sexy. It has 3 USB ports (fan me). It has a hidden compartment right up front for easy storage of your phone or sunglasses, or at least two small bags of chips that you can hide fast from your kids even though they get in and ask if you have a snack for them. It has leg room and is wide enough to keep a 12-year-old from touching a 9-year-old and a 9-year-old from looking at, unnecessarily, of course, a 12-year-old, but still room enough for the 3-year-old’s car seat to be a barrier between them.
First, I talked to Crystal Windham, the first black woman to hold the role of Director of Interior Design for Chevrolet Cars and Small Crossovers. I don’t want to undermine her accomplishments by focusing on race. It’s not about race. But, actually, it kinda is. Why shouldn’t I be proud of her accomplishments? Why shouldn’t I specify that she is the first black woman to hold this position? It is important. It is worth noting. It is inspirational and I felt surrounded by people who were determined to create a car they could be proud of, people whose work meant everything to them. Crystal talked about college and falling into the automotive field accidentally, much like Kara Gordon, who I spoke with later. Kara is a lead acoustic noise engineer. When I say that I am floundering in my career, Kara is my absolute opposite. She was so animated, so excited, so thrilled about her role in the car’s design. That is what one should have when talking about her passion, her profession, her life. And if she has children, they likely have no chance of mumbling because with her special training she can probably hear eye rolls.
Next, I spoke to Rick Williams. Rick played a role in the interior design of the car. But. When Rick started talking, it wasn’t about just the Impala. It was about GM as a brand, as a family company. The passion with which he talked about his grandfather made me want to find a computer and say YOU TAKE THIS, BLANK PAGE; I AM WRITING. It made me want to get up, do something (outside of dance because COME ON, the music DJClarkKent was spinning? I mean seriously, when was the last time you went someplace with a live DJ who seemed to KNOW YOU? That man played the soundtrack to my life! I could barely sit though talking to Rick. And I couldn’t dance the way I wanted to because hello, not a party. Also, not that kind of party. I wonder if he can send me the playlist.) Rick told stories of brand loyalty and commitment and showed us a tattoo in his grandfather’s honor on one side of his arm:
On the other side, a quote (Napoleon Hill?): Whatever the mind of man can conceive and believe, it can achieve. My middle daughter repeats this quote frequently as it’s used at her school a lot. It empowers her. It invigorates her and it is something to behold. Those few words, when said to her when she is struggling with a math problem (and I am not helping because seriously, decimals, fractions, percentages, what reason do you have in my life?) can transform her mind. It makes something click. Listening to Rick talk about GM and how the company is his family’s company, from his grandparents to his parents, to himself receiving a scholarship for college, it was the equivalent of how my daughter responds to that quote. And it inspired me
So, this trip was needed. It came at the right time, when my drive and my focus were being tested. And, better, we’re in the market for a new car. While I loved the Impala and it made me feel quite un-momlike, I think the Traverse, because of Amanda’s love for it, is more my speed. Because I have to be high. I should probably rephrase that. But I’m not.
I have a secret that isn’t a secret anymore because I’m divulging it now: my anxiety cannot deal with bombs, bullets, disease, dead babies, vehicular manslaughter, and other tragedies. And sometimes gory movies.
My 9-year-old asked me why. Why do tragedies happen, why do they seem to continue to happen, why’re they happening so often? I don’t know the answer to that. I tried to explain as best I could, something random about unhappy people, people with mental problems, people perfectly sane but without the ability to effect change to whatever it is they’re unhappy about. Who, she asked. It is pointless, I tell her, to attempt to figure out the who. The person doesn’t matter, at least to me. To me, it is the climate. The reason. The why. Abnormal new normal? No. There is nothing about this, this constant state of what’s next that I want to refer to as normal. I bet I wouldn’t have to search hard to find a woman, not unlike me, in Syria, who doesn’t want her life to be what’s known as normal either. The situations in background are different, yes, but the situations in result are the same. Death. Destruction. Unwanted change. Unfathomable sadness.
Boston marathon runners and spectators suffered horrific injuries. Boston marathon runners and spectators died. I did not tell my daughter how many people had limbs blown off in Iraq recently.
I did not show my daughter statistics on education in Africa, on atrocities done to women in other parts of the world. The Pentagon sent additional troops to Jordan recently.
Rape and the social sharing of the act is pervasive lately. It seems like no one has morals.
I don’t care about names or race or nationality. I don’t care about politics behind an action. I only care about those affected. Everything else is weightless upon the realization that lives are lost, limbs are lost, paths are altered, futures are changed. Fuck gun reform (at least for now, in this argument.) Fuck mental health awareness and access (at least for now, in this argument.) What matters most right is now is humanity. Where is our humanity? Where are our hearts? Oh, we give and give of ourselves upon each tragedy. But what are we really doing to foster consideration of others, love of others, understanding, communication, openness, acceptance, tolerance? I’m not trying to sit you down criss-cross applesauce in a field of flowers and sing songs of peace and harmony. I just want to…I don’t know what I want. I want this to stop. That’s what I want.
I don’t know why. All I know is that I do care. I care about what happens on American soil. But you know what, I care about what happens in other countries too. I care even for those who just might not give two shits about me, whether that person is American or not. I’m sorry for the bombers’ parents. It’s not always easy to show compassion, not always easy to understand our fellow men are hurting, confused, afraid, unsure, led astray onto dark paths. There have been times, I’ll admit. There have been times that I’ve been at that crossroads and a hand has been offered to follow an unlit path, a path that reeks of shame and hurt and pain and destruction. Another path may be rosy. Another path may be middle ground. I’ve so far not chosen the dark path but I’ve sometimes had to make a conscious decision not to. I’ve had to step back, farther into the light, away from a music so entrancing, so full body encompassing that I almost lost myself within its melodic notes. Not everyone has the ability or desire to resist. We wind up paying the price when we don’t provide enough reasons to resist.
I have no answers to why. All I know is that each event propels me to do something, change something, help someone. I don’t have much to give financially, but you know what? I can listen. Sometimes that’s enough. I can give up my seat on the bus. I can let someone ahead of me on the elevator, the escalator, the door. I can. And I will. I’m one of the good ones. We exist. I know because I see the others. In the light.
Since I wrote this I’ve been thinking. How could I not? That post was pretty much my fuck everything response to the tragedy in Connecticut. Verbal vomit. But now I’m a little more insightful and a lot less curse word-riddled. Let’s see how long that lasts. Oh, wait, the sentence above. Never mind.
I wrote, as many others are talking about, the need for better mental health services and gun control. I think if access to guns was less easy, senseless situations like this could be avoided (entirely? I honestly don’t think so because we can’t watch everyone and there are so many levels, degrees to mental illness. NONE OF THEM IS THE SAME, NONE OF THEM IS THE SAME IN DIFFERENT PEOPLE, AND NONE OF THEM IS TO BLAME.) But at the core of it, to me, is combating the stigma associated with seeking mental health assistance.
When I heard the news about the football player who killed his girlfriend and then himself recently, my first thought was how troubled he must have been, how utterly unhappy and confused and unable to seek help. And yet. He went to his coaches before killing himself so he had people to turn to and he knew it. Did he think about how that would look? How asking for help for whatever he was dealing with would seem to others? The belief (that many of us have; I’m included) that we will be judged or viewed as incapable to cope and therefore less of a person, not strong enough, easily undone, needs to be combated. It’s silly and wrong, yes, but it exists and is real for so many people. We have created the idiocy surrounding this perception. And we, together, need to fix it.
Earlier this year I visited the doctor complaining about anxiety. She offered a prescription and I accepted. It took me a while to fill the prescription, though, because I’d convinced myself that the pharmacist, the pharmacy techs, the people in line in front of and behind me were all going to shake their heads in unison. “Look. Here’s another one can’t cope with life, getting the little pills to help her be a mommy.” Fuck you, daydream. You and your imaginary CVS customers don’t know my life.
Why? Why do we feel the need to demonize those who need help? Why? Why do we not provide affordable, obtainable access to mental health assistance to those who want and need it? Why? Why don’t we help when we see a person in need? Why do we turn our heads, glad it’s not us, afraid their crazy will sully our well manicured hands? It’s not all of us, I know. Many of us care. Many of us want to never be able to say a tragic event like Sandy Hook has happened again. God, how I wish we could say it hadn’t happened at all.
Sometimes I look at the money we spend as a country, the money we spend to pay our athletes and our AHEM entertainers –
And then totally random thought: There are some who are now wanting to discuss, again, whether the violence we see depicted in film and video games, for instance, actually causes us to be more violent in our real lives. All I can say is this: I don’t play shoot em up video games but I will admit that after leaving a particularly gun laden movie, I might feel a little invincible. But for me, it’s music. Music can change me. I can be just chillin’, driving along listening to Luther croon and then bam! a song comes on screaming about guns and bitches and what they’re gonna do to the bitches with their guns and it’s all DRIVE FASTER, GET OUT OF MY WAY, I’LL KICK YOUR ASS. It’s amazing how certain songs disgust me with their violent, mysoginstic lyrics and yet…
– and I wonder whether it’s worth it to keep the lottery system. Couldn’t that money be better spent to help the homeless? Does a basketball player really need so many millions (who am I to say a talented player does not?) Do rappers (who am I to say a talented wordsmith does not?) Maybe doctors do. And teachers who are willing to shield tiny bodies from bullets.
Maybe we all need help. Maybe we all need to be taught how to spot warning signs. Maybe we all need to care enough about each other to ask, to not worry about stepping on toes, overstepping boundaries. Maybe we need to be comfortable enough to say Thank you, yes, I do want to talk. There is nothing wrong with talking. There is nothing wrong with asking for help. There is nothing wrong with walking to the counter and saying the name of your prescription refill without whispering, afraid of how the person behind you is going to stare at the back of your head willing you to turn and see her look of this crazy bitch disgust.
Stop it.
You are not crazy.
If you need help, you are not alone.
There is NOTHING WRONG WITH NEEDING MENTAL HEALTH ASSISTANCE. Fuck stigma. Take care of yourself. Let others help you. You are braver than you think and there are more people who WILL help if you let them. Let them know you need it.
Life in general is hard. Throw in loss of income, increase in bills, gas, food, clothes, GODDAMN HEAT, and you have the makings of despair in any normal person. But sometimes it’s more than that. Sometimes we are born with chemical abnormalities. Some of us simply don’t have the gene that makes us keep fighting. Some of us are more prone to sadness and depression and the need to talk to a therapist or seek prescription aid. Sometimes it takes a while to get the right prescription drug (if that’s the route taken) and there’s no telling what can happen before it takes effect. There is no telling because just because someone is clinically diagnosed with something, that person is still an individual. Whatever the affliction, it, to a degree, presents differently in different people.
We need to no longer be afraid of our needs. And all of us should be allowed to help ourselves without being afraid of how it will look.
There is no weakness in remaining alive.
And then my mind returns to the guns. Yes, we need better mental health options (and remember mental health is a vast phrase. Violence tacked onto any mental issue just confounds that issue) but without access to the guns…
Without access to the guns…
