To dust we have already returned

As I looked up at the clouds turning gray and showing their dust this evening, I wondered at all the incantations of my cells. How many pounds of times I've made myself over and dropped dust here or there? Whether my dust may have had your finger in it writing "you wish your girlfriend were this dirty" on a car. Or maybe I've been in the way of your bustling Eastern European cleaning woman, who hurries me away in a bucket. Maybe I get dumped out on the lawn, only to feed into... a thistle.

The hairs and skin and nails I've lost over the years, how many raised beds would they fill? Where have they gone?

Maybe my hair, once tight at the follicle to my scalp, so close to my skull, so close to the buzz of ideas in my brain that simply does not turn off but continues to tell stories as I sleep; maybe that hair has wrapped up in a nest and fed regurgitated ideas to baby doves. Maybe I am part of the cloud I just saw, graying and standing out against the ever bluer sky. Maybe I've made it beyond mountain tops and over oceans.

Maybe you and I have met and made lightening in the jolts of moisture between us as your dust and mine met in a monsoon over India. Maybe I'm flying right now, drifting and dreaming of buzz and idea. Maybe I've landed after all this in the red, red earth and become the dust under bare young soccer-playing feet, scuffling me under toenails and into cuts that will be easily disregarded in favor of more running, more goals.

Maybe that same red earth, dust of me, I've driven it back to the snow where I need to be. Thrown myself up into a cloud and come back to Colorado. I've coated myself in a layer of snow on a powder day, making you raise your goggles, "Is the snow red?"

Maybe I've already been all the places I'd ever want to go. Maybe I'm a rainbow in Maui right now. Maybe I'm in a darkened sky and you're here reading in the pitch. Maybe...

In 1993, my father came out.

It was five years later that Matthew Shepard was murdered.

For the first year after my father came out, I didn't tell anyone. I'm not new to openness and honesty so imagine a highly social 14 year old girl who simply does not tell a soul that her father has dropped the biggest shock of her life in her lap. I didn't tell because I was afraid.

I was afraid someone would hurt my dad. I was afraid he'd get AIDS and die. I was afraid someone at my school would find out and hurt me or make my life a living hell. I wasn't over-the-top in these fears. At the time, people were permissible hazed for this sort of thing. I was at a conservative school. I was genuinely afraid of the hate that might come my way.

But then I was at a pride parade where I thought, I can't be here pretending to be "proud" if there I don't tell a soul. So I went home and said, oh well. If it costs me all the social groups in the world, this is who he is and this is who I am. I'm proud and I have to be honest to be truly proud.

And I did.

I went home and told anyone, any time it came up, that my dad was gay. And interestingly no one batted an eye. I was lucky that way. I'd love to take credit for being brazen in the way I presented the information, and I was. Or give credit to the people who didn't let it influence any part of what they thought of me, because good on them. But in all reality, I think I was just lucky. I didn't get picked out as a target for the hate of that time period toward gay people.

So today, and every day that I see progress toward truly equal rights, I feel amazingly blessed. I feel grateful to see where we're headed. I feel grateful that when my son says he wants to marry the guy painting the house (he's also said he wants to marry a few girls his age,) that I can say, "you can marry anyone who you feel is the one and who feels the same way about you."

Make Matthew Shepard and all those who have fallen to the hate that went before proud. Be proud of the progress. And grateful. I am.

I'm dying... a writing prompt... not for reals.

I'm reading Tuesdays with Morrie with one of my classes this summer. I'm supposed to be teaching it but I think the truth is that I learn far more when I teach than I ever do just muddling about in the world on my own. I learn from my students and from the deapths with which I study materials trying to see it through their eyes, anticipating their responses, wanting to share the light of artful reading and writing with them. I want my passions to be catching, sparks that send them on to love it too, or at least enjoy it more than they had previously.

So we're reading Tuesdays with Morrie and I've just given them the writing prompt that they've been told they're dying of ALS. Right now. What do you do?

So I've decided to do this prompt in order to be sure to not let my excitement hinder their response time and in order to give time and space to think about this great book. So what would I do? I've got ALS.

FUCK.

I'm going skiing while I still can. That's the first thing. But shit, my hands won't work forever. So do I learn to write by getting used to the voice to text software so that I'll be able to write longer or do I get as much as I can down while I can still type?

I definitely read books. I hug my kids, of course, but I'm not sure there's much more I could possibly do that. I'm always hugging and kissing on those babies who aren't babies anymore but I can still see their baby faces and their soft, soft cheeks. I have some crazy sex with my husband because, seriously? How much longer will I be able to move these ways?

And pay someone else to clean my house because why on earth would I spend one single other moment folding laundry or clean another toilet... uh ever?

Other than a vacation though, I'm not sure exactly what I do. Ah?

I swim. And swim and swim and love that water around my body.

We go to the hotsprings and I do backflips off the diving board over and over and we go to Belize and snorkel and I go to that water park in Kansas city with the epic-sized waterslide and piss my swimsuit riding down that thing. BUt I do it. Because I can't. Not ever again.

Then I get depressed. I take drugs trying to make it go away. Trying to run from it. Then I regret the time I lost that I could've written or read or watched movies. I love watching movies.

Then I think of what to do to deal with the logistics of the illness. Tonight, the moment of diagnosis, I give my husband a copy of this book and make him promise that we can talk about it all. Because in this book is written exactly how to live. To live.

And also how to die. And I'd want to talk to him about how I wanted to die. And this book would be the vehicle for me to tell him how.

Was writing this book therapeutic? Q&A on suicide, bullying, trends in treatment, and the next book

Q&A from Readings 

I was in St. Louis last week promoting my book. I give a talk with a few readings in it where I talk about a lot of the issues in the book and give some anecdotes from my professional experience. I like to have people write their questions down so that they can ask things anonymously. I've written up a Q&A from the 2 talks I gave most recently which includes answers to some questions which were asked aloud as well as some that were written.

Narrative as Therapy

This question was more of a comment that I found interesting from a psychiatrist who'd read BetweenFamilies. He seemed to see narrative as a means of separating the self out of it, in order to see the value of a person/character. Then by externalizing and finding solutions to the problem through narrative, integrate those same solutions back into the self. I love it. I hope so.

Was writing this book therapeutic?

Yes and no. There were parts that were just work and other parts I found helpful.

The No- When I was 17, I attempted suicide and there are scenes from the book that came directly from that experience. I still feel guilty about having done this and writing about it opened that wound up for me. I'm not sorry I wrote about it, but I wouldn't say it felt therapeutic.

The Yes- I stole from my own life when I wrote Seffra's bullying and sexual exploration scenes. I found writing about them made me more able to see myself as a normal protagonist and watching the way I wanted it to go for her and the way I'd dealt with those issues was validating and cathartic.

How have treatment centers changed since the 1990s when Between Families takes place?

I can't speak for all treatment centers but will try to give a general idea of some changes that have taken place.

1. There are fewer children in institutions today than in the 1990s. Legislation and best practices have caught up to the concerns about institutionalizing children and so the number of children spending time in treatment has been greatly reduced.

2. Children stay in treatment centers for shorter periods of time than they used to. The standards for how long children stay has also changed. Seffra, in that way, is more indicative of current practice. When she was in treatment, in all actuality, she would have stayed much longer, more like a year and a half or two years. For the purposes of story arc, I made her stay more along current lines of 6-12 months.

3. Restraint policy has made huge strides in reducing the frequency of restraints. I mention this in the front matter of my book, but children are physically restrained far less frequently and the standard for when it is acceptable to restrain has changed. Even since I started working with kids in the early 2000's, these things have changed. It used to be that children were restrained for non-compliance, meaning, they didn't do something an adult told them to do. That is unacceptable and reportable as institutional child abuse in today's treatment world. Children are only permitted to be physically managed, or restrained if they are a serious threat to themselves or others. Obese children are not restrained as the danger to their health is too risky, and children are not allowed to nap after a restraint due to the health risks.

4. Treatment centers are fewer and farther between and I believe they provide broader and better programming now. The reduction in the number of children going into institutions and their shortened stays as meant that the centers who have continued to provide treatment have changed to accommodate the clients that they get. This means they take a wider variety of client and so many different needs are met in one location. Additionally, the approach has been (in most places) to come from a place of compassion and try to take into consideration the needs of the child and the meanings of the behavior, so as not to simply manage an environment but to provide a short term place for a child to be in a truly therapeutic environment and to stabilize before moving onto as to close a home environment as possible. For example, when I worked in residential, we had a sensory room so that kids who had trouble with sensory integration could go to a room for breaks where there was a therapeutic swing, weighted blanket, and other items to provide for their specific needs.

Some philosophies and spiritualities propose that everything that happens to us has opportunities to help us grow from the pain we go through. For adults who have experienced traumatic abuse and have difficulty moving out of being in victim mode, do you believe that all people have the capability to heal and rebuild their lives, or is that the fortunate exception?

The cases that I saw where I was genuinely afraid there was no coming back, I can number on one hand. I am an optimistic person by nature, but I believe most all people have the capability to do much, much more than any of us could conceive. Ralph Waldo Emerson said it best, "what lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."

I don't know that it feels like that when we're in the thick of it but I absolutely believe it to be true.

Has a neurochemical relationship been established to explain the resultant health issue of high ACE scoring in people?

I don't believe so. I think the score has been studied extensively in relationship to all manner of problems in later life and links to high ACE scores and heroin are distressingly strong. This is not based on research but I suspect intuitively that the significant stressers of trauma in early life happening at the same time as a body is developing the building blocks of cells and all its systems, interferes with those important processes and there are resulting long term health consequences.

In the case of an abusive situation that's been dismissed by Social Services, are there other options?

My experience in my own community is that there are many options and community partners who seek to help in these scenarios. The child welfare systems is overwhelmed and aware of the controversial nature of having cases with families and are attempting to offer voluntary services and send families to outside agencies for casework. It really is community by community though.

What do you hope people will take from this?

I hope the public will be aware of the lives that people lead, including people like Seffra and the kids I've known who she is based on. I hope people who have led these lives will take strength from Seffra; that they will see a gritty real character and sympathize and wish for her to succeed and in so doing will see and accept themselves in new light. I hope if someone has lived this way and this story did not resonate with them, they will write their own, better version.

I hope people will see strengths in Seffra and in kids like her. They are remarkable people.

When does the next book come out?

The good news is the rough draft is written! And while that's definitely something, there are many factors that will determine how long it will take for the second book to come out. Quality over expedience though.

Ups and downs, Cancer and Rain

I'm in St. Louis right now visiting and setting things up to promote my book in the city that raised me and the city that raised Seffra. Yesterday I had a meeting with a woman at the school for social work at SLU, my alma mater. I genuinely enjoyed meeting this woman, gladly passed her a copy of my book, and look forward to her coming to a talk I'm giving on Saturday that's being promoted by Sex+ St. Louis. But it's not all books and praise.

The ups and downs feel so pronounced when you show up to your oldest favorite place to run on a sunny evening in the spring, the world the right level of moist, the trees green and full, the sun kissing between the leaves without yet scorching your shoulders. I looked forward to this run.

But a text came saying that my mom, who had just had a part of her tongue removed due to what we thought was a pre-cancerous growth, has in fact, got cancer.

Sure, they caught it early. It should be fine.

Wasn't I going for a run? Wasn't I enjoying a glass of wine by myself and the luxury of time before a flight? Wasn't that all just a moment ago?

I'm here and the trees are green and everything is blooming while at home it's mud season and the snow is melting and turning the trails to dogpoopsoup. I reconnected with the professor in college that made me want to teach in facilities. We had a leisurely lunch with good conversation and even though I forgot to feed the meter, I didn't get a ticket. That never would have happened when I was an undergrad.

I got a 2 star review. Oh well. That means the book's fully legit now right? Would you ever buy it that a book had all 4 & 5 star feedback? Someone always dislikes it once there are enough people reading. Such is writing. Such is life. I know people won't always like me. I just hope they dislike me for the right reasons. I guess I don't actually care that much why someone didn't like my book as long as a few people find some reality and hope in it, who could care?

When my 4 year old had his tonsils out in March, he had to stay overnight in the hospital unexpectedly. The recovery hadn't gone as smoothly as it was supposed to. He discharged just in time for us to part ways in the parking lot, my husband taking he and his brother home while I had a scheduled reading to give.

At the reading, I let go of my son and focused on my work and everyone came out okay. A friend gave me some leftover medication for my son that we couldn't get for him because all of the pharmacies had closed for the night after he was discharged. He got what he needed because I let go and went to work.

Yesterday, I had productive meetings and got to listen to my friends talk about all the things going on in their lives. I just wanted to listen. I missed my son's preschool graduation but came home to a video my husband took of the whole thing. He buzzed with excitement through the phone about what'd done at graduation and what he'd eaten at the party afterwards. It was good to hear him. It was good to hang up and be where I was and listen to what it's like to tour Jerusalem with 2 Jews, 2 different types of Christians, and an atheist, to tour a Palestinian territory without a head covering. It was good to be where I was.

Still, it's hard to be away instead of there bringing my boys who lick random things and chase my mom's chickens around over at my mom's house when I know it would lift her spirits and I could be making smoothies and telling her it's fine to have whiskey if that's what she wants. Fuckit, who cares? It's hard to be here, where I have time to write and run and think and cry. And yet if I were there, would I have time to cry about cancer and the essay I finished on the flight before I knew any of this about my aunt who died of cancer?

I hope the rains come and that I cry and write and let the help be with her where she is and the gift of time and rain and friends be with me where I am, there's something very cleansing about all of those things especially in combination. Next week, she'll have the rest of the cancer removed and we'll find out if there is a battle to be had, or merely a hurdle to get over. But for now, I'll just be here.

Hold space. Love the idea, hate the term.

Hold space. Love the idea, hate the term.

The term makes me think of disingenuous touchy feely people. They feel fake and desperate to tell you how much things touch them. You know, the ones who seem to never fart or get pissed off and mean to anyone because they're so busy living in tents with their guitars and their feelings. Blech.

I fart. And sometimes I'm a bitch with a bad attitude who yells at other drivers and has a mean streak when I'm tired. But mostly I'm pretty nice and want to be kind to the people around me, When my friends need someone to talk to, I like to be it. I want to be a person you can tell shit to that can let it be bad and overwhelming and all just too much, without intervention. I don't do it right most of the time. I want to swoop in and give you an answer. I want to help.

But that's not what hold space means. It means that being you has gotten so big you can't contain your whole self in 1 body right now. It means, being you has expanded out and rocked pieces of you a part, like a rocking chair that has simply been rocked too hard and now is tipped over and doesn't fit in the room right. You don't fit in your body right because there's just too much there to fit until you take inventory and reorder. What's going on with you is so big, it just doesn't fit neatly together.

AND meanwhile I have room. My self feels organized, like the cleaning lady just came and I had time to sleep and hold my kids and read a book, so it's pretty orderly around here so what do you need? Some space? No problem. I can shut up and give you a bit of storage space within myself. You can carve through what's on top, toss a few duffel bags of whatever my way. I can hold them until you're ready. I can let you spread some of yourself out willy nilly, haphazardly, and you can sort through stuff, organize and take the pieces back when you're ready. I can just hold that space for you like a spot at the table within myself. Pull up a chair. I'll try to let you talk.

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