Thursday, August 20, 2015

Running in the Dark

It was 5:30 am. I was awake. I’d done my Achilles therapy, I was dressed, and I was ready to run. I was determined to run, despite the fact that it was dark and the trail I wanted to run on had no lights. I grabbed my phone and that piercing flashlight I got at a Writing the Other workshop, and headed out the door.*

During the first half of the trail, I passed no one. This made sense, because it was raining. Later, as I began to pass other runners and walkers in the dark, I noticed something. Normally, by daylight, the people I pass are about 60-70% female-bodied (I say bodied, because I will not presume I know anyone’s gender by looking at a body). But this morning, in the dark and then in the gloom of a late, cloud-shrouded dawn, it was 100% male-bodied. And one dog, also a dude. They were all friendly, all responding to my greetings. One guy even apologized for running by and thus ruining my solitary walk. And I laughed. Only a man would think that was my first concern when I saw someone else on the trail.

Female-bodied folks, what exactly was on my mind as I walked in the woods, in the dark, in the rain, alone?

We’ve been socialized to have one answer. Despite the fact that it is more dangerous to drive a car than to run alone at night. Despite the fact that women are more likely to be attacked by their romantic partners and family members. The threat of attack from the lurking stranger is culturally embedded, and it restricts the freedom of women around the world. Yes, all women. You may be shaking your head, saying that no, that isn’t you, that you run at night and it doesn’t bother you. But if you were indeed attacked, you would surely be blamed for going out alone. Because the onus is on the woman to protect herself from men who apparently cannot control themselves.

What’s the most treacherous thing about going for a run in the woods, in the dark, in the rain, alone?

It isn’t rapists. Though that was in my mind from the moment I got up and saw how dark it was, how rainy and foggy and quiet. It isn’t attackers. Though I couldn’t help but look behind me on the trail, my flashlight bouncing into moths, sure that the pattering rain was someone’s footsteps. It isn’t murderers, though I peered between the trees and startled at deer and cardinals and the sounds of owls.

It’s frogs. 

Seriously, people. They are a hazard. They hang out on the trail, and they look like leaves, but they’re slimy and they move, and I dare you to keep your balance when you step on one. Frogs are treacherous motherfuckers.

Oh, and I’m going out tomorrow in the dark too. 

"Kroete3" by rupp.de - taken myself. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons - https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Kroete3.JPG#/media/File:Kroete3.JPG
This is the face of evil.

* Spouse was sleeping peacefully, because he doesn’t ever, EVER say dumb shit about why I shouldn’t go running alone. 

Monday, August 3, 2015

The Unreadable Face

He looked down from her, his expression unreadable.

She stared at them as they milled about with unreadable expressions.

I wish I could have told you, but her expression was unreadable.

My expression was probably unreadable, but I wasn’t about to change it.

.    .    .

When I read “unreadable,” the only face I see is frozen in a rictus, drooping forward as if its strings were cut. Unreadable expressions are things from Camazotz, artless and gray. There is no reward for reading them. Replace “unreadable” with an ellipsis, and you’d get the same information, lost in a realm of indescribable people, toneless music, indefinable clothing, and indistinguishable food.

Every time I read the unreadable face—and it pops up all sorts of stories, even among my favorite authors—I wonder what the writer and editors were thinking. Why choose to say nothing? Was it on purpose, or did it slip out? Was the emotion too complex? Was the character too tough to have a facial display? Was the narrator too poor a facial reader? Was the story in an inescapable corner? Were they aware of the irony of an unreadable expression in a readable medium?

Certainly there are legitimate reasons one might be tempted to use an unreadable expression. After all, most people aren’t very good at articulating nuances in a person’s face. But ask yourself first: what’s your process in reading an expression? You may conclude that a person’s face is unreadable, but do you jump to that conclusion instantly? No. If it were readable, one might respond immediately, but an unreadable face means that you are scrutinizing the face and cannot decide what it means. You analyze the tilt of the brow, the narrowness of the eyes, the tremor of the lips. And then your actions reflect the mood created by the other person’s face, “readable” or not. Because if science has told us anything about facial expressions, it’s that neuronormative human interactions are webbed with immediate, unconscious responses.

When you’re stuck with an unreadable expression, try one of the following:

· This is an opportunity for a “show, not tell” moment. Your character might not understand their object’s facial expression as a whole, but what is your character seeing? Are the lips thin? The nostrils wide? Write that. Imagine your reader like a toddler jumping up and down, shouting, but I wanna see! Don’t tell me it is unreadable. I’m a reader! TRY ME.

· Human response to faces is extremely swift: most of us respond in a matter of seconds. Often, though we cannot articulate what an expression tells us, we respond to it anyway. Consider implying the expression in the response.

· Divide the face between macroexpressions and microexpressions. A macroexpression involves the entire face, and is more or less universally understood. A microexpression is a fleeting change in the facial expression which might go unnoticed or be misinterpreted.

· Writing exercise: think of a facial expression for every letter of the alphabet. Choose literally any other descriptor for this person’s face. Examples:

Absent
Bleak
Coy
Downcast
Ecstatic
Fixed
Glowering
Haunted
Innocent
Justified
Keen
Languid
Mischievous
Nasty
Obdurate
Pitying
Quizzical
Radiant
Sardonic
Taut
Unconvincing
Vacant
Wan
Xenophobic
Yielding
Zealous

There. What’s your character’s face doing now?

Google "unreadable face." Yeah, I couldn't find a face without an expression
either. But I did find this happy fox, and it's always a good day to see a fox.

Monday, July 20, 2015

Writing is Running


Running before sports bras. Ouch.
I run in what my mother-in-law calls the ass crack of dawn. It's an imperative when you’re a morning person. If you skip that early gloom, you’ve lost the best part. When I stretch and plot my course and scrape my shoes against the pavement, sparrows are having bragging matches. Foxes are still making the crows freak and raccoons are still feasting in the dumpsters behind the H-Mart. The only time I'm more aware of deer than cars. I’ve used that time for different things over the years, but lately, that's the time for my run.

I love running. It’s an old habit I revived when I moved here, when I listened to a friend talk about her runs and realized I wanted to do it again. So I started without thinking: without planning goals, without sitting down and asking how it fit into my worldview or my daily life. One morning, I just put on my shoes and ran. I came back euphoric, and went back out to run the next day.

This was always my approach to running: a kind of knee-jerk reaction. It was never the expected thing. I was a small, slight child with a short stride and reflexes so poor that I had to take special education to learn to catch a ball. Yet when we ran the class mile, I’d end up somewhere in the middle of the pack because I refused to be one of the walkers. Apparently that was enough interest for my gym teacher to suggest I do long-distance running at field events. By middle school, I was on the cross country team.

People tend to prefer things they’re good at. If you’re good at painting and not fractions, you’re going to go for art. If you can spell all of the words in the dictionary but have a hard time conjugating Spanish verbs, you’ll prefer spelling. My spouse and I have the same response when he's faced with camping, sports, and cars, and I'm faced with a kitchen or high heels: NOPE.

I knew my talents, largely in words and art. I wasn’t good at running. Not ever. I was always the last person on the team to cross the finish line. My memories of running are generally of misery: my allergies made me choke, my enormous glasses were constantly sliding down my face, and my newly-grown middle school boobs were like giant globular taunt-me signs. Yet for some reason I just kept doing it, and I didn’t care about other people thought.

It was the opposite with writing. I wonder when I came to think of writing as something you did for other people. Maybe it was the fact that for me, as for most kids, early writing was done for a grade. Maybe because writing contests gave me a sense that easy winning mattered more than the practice of the thing. Maybe because, as someone who would develop agoraphobia, I was always too much aware of the people around me. Suffice to say, I wrote when I was young, but I wrote only to be seen.

In running, I never contended with perfection. I struggled enough with competence. But in writing, because it was effortless at the beginning, I stuck to the amateur level. Getting a B destroyed me, so I happily took an F when I thought something was imperfect, so I could fool myself into thinking I’d have gotten an A if I’d tried. I fretted over accolades, deservingness, what other people would think. I curled my potential achievements to myself, knowing that if I tried for them and failed, that would be the Worst Thing.

If I had treated running like I often treated writing, it would have gone something like this: I’d select a team. I’d scrutinize the people on it—what they wore, what they ate, how they ran. I’d read articles on how to run. I’d speak to the coach about their techniques. I’d go to meets to see how they went. I’d agonize over which running gear to wear. I’d exercise so that I could get the muscles I wanted; I’d stretch. I’d tell people I was going to be a runner. And then I’d run around the block. Once I found I didn’t hit my target number, I’d halfheartedly try again, then quit. The deadline for the team’s tryouts would pass. I’d tell myself I didn’t really have enough time to prepare.

What if, I wondered one day as I ran, I treated writing like running?

What if writing ceased to be for other people, or if I gave them about as much consideration as I gave whatever I wore that day? What if I did it because I liked it? Because of the mental exhaustion and the euphoria? To feel my mental muscles build—imperceptible to others, perhaps, but pleasing to me? To grin at other writers as I passed, but not compare their productivity to mine? To set my own finish line and be fine with it until tomorrow? What if I needed no one cheering me on but myself?

Writing is about doing what you love, telling stories you want to hear. I’ve heard that over and over, but it didn’t really sink in until I thought about it while I ran. While I ran, I wasn’t doing it for compliments. I was doing it for the effort. That’s what any struggle is for. Even a race for a medal is never about the medal. How much more the case for writing, in which the measures for excellence are nebulous* at best? I’d seen it as an editor: no one had an empirical list. And if there was no best, there was also no worst. What was I afraid of?

When people asked The Oatmeal why he ran, he didn’t have a pat answer. He didn’t do it to be healthy or because people expected him to. He did it because of the euphoria, because of mind silence, and because the little creative thoughts are allowed to be. He did it for reasons that are utterly connected with him, not anyone else.

I run because I have legs that defeated injury. I run because the sound of birds reminds me of my grandmother. I run because it tears the reluctance out of my mind in the morning, shuts up the critic. And I work with words because the way they fit together thrills me. Because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be me.

You don’t have to run to get this. Guaranteed, if you’re struggling with writing, you have another skill that is no struggle at all. Maybe you knit. Or skydive. Or play Warcraft. And you do it, not because you’re any good, but because it’s fun. Put your people-blinkers on and tap into that. Tap into the source that is you, heedless of the frowning world.

Why else do you write, really?


* Ha ha. You see what I did there.

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

What Not to Say to a Person with Depression ... If You've Had Depression

How many times have you seen it? An article on what not to say to people with depression. Maybe five or ten or three things to say to your depressed [person]. With some stock photo of a thin white woman with her hands on her head in a shadow or a muted blue corner. You can have agency in a world of eggshells, it promises. If only you understood, if only you followed this list, people with depression wouldn’t have to live in corners made by your cruel words.

Depressed person being depressed
Why do all depression pictures look like this?
Yeah. When I was first diagnosed, I read those lists. I fistpumped to some of them. I forwarded them to people, figuring that once they had a list, they’d get it and suddenly talk to me the right way. I made my own lists. I posted them on Livejournal, back when it was a thing. I made a 1-10 scale for panic. I advised other people on making lists. And I figured I had a damn good handle on the things people weren’t supposed to say to someone with mental illness. Because I had it, I knew I couldn’t ever fuck it up.

Fast forward fifteen years.

It’s dark outside—raining—and I’m in bed with my spouse. I’m huddling a pillow, capillaries broken around my eyes. He stares blankly at the bookcase at the foot of the bed, the Elizabeth Moon novel he’d been reading half-opened on his chest.

“I just wish you’d stop telling me how to fix it,” he says.

I still said the wrong words.

There’s no article about how to talk to a depressed person if you’ve been depressed yourself. We assume that if we’ve had depression, we already know how to handle it in someone else. Which would make sense, except that depression and anxiety not only destroy your memory, but are also highly personal. Most of us will get depression or anxiety, and most of us will still manage to say the same stupid crap to people with similar mental health issues.

So here’s a list. Another list, yes—on what I learned when, having had depression myself, I became the caretaker of someone else with depression.

First off. Depressed people are…

1. Valid Without the Special Words
 

“You realize right now that what you’re saying is the depression talking,” I said to my spouse. “It isn’t true.” 
“It still feels true.”

Humanity privileges articulation. We laud our poets, our rhetoricians, our thespians. There’s a sense that if you say something well, it deserves to be considered on the sheer merit of your speech, rather than the merit of the idea. If you drop some powerful words, you’ll have people cheering along with you, even those who might not have initially agreed. But how often do we have the words? Do you remember the first time you fell in love? The day you came out? Did you begin with an enormous vocabulary and the practice of persuasion? Chances are you didn’t.

It’s the same with mental illness. Most of us start off assuming we’ll never be part of that club. Most of us are shocked when we realize it exists within us too. And most of us will struggle for years to find the right words, not only to express how we feel, but to get the help and compassion we need.

Facehuggers
"Do you feel depressed?" she asked. "How did you know!" he said.
When you’re talking with someone who has depression, if you’ve had it already, you probably have a much larger vocabulary. If you are well and they are not, you have the energy to put into making yourself sound persuasive. You can afford to be cunning with your words. They, on the other hand, are essentially struggling to talk with a facehugger on, sucking their identity, smothering their voice. They are having a hard time believing they deserve to speak at all. Depression makes you feel unimportant, worthless. And I think that feeling was easy for me to forget over time, because treating depression is partially about separating yourself from the illness. It’s easy to see a facehugger for what it is when you’ve pried it off your face. When it’s on there, though, it seems to take up the whole world.

Respect the struggle, respect that facehugger point of view. When speaking people with depression, assure them of the validity of their feelings.

This means don’t obfuscate. Don’t list your symptoms alongside theirs as if it’s a contest. “You had panic attacks in the car? I had them in the bathtub!” “You don’t get suicidal thoughts? Ha! Man, you have it easy.” Don’t analyze the symptoms and pronounce that they’re either not bad enough to be depression, or that everyone has a mental illness according to the DMV. Don’t attack their support network as better than yours. In short,

2. Don’t Compare


Whether you’ve had or have depression, if they’re confiding in you and you have the spoons to respond, it is your duty to comfort them. It isn’t comfortable to have to compete, especially when you’re already pretty certain you’re a loser in all ways.

Now granted, you’re going to compare, because it is certain the other person’s mental illness struggle will have been different from yours. Mental illness visits different people differently. Every week, I Skype with two other women who have had panic disorder and agoraphobia. None of us have the same triggers, the same kind of panic. So why would we have the same treatments? 

3. Treatments Vary


Yet this is what so many who have walked the path of mental illness do: they assume that what worked for them will work for the world. And when I say “they,” I mean me too. I have dished out oodles of unasked-for, directed advice. If you’ve had mental illness, you know what I mean: Just exercise! Meditate! Pray! Take your vitamins! Use this mantra! Happiness is a choice! How about cognitive-behavioral therapy? You are taking drugs, right?

Klonopin
Like a dozen punches to the head
Drugs. That’s the main thing. Either people love them or hate them, but there’s always a conversation about drugs. Which SSRIs have you tried? Anti-psychotics? Anti-depressants? Marijuana? Klonopin, daaaaaamn. Silver Linings Playbook pretty much nailed this conversation. And talking about your experiences is fine: it’s great when you meet someone who has been a human guinea pig just like you.

When is it not fine? When you insist on behalf of someone else. I understand that sometimes, refusing to take meds looks like a person with a broken leg refusing a cast. But it isn't like that with depression and anxiety. Meds are not a Band-Aid, and there’s no one-size-fits all. We don't even really know why they work, in the case of SSRIs. We also know that many times, drugs fail. So...

4. Respect Agency


Having mental illness is hard enough: depression or anxiety is fraught with loss of control. Don’t be that person demanding mentally ill people surrender their agency by taking a drug when they don’t want to. You’ve been there—all you wanted was a say in your existence, even if you were too tired or afraid or worried to take the step. Agency is important to a person’s wellbeing, and it doesn't disappear when you get depressed. Taking drugs is very personal. No one drug works for everyone all the time. So when you find yourself stepping over the line with drugs, going from discussion to suggestion or insistence, step back. It’s not your call.

Also, do be aware that there is a percentage of people, despite all the therapy and drugs in the world, who will never get better. And even more people who will get better, only to relapse repeatedly throughout life. Saying that you got through it is wonderful: it’s great to know it can be done. But insisting they can get better too? It isn’t necessarily going to happen. Harping on your cure will only be rubbing your health in their faces. It’ll be like looking over a cliff at the climbers, telling them about how you made it to the top. It’s great to know people can get there, can get better, but not everyone can use your rope. 

5. Nix the Artist Halo


WHAT? BUT YOU CAN'T BE AN ARTIST IF YOU DON'T HAVE DEPRESSION!
Another injurious attitude from fellow depressed/anxious folks is the artist halo. I’m sure you’ve heard the stereotype: all artists are dramatic, dynamic, depressed. They have drinking problems; they hear voices. The insinuation is that all artists have mental health issues, and it's the muse’s due for their superpowers. Appreciate your life clinging on the cliff: you’re meant to be closer to death! Some studies even support the idea that artists get sick. And artists will repeat this to one another, taking comfort in the halo. How many times did someone tell me that Emily Dickinson had agoraphobia

Did it make me feel special? Yes. Did it help me get better? No.

Despite all of the comfort it gives to people to say that they have superpowers, that they're exceptional, the fact of the matter is that the artist halo justifies treatment avoidance. Moreover, to many people with a mental health issue, mentioning the artist halo is the same thing as giving up, as silencing their pain. You’re not only saying that the wound is meant to be there, but that the sufferer will not be an artist if it is gone. Don't. Just don't.

6. And Don’t Compliment the Fakery


Another take on the artist halo is the adaptation obfuscation: “But you don’t seem ill.” In other words, Congratulations! I don’t care if you’re having suicidal ideation this very moment, because you’re arrived! You are the best faker in the universe! You’re underscoring the fact that the mentally ill person is indeed alone in the universe, because apparently she can walk around with her mind screaming death, and no one will know. You’re suggesting that as long as other people don’t notice, she shouldn’t talk about it. That she’s a hypochondriac, because she doesn’t look sick. 

And of course sick people should look sick, right?

Depression has many faces, and most of them will surprise you, even if you’ve been there before. When you had depression, it was present, it was inside of you, so you always knew it was there. But when you’re on the outside looking it, that presence is gone. And you might not realize how good you were at faking it, but we all do. All of us did. 
 
Telling someone they doesn’t look sick is playing the comparison game, too. You’re saying that if someone isn’t obviously sick, that sickness isn’t real. That it has to show in a way you’ll recognize before you’ll allow it to exist. Toxic, toxic thing to say.

Unsure of what to say, now? Well that’s fine, because it’s far more important to…

7. Listen. Need I repeat this? LISTEN.


Saying you’re hurt and asking for help are two different things.

When you have defeated depression and anxiety, you might feel like an expert. And, compared to the rest of the population, you are. But it is not your duty to give unsolicited advice. Remember (as I have forgotten) to separate the expression of hurt and the help request. Don’t presume that because someone confides they are depressed to you, that they’ve asked you to tell them what to do. What they’re asking for is validation, compassion, and you to notice their pain.

Go back to that hard place, the place before your wellness, the time when you were in a quagmire of fear and loathing, watching people walk by you as if your sinking didn’t matter.

Notice, my fellow former mental illnesses sufferers. Notice.


With love to Timothy Phin, Joely Black, Red, Foxicity, Catherine Mardula, and Joyce Chng.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

The Sea-Change

Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change,
into something rich and strange
Here I am, restarting my blog after a half-year hiatus of illnesses, fire, and moving. I missed blogging, but sometimes one simply has to let oneself roll under, the better to rise again. This is my rollup.
Ariel: aptly, on the move

So, I’ve moved. Physically, that is. To a place with better schools, closer to the spouse’s university. For the last few months, I’ve done little else but packing and unpacking our physical possessions, throwing out all I could, furling pictures and dusting frames. Helping our young ones adjust.

Packing is always a reflective process for me. Not only touching and considering the physical things, but hearing the echoes of the thoughts I had when I packed a few years ago. 2010 was the last time I moved. We had one computer each. Laptops. Now we reflect the fact that the average U.S. household has at least four devices. E-readers and tablets, handheld gaming devices, chromebooks. Smartphones instead of flip phones. Heck, even my dildos plug in. A lot has changed, technologically, in the last five years. I didn’t realize how much, until I began packing.

In 2010, I had one child, 18 months old. We were moving so he wouldn’t have to grow up in a crib in our office. Now I have two children, the oldest nearly six. This move, we gave away their cribs and built an adult-sized bunk bed. In choosing where the furniture would go, I realized that we’ve grown out of a home arranged for a toddler—everything out of reach—to accessibility for young hands. And I’ve changed: from an ageist, cluelessly flailing new mom to a badass parent who doesn’t mind the title or the responsibilities, even if many of those expectations are heavily gendered. I take them laying down, my friends—leather jacket on, sipping mango rum.

When we moved in 2010, my spouse and I both had depression. We were on medication. I’d had panic disorder with agoraphobia for more than a decade, a companion dog named Lily. I hadn’t held an in-house editing job, and was still trying to decide what I wanted to do with my life. Could I hold a traditional job at all? Or ought I accept the fact that I was permanently disabled? I read some old diary entries from those times, the 2010 move. They ran like the wheels of an overturned bike, dented, glinting, going nowhere.

Lily on my legs, her favorite spot.
Yet somehow, in those few years, from that move to this one, I changed. I went back to school. I got an in-house editing job, revved up my freelance business to a sustainable level, and started going to events in my field. My panic attacks stopped, I defeated agoraphobia (mostly), and I went off my drugs—to no ill effect. This was despite having a second unplanned baby, dealing with my spouse’s dissertation, euthanizing my companion dog, and going through the deaths of my grandmother, Lois, and our friend Jason at 29. Was there massive grief? Yes. Did we have the worst fights of our marriage? Yes. Did I somehow kick my disability’s ass anyway? Hell yes. 

No longer agoraphobic, my politics had to change too. I got to meet people, you see. Lots of them. And I, conservative Republican feminist (yeah, they exist) from Indiana, could not reconcile some of my ideals with real life in our African American neighborhood in suburban Baltimore. I could not sit back and take the same economically conservative stance when we, like so many others, got tied into student loan debt, treading water with poverty. Applying for WIC. It’s easy to see your luck then, your privilege. I started saying I was moderate a few years into our 2010 move, and once you do that—once you can see both sides so easily—there is nothing holding you from changing your mind once, twice, or many times. That is a good thing. This year, especially after Ferguson, I realized I’d probably be considered liberal by most people, but I usually go with moderate as a term. It makes less people defensive, and leaves me with nothing to prove, no membership dues to anything except my conscience.

Foxes are most comfortable when between things
Oi, that conscience. Pals with self-identity, which was in crisis in 2010, as it had been for much of my life. I always knew there was something “wrong” with me, snug as I was between butch and foppish, never fully happy with feminine or masculine, always doing the double-take dysphoria in my mirror. Wondering if transitioning would help me reach a middle ground—searching for an in-between, mushroom-ring place. I had been constantly butting up against the conservative Christian ideal female, always hating its demure little smile, its special little church days, standing always just behind the leader of the household, the male. Having a child had thrown me far into that feminine camp, and it chafed, it troubled me. I knew, before anything else, that I was Not That. I just needed the words to help me define what I was. You’d think someone who had studied gender history, who’d married a gender historian who was himself genderqueer, would have grasped it sooner. But I didn’t say anything publicly until last year, at Mary and Tempest’s Writing the Other workshop, where I finally felt comfortable talking about it, where I knew I’d be accepted in my otherness. Now it seems sad and strange that I once felt guilty for wanting my sons to call me sir, for feeling so out of place on Easter Sunday, hugging a leather jacket over my dress.

2010 to 2015. Only five years. And yet, in that time, I went from a jobless drugged-up agoraphobic conservative mom to a genderqueer liberal editor stay-at-home parent. A sea-change I didn’t expect, but which seemed slow and natural at the time. It’s only now, packing and unpacking, when I handle the fragments of what I once was, and realize they aren’t me anymore. The shape of myself is there, but it has transformed, bone into coral.

I wonder what I’ll be, the next time I move.