Perspective

Cloud picture with only black or white.

One of the first lesson KavinCoach taught me was about perspective.  He has a note pad that is yellow with blue stripes on one side and brownish gray on the other.  He holds it up and asks what I see.  Of course our answers are different and both correct.  I understood this a little at a time.  I decided to find this principal through my photography.  These two pictures are taken within 30 seconds of each other.  I stood in the same spot and turned my camera from one part of the sky to another.  I realized that much of my life when I was being told I was wrong was more a matter of perspective.  Many times when I try to tell someone else they are wrong it is still a matter of perspective.  Being raised in a black/white world somebody was always right and somebody was always wrong.  KavinCoach taught me that their are many ways of looking at issues, people, and events.  All of them can be right and all of them can be wrong or any variation of gray in between.  From black/white to shades of gray gives a much wider ground for defining my perspective.  I still have a challenge of sharing my perspective with someone else through communicating my view of the world.  I am learning to be more open to other people perspective and more willing to defend my own perspective.  KavinCoach still reminds me that my perspective is valid and so is his. 

Why Not?

I stalled writing this part of my story since I don't like putting into words how fearful I am.  I don't know why I find it easier to say 'I battle depression' than 'I am fearful.'  KavinCoach described my life as fear based.  Not only was it fear based but loaded with misinformation, prejudice, and just plain ignorance.  When I was 15 years old I had my first blackout.  I reported the incident to my parents and was informed I was exaggerating.  I knew from experience they wouldn't believe me unless they saw one of the blackouts.  I didn't know what caused them.  I also felt totally out of step with anyone my age.  I again complained to my parents.  Again I was told that I was exaggerating and that I was just as mixed up as any other teenager.  I talked with other teenagers and I realized in high school that I thought differently.  I stopped sharing what I thought because I didn't like the reaction of my peers that on more than one occasion let me know what I said was "crazy."  This is where the prejudice came in.  I could be dumb, I could be ignorant, but "crazy" was totally unacceptable.  'They'* will come and take you away and lock you up for being "crazy."  Threats of 24th Street and Van Bueren  were scarier than the boogie-man. (Location of the mental institution in Phoenix.)  I know that my mother had gone to counseling a few times but only for a few sessions and the experience seemed to heighten my prejudice that counseling was useless.  Fortunately, I learned the errors of this backwards thinking.  Because of my black outs, I figured that there was something physically wrong with me.  Because I never cried, I didn't believe that I could be depressed.  I also read books like "Bellevue is a State of Mind."  That explored the horrors of a mental institution.  Another prejudice I encountered were those that said that if I had "enough" faith all would be well.  Being a logical type of person I flipped it around to say if all was not well I must not have "enough" faith.  (I put the word "enough" in quotes since no one was ever able to explain to me what "enough" faith looked like.  Job had plenty of faith and his life was a mess.  If you read my blog often you will notice that Job is one of my heroes.) Age 17, I passed out in front of my mother.  It was rather spectacular because I had just parked the car and didn't remember doing that when I walked in the house and fainted on the floor.  Off to the doctor I went.  He declared that I had adrenal collapse and it occurred because I was an over anxious teenager trying to do too much.  Years later I learned more and found that I only had a few of the symptoms.  The answer satisfied my parents and I was informed I would grow out of it.  I dismissed any need for concern.  Only thing was that the older I got the worse the blackouts were and the more frequently I had them.  I learned to recognize early symptoms and lay down before I fell down.  Again I asked doctors about the black outs.  I was told they were caused by pregnancy, nursing, and finally stress.  Great.  I considered Stress the great catch all for when the medical field doesn't know what is wrong with you.  Finally after all my children were born and I stopped nursing I blacked out while I was driving and wrecked our van.  Fortunately I was driving alone on a country road and I didn't hurt anyone but myself and the van.  Back to the doctor.  I was inspected, detected and tested for anything imaginable that has black outs for symptoms.  I was again asked if I was depressed again I said no since I loved to laugh and still didn't cry.  (When I started counseling when I was 45 I could count on one hand how many times I had cried and why.)  I finally did read a book on depression.  (Very depressing reading.)  This is when I found out that crying was only one of many different symptoms of depression.  I was stunned when I read the chapter on baby blues and discovered I had every symptom except crying.  By this time I did not trust the medical field so I stopped seeing doctors all together accept for emergencies.  My life spiral down into a darker and darker place.  I knew I was suicidal but I was afraid to tell anyone.  I sometimes would admit to my closest friend my depression but mostly I learned to keep my mouth shut.  A very poor choice based on fear of what might happen to me.  Twenty years ago I hit my lowest point.  I could barely function.  I had this shadow warrior that could annihilate me on a whim.  I was tired of trying to tell people in and out of my family that there was something wrong with me and having them tell me I was exaggerating or discount me completely as trying to manipulate them.  I finally accepted that I would live a half life.  More in twilight than living.  I pondered what the use of living this meager existence, then I would look at my kids and keep going.  One plodding step in front of another.  By this time my family finally excepted that there was something seriously wrong with me.  I started doing my own research.  Praying and studying I started rebuilding my physical health.  All the while ignoring the stress and depression in my life.  Our children were getting married, I was working full time and my mental depression finally hit the wall.  I either needed to live like a hermit, commit suicide or get counseling.  By this time I had read dozens of self-help books, hundreds of medical journal articles, and taken a how-to-improve your marriage class.  The last one was the final straw.  I attended the classes and didn't understand enough of what they were talking about to ask a question.  I felt that all these people in the room were talking another language.  I finally asked my friend for some names of marriage counselors to get help with learning how to communicate.  I called KavinCoach.  I finally took the steps I needed to learn what was really wrong with me.  I learned that depression can cause physical illness, insomnia, headaches, ulcers, asthma symptoms.... the list went on and on all the problems caused by depression and crying was only one of many symptoms.  I didn't cry because I had been systematically trained not to.  Now I hear someone is starting counseling and I admire their courage because it is one of the hardest things I have ever done.  Having cancer was easier than counseling.  If I am ever asked now what to do if you are depressed, get help.  Medical help and psychological help.  Counselors are not the same and sometimes what works for one person doesn't always work for someone else.  I am thankful for finding the counselor I trust and my family helps in paying for the sessions.  I recognize that the problems I have are severe and I couldn't handle them without new information.  KavinCoach teaches me a new way to view the world.  Just like my photography professors taught me how to see the world through the camera.  At first I had the attitude of please fix me.  I learned that KavinCoach would give me the tools to fix myself.  I am still learning.                 

*I never did figure out who the mysterious 'they' were but 'they' seemed very powerful.

Rock Bottom

The NFY post triggered my memory of how far I have come.  Over 20 years ago, I remember lying in bed wondering why I bothered to keep breathing.  I felt totally useless.  I couldn't take care of my family.  I couldn't take care of myself.  I didn't DO anything.  I live in a culture that values and defines who you are by what you DO.  I defined myself as a slug.  I look back and realize how far I have come.  I am thankful to my family not giving up on me the way I gave up on myself.  Paradoxically during this time is when I made a startling discovery.  I felt I had no value or worth, but a seed of belief started to grow that I was had value and worth to God.   Somehow my value and worth to God had nothing to do with what I could DO.   I existed so I had worth.  Years later, KavinCoach helped me wrap my mind around this concept.  He wanted me to think about those that I love and asked me what their worth and value was to me.   One of the things I thought about was my little cat.  This cat is totally worthless by any standard.  She is terrified of the world.  One ear was permanently twisted before I got her.  She cowers to the side while the birds eat her food.  Her purr is defective.  I was told on more than one occasion that she was worthless.  But not to me.  She is my kitty.  I am happy to see her.  I worry if she doesn't come at dinner time.  I love all her little quirks.  I am delighted by her increasing courage.  Kids can now pet her without her running for the rooftop.  KavinCoach pointed out, if this kitty could have worth to me than I could have worth to God.  I know somewhere along the way I built the conviction that Jesus Christ would have done what He did even if the only person on the planet was me.  That bit of faith pricked the darkness and a bit hope appeared.  Pinpricks of light can pierce the darkest places.   

NFY

Not Finished Yet!  This link is about people that are fearful of growing old.  I think it also applies to people that are fearful of living.  I especially like this line, "He will never consider you useless,..."  When I was at my worse I could only be up 30 minutes a day. 10 minutes at a time.  I felt useless.  That was over 20 years ago.  He wasn't finished with me yet.  Click on this link to see the original article: Not Finished Yet!

Sandpiper of joy

I have received this from several sources.  It came again to my emailbox this morning.  It helped.  Hopefully others will enjoy it too.  At the bottom is the TruthorFiction opinion on the source of the story.  Thanks Readers Digest for publishing a story that touches my heart.  Enjoy

She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me. She was building a sandcastle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.
“I see that. What is it?” I asked, not caring.
“Oh, I don’t know, I just like the feel of sand.
“That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.
“That’s a joy,” the child said.
“It’s a what?”
“It’s a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy.” The bird went glding down the beach.
“Good-bye joy,” I muttered to myself, “hello pain,” and turned to walk on. I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.
“What’s your name?” She wouldn’t give up.
“Ruth,” I answered. “I’m Ruth Peterson.”
“Mine’s Wendy… I’m six.”
“Hi, Wendy.”
She giggled. “You’re funny,” she said. In spite of my gloom I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me.
“Come again, Mrs. P,” she called. “We’ll have another happy day.”
The days and weeks that followed belong to others: a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater. “I need a sandpiper,” I said to myself, gathering up my coat. The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me.
The breeze was chilly, but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed. I had forgotten the child and was startled when she appeared.
“Hello, Mrs. P,” she said. “Do you want to play?”
“What did you have in mind?” I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
“I don’t know, you say.”
“How about charades?” I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Then let’s just walk.” Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face
“Where do you live?” I asked.
“Over there.” She pointed toward a row of summer cottages. Strange, I thought, in winter.
“Where do you go to school?”
“I don’t go to school. Mommy says we’re on vacation.” She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day.
Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed. Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
“Look, if you don’t mind,” I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, “I’d rather be alone today.”
She seems unusually pale and out of breath.
“Why?” she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, “Because my mother died!” and thought, my God, why was I saying this to a little child?
“Oh,” she said quietly, “then this is a bad day.”
“Yes, and yesterday and the day before and-oh, go away!”
“Did it hurt? ”
“Did what hurt?” I was exasperated with her, with myself.
“When she died?” “Of course it hurt!” I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off. A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn’t there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn looking young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.
“Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson, please come in” “Wendy talked of you so much.
I’m afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please, accept my apologies.”
“Not at all-she’s a delightful child,” I said, suddenly realizing that I meant it. “Where is she?”
“Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn’t tell you.” Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. My breath caught.
“She loved this beach; so when she asked to come, we couldn’t say no.
She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly…” her voice faltered.
“She left something for you…if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?”
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something, anything, to say to this lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope, with MRS. P printed in bold, childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues-a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed: A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY
Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost forgotten to love opened wide. I took Wendy’s mother in my arms. “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I muttered over and over, and we wept together.
The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words- one for each year of her life- that speak to me of harmony, courage, undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea-blue eyes and hair the color sand— who taught me the gift of love.
———————————–
http://www.truthorfiction.com/rumors/s/sandpiper.htm
This story is circulated on the Internet as having been written by either Robert Peterson or Ruth Peterson, the name of the woman in the story.
In reality, it was written by a woman named Mary Sherman Hilbert and a version of it was published in Reader's Digest in 1980.
Is it true?
The Reader's Digest article included an explanation from the author that a neighbor of hers had told her of "an experience" she had while walking on a beach in Washington state.  Mary Sherman Hilbert says she took notes at the time then later recalled the conversation and decided to write about it.  
What percentage of the story is real and what percentage is creative fiction is not clear, but at least we know where it came from and can attach the correct author's name to it.

Snap out of it.

   More then once I was told, "Why don't you just snap out of it?"  I marvel at the possibility that someone thinks I want to stay that way.  If I could have snapped out of it, I would have bruised my fingers snapping so many times to get myself out of that deep well of depression.  When I have felt mildly sad, disappointed, cranky, I can take myself to task and give myself an attitude adjustment.  Other times I slip well past this self-rescue plateau.  I do understand when someone says,  "Snap out of it," their intentions are good and their perspective, in my opinion, is top down.  They are not down in the well of depression and can't imagine not being able to get out on their own.  How do I describe to someone else that I am in such a dark place there isn't any light?  There is no awareness of where out is.  I work very hard at not getting to that place to begin with.  Once I had been there at that level of hopelessness I work at not going there again.  I started recognizing early signs.  I developed distraction strategies.  I learned what I could to prevent the spiral down into darkness.  What I didn't know was how they happened.  Have you ever played the marble game that you try to get the marble through a hand held wooden maze with holes in it? (See picture below.)  You are moving the marble along when bloop the marble drops down the hole.  I didn't know what to do when I dropped down those mental holes into deep depression. 
   Along came KavinCoach.  I described the problem to him.  He asked about my childhood.  I was puzzled by the redirect.  What did my childhood have to do with my dark holes?  I answered what I always said since high school, "It was great! I went to the park.  I went to the Zoo.  It was a great childhood." 
   He then asked me to tell him an average day.  In flat tones I replied, "It was great. I went to the park. I went to the zoo." 
   He was the first person that had ever challenged me, "You have no idea about your childhood." 
   I sheepishly confessed that I didn't have a clue.  I was amazed in high school that anyone could remember their childhood.  He asked me my earliest memory.  I answered sometime in junior high.  Part of counseling is a conversation where a person tells the counselor their past and as an adult they review those childhood events with a different perspective.  The counselor suggests different ways they can now view those past events.  But what do they do, when there is nothing to tell?  In my mind there was a massive dark wall between me and my past.  What followed was that over the next several weeks I was given books to read and to report back my reaction to the book.  The first book I read was Dave Pelzer's A Child Called It.  Dave's story is a severe child abuse cases in California in the 1970's era.  I read the book.  I brought it back and calmly asked, "What do you want me to learn from this?"
KavinCoach responded, "How do you feel about it?"
I shrugged and said, "Bad things happen to kids.  What do you want me to learn from it?"
KavinCoach assigned several more books each more violent than the last.  Each time I would come back and ask, "What do you want me to learn from it?"
The final book was on the Holocaust.  I finally responded "What do you want me to learn from it is the wrong answer."  KavinCoach assured me there was no right answer.  KavinCoach learned a lot about me and my lack of response to the violence that can happen in this world. This was the first clue I had that my childhood was not great.  For me, bloop meant I had fallen through that dark wall into my past.  It was time to shine some light on my childhood. 

Resource:
Marble Maze Picture

Marble picture source

Dave Pelzer, A Child Called It Amazon Books A Child Called It