Category Archives: Tuesday on the Soapbox

Anything from politics and current events to strange and beautiful life philosophies.

Tuesday on the Soapbox

Texting and Driving

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textinganddriving

About texting and driving: Who do you need to talk to so badly that you’re willing to risk your life to do it?

I say this because I know people who text and drive all the time, and I’ve even tried it myself. But having tried it–and almost causing a couple of accidents because of it–I don’t understand why people continue to do it. I definitely understand that the conversation is important, and it’s REALLY tempting to try to carry on a text conversation as soon as you receive a message, but personally, I’d rather not have a half-finished text message as my last act on Earth.

The REAL Dangers of Texting and Driving: Distracted Driving

This infographic from TextingAndDrivingSafety shows how dangerous this is. When you text, you’ve spent at least 5 seconds not looking at the road, which means you’re covering a lot of ground while not even looking where you’re going. This causes over a million crashes every year, as this Google search will show you.

Anybody, even the most skilled driver, becomes an erratic driver when their attention is focused elsewhere. You can just tell when there’s a distracted driver ahead of you–they weave between their lane lines (and sometimes cross them), they are either driving way too slow or way too fast for the speed limit, and they either brake randomly or tailgate like crazy. Texting/distracted drivers scare the heck out of me, and for good reason. Thus, I don’t want to scare other drivers with my behavior.

How to Safely Read (NOT ANSWER) A Text While Driving

ONLY in emergency situations, if you are waiting for a text to tell you which hospital to go to, or where you need to be ASAP, here is a procedure I have followed:

  1. Make sure there are few to no other cars around (i.e., you’re not on a major highway)
  2. Make sure you are on a straightaway and there are no curves or lack of road shoulders ahead
  3. Hold the phone up on top of the steering wheel with one hand, so you can glance quickly down at the message and then glance back up. You should spend 4 of every 5 seconds looking at the road ahead.

Notice that I did not say “answer the text”, but “read the text.” If you need to ANSWER the text, pull over onto the side of the road or into a well-lit parking lot to do so, because this is not something you should attempt while the car is moving. (Trust me, I consider myself a master of multitasking, and yet when I tried to text I felt like I was completely out of control of the car. I couldn’t put the phone away fast enough.)

The Moral:

Don’t type a text while the car is moving–keep yourself AND others safe on the road!

Tuesday on the Soapbox

Bathroom Epiphanies

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bathroomepiphanies

Time on the toilet isn’t just for aimless contemplation over constipation!

Sorry, I just had to use that line. XD

Well, if I can get over my giggles long enough to write this post, I’ll share with you some of the accomplishments I’ve achieved while, uh, occupied with other matters. You wouldn’t believe how some quiet time (relatively speaking) can help you solve problems in other areas of your life!

The Infamous “Layout Fix”

One afternoon, I was having a terrible problem with spacing in one of my web designs; a divided layer in my layout insisted on ending up at the bottom of the layout rather than up with its friends and neighbors closer to the top. As invariably happens when I’m struggling with a problem, my frustration level soared, which sent me to the restroom within minutes. (I swear, as long as I do web design, I will never need Dulcolax, ever. LOL)

As I sat there, reading randomly in a magazine I was keeping in the bathroom for such purposes, it hit me (not literally): had I remembered to set the padding to 0px for that particular divided layer? Being rather new to the concept of CSS padding as I was, I wasn’t used to taking that into consideration. My frustration level began to settle, as did my stomach–I had hope of fixing the issue.

Once I was finished, I headed straight back to the computer and checked, and nope, I hadn’t set the padding. The default padding for divided layers is 2px, and that 2px was JUST enough to throw off my design. I typed in “padding: 0px;”, and watched my layout fix itself, with joy.

Inspired by Necessity: A New Recipe

I was busy in the kitchen in my apartment up near college one evening, trying to figure out something to cook for dinner that wasn’t ramen noodles or a microwave meal again. I didn’t want to chance screwing up my meal by burning something (as I am so wont to do), but I wanted something “comfort-food-y,” something yummy and warm, because it was so darned cold outside that it made my insides cramp just thinking about driving out in it. Not to mention that my poor tummy had been upset most of the day, anyway.

Well, as you might have guessed, I ended up in a position to sit and think for a while. This time, I was without a magazine (horror of horrors!), and so all I could do was think…and I ended up thinking about recipes for comfort food. (Strange place to be thinking about food, I know, but there I was!) Eventually I found myself thinking about what Mom used to fix when I was little and had an upset tummy, and a memory of a wonderful chicken-flavored casserole came to mind. Mind you, I didn’t remember what all was in it, specifically, but I remembered the creamy yumminess of what tasted like cream of chicken soup, mixed with some kind of stuffing crumbs and white meat chicken, all baked and comfortingly warm.

Once I was finished, I called home and asked, “What was that awesome casserole you used to fix when I was home sick from school, Mom?” She fetched the recipe and read it off to me over the phone, and with new motivation I braved the bitter weather long enough to get the ingredients. About an hour later, I was enjoying warm memories and tummy comfort.

The Super Epic Final Exam-Finishing Visit

I was one of the unfortunate students who caught the stomach bug going around the dorm room one fall semester, and wouldn’t you know it, I had a huge final paper in one of my English classes to do and turn in the next day. How much had I done on it? Umm…yeah, let’s just say they don’t call me “The Procrastinator” for nothing.

So, I was sitting in front of my laptop, alternating between typing, backspacing, checking Facebook, and groaning…and then, I realized that just verbally expressing my discomfort was not going to work anymore. Speed was necessary–but so was my final paper, which I was currently very stuck on. Thinking quickly, I grabbed up my laptop and headed toward relief.

Without my ethernet cable connection (this was 2004, so wireless internet in the dorms was still a thing of the future), I was utterly without Internet, but the session still proved to be very, uh, fruitful; I suddenly remembered I had some additional points to make in my final paper, which I had forgotten in the throes of the last cramp. It almost seemed as if my current situation helped unbind my brain, and I found myself with a lot more to type about the pieces of literature I was studying. I took all the time I needed (both meanings intended), and ended up finishing the final paper entirely. More astonishing than writing it in the bathroom was the fact that I was actually DONE with a final paper more than an hour before it was due!

The Moral of the Story

Time spent thinking is never wasted, no matter where it happens! ROFL!

Tuesday on the Soapbox

5 Real Social Coping Strategies

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5realsocialcoping
We all cope with society in various ways. Some of us use our smartphones to avoid conversations with strangers; some of us prefer the Internet to face-to-face communications. We are individuals roaming through a sea of more individuals, and most of us actively try to avoid threats and pass the time as peacefully as possible.

I’m certainly one of those who avoids conflict and threats as much as possible. I don’t like to be in or near fights; conflict makes me VERY uncomfortable. Thus, I find myself using certain coping strategies to make myself a non-threatening individual, to dissuade people from trying to harm me, and to maintain friendships. These are not entirely selfless strategies; I often do these things to keep my own sanity (or what I have left of it) more than anything.

Below are the social strategies I find myself using all the time, to maintain my social role as a “helper” and a non-threat.

#1: Saying “sorry” all the time

I’ve done this for so long that it’s become an instinct. Any time anything happens, whether it’s really my fault or not, I end up saying “sorry,” either to express regret or to express compassion. The slightly twisted reasoning behind it: if I say “sorry” enough, people might understand that I commiserate with them, and thus are more inclined to see me in a positive light later on.

#2: Being helpful

If I help someone, I boost them up–as well as boosting my own feelings of self-worth. Helping that person may also lead to them having a positive memory of me, making them less likely to harm me or act against me in the future.

#3: Being emotional

Though it seems counter-intuitive, this is also a coping strategy. I had to dig a while in my consciousness for this reasoning, but from what I’ve been able to gather, becoming overly emotional means that others are moved to help me calm down, forgetting for a moment their own gripes with each other. (I have actually done this quite often in situations where a group needs to pull together to make it through–I somehow express the stress of the rest of the group, and we end up becoming a more solid unit as a result.)

#4: Forgiving quickly (or at least saying that I have)

If I forgive quickly, I am perceived as somehow a “better” person–though I confess sometimes that I can’t forgive as easily as the words spring to my mouth. (That’s a hard thing to realize about myself.)

#5: Staying quiet when I have a minor complaint

I don’t like to make a “big scene” and will stay quiet rather than being assertive. Reason: I don’t want to be seen as a nag or as a bothersome person.

What I’ve Learned from Exploring My Coping Strategies

All of the above strategies focus around others seeing me as someone they want to be around, someone they want to help, and someone that they look on with favor. This is related heavily to my experience of severe loneliness early in my school life, which shaped me more than I wish to admit. My way of dealing with threats, usually in the form of another person who is more aggressive, is to make sure they do not perceive me as a similar threat. Only then can I have some semblance of peace, since I have maintained harmonious relationships with them.

Summary

Coping strategies are the unconscious tricks we all use to maneuver in society, but sometimes they don’t always function the way we intend. One reason I posted this is because I have to dig into why I act the way I do in order to change the malfunctioning strategies–for certain, I can’t go around the workplace crying every time I feel threatened!

Learning about our inner emotional workings is a freeing and somewhat disturbing experience, one that has helped me get a better handle on who I am and who I am becoming. Try it for yourself–what’s really making you act the way you do in certain social situations? You might just learn something really interesting about yourself in the process!

Tuesday on the Soapbox

Sheltering Branches

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shelteringbranches

overhanging_tree
I love the thick green of forest leaves in late spring and summer. Somehow, it feels as though the very air is thicker with life than it is in the barren, cold winter; birds hop along branches, and squirrels scurry up tree trunks to hide in the foliage. The delicate beauty of each thin leaf combines with its brethren to make a soft silhouette of shade on the grass, promising rest and relaxation.

Maybe it’s my inner hippie coming out, but forests have always felt sheltering to me. It surprised me to learn, while I was studying for my English major in college, that in literature, forests have often been used as the sites for sorcery and evil being afoot, such as in Young Goodman Brown. I guess it’s because my house is planted square in the middle of a large forest that I’ve always viewed forests as places of rest and safety. The screen of leaves, tree branches, and trunks fully obscures my home from the road, generally keeping us safe from robbers and trespassers. Sinuous branches arching over parts of the driveway and house may present a slight danger during ice storms, but for much of the year, they provide welcome respite for all sorts of little animals (and tired humans returning from shopping trips!).

tree_hanging_over_water
I’m the kind of person who will drive down the road, sight a particularly beautifully-shaped tree, and stop and take a picture of it; I’ll do the same for lovely vistas of foliage allowing just hints of sunlight to pierce through to the ground. What I love most is that trees and forests aren’t just beautiful, but useful–when I’m taking refuge from the sun under a pretty tree, it feels sometimes like I’m being watched over and protected. Other people seem to think the same thing, albeit unconsciously; when looking for a parking spot in the summer, the spots with trees shading them are usually taken first!

Even though trees might besmirch our cars with their sap, overly shade our front lawns, or even threaten our houses when they die and begin to lean, I still think they provide a restful counterpoint to human life. You can’t just stop and watch a tree grow, and yet they are in constant cycles of growth, as their rings tell us. They are perpetually still and yet vibrantly alive in the same moment, like a person in meditation. We spend our days rushing around for sustenance and shelter and comfort; they derive their sustenance and comfort from the ground underneath, and provide us with a little of the same.

Photos belong to: IPadWalls.com & The.Rain.Man’s photostream.

Tuesday on the Soapbox

Loneliness, the Bane of My Existence

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loneliness
Author’s Note: This post is pretty heavy lifting, emotionally, but this is one of the reasons that the category “Tuesday on the Soapbox” exists on this blog–it forces me, weekly, to dig into personal, social, political, moral, and ethical issues and really get down to what these problems are really about. If I’m not brave enough to tackle the minefield of my own emotional makeup, then I’m not really doing right by this category. And maybe those who read this post will be inspired to dig down into the detritus of their memories, as I have, and find some beautiful “a-ha!” moments along the way.

If you understand that I fear being lonely–not being alone, but being without people who love me and care for me–then you understand me. It literally rules everything I do. I am the way I am because I greatly fear the moment when I am utterly without love.

One might wonder why I, an only child of doting parents and loving extended family, would have grown up with this type of neurosis. I can give you a one-word answer: school.

Where Loneliness Grew

Everything I needed to know about life, I did learn in kindergarten. I learned that friendships were often political alliances; I learned that they could be made and broken in the same day. I learned that friendships were fragile because people were petty creatures, able to hate you or fear you deeply over nothing. Five-year-olds do all that just as well as 30-year-olds? You better believe it.

I was an only child, desperately seeking children my own age for friendship. But even the first day of kindergarten proved to me that I had royally bungled that attempt. I was exuberant and talked in outlandish imaginative words. I wasn’t used to having other kids to play with, they weren’t used to a weird kid like me, and I didn’t understand their “picking” and “teasing.” All this difference didn’t serve me very well, because soon I was the absolute outcast in the classroom, apparently too different to befriend or even speak to.

The Pattern Continues

Elementary school passed in much the same way–the glass wall between me and the rest of my classmates did not come down over time, but only strengthened. I would attempt to play with the popular kids, and they would laugh and walk away as if I wasn’t even human enough to treat with respect. I would try to talk to the kids sitting on the edges of the playground, who also looked lonely, and they would scream and run away as if I was some terrible monster. It made me feel unworthy to be alive. I had parents who loved me and told me I was a good person–but how good of a person could I be if my entire grade level couldn’t stand to be anywhere within ten feet of me? I was clean, I dressed neatly, and I was good at schoolwork. Despite this, was I somehow tainted?

Whatever was “wrong” with me in the eyes of my classmates has been a mystery to me since those long-ago days of early grade school. All I know is that my role in the school’s social system was established early on, and I was not allowed to move from that Godforsaken role until well into high school. I was the whole class’ emotional punching bag, no matter if you were a “nerd,” a “jock,” a “prep,” or anything else. Anybody could pick on me because I didn’t know how to defend myself against it, and it was apparently great fun making me cry because I gave people what they wanted–a response. I got teased for my hairstyles, my clothes, my grades, the way I walked, the way I talked, my height…absolutely anything and everything they could think of.

And yet, I continued to try to reach out to these people, because they were my classmates, for better or for worse, and they were the best shot I had at trying to form friendships with kids my own age. My life was school and home; I had no neighborhood of kids my age to come home to. I kept trying the same things expecting a different result, hoping that this attempt might get at least one of the kids to respond positively. Some days, after 7 1/2 fruitless hours of this, I came home and fervently prayed to God that I would die in my sleep. And that was just elementary school. Even then, I already knew death would be an escape from the horrible, crushing loneliness I felt.

Loneliness -> Depression

Around second grade, largely due to loneliness, I lapsed into what I now know as my first cycle of depression, which had been immediately preceded by several severe crying fits in the classroom. I cried because of the teasing; I cried because I was hurting emotionally. My second-grade teacher could not deal with me, so she sent me to the office, twice. I was reminded that if I had a third office visit, I would be suspended. I was horribly afraid of that third office visit (what it meant for my precious-seeming permanent record more than anything), and so I began to internalize my feelings so that I wouldn’t be sent to the office and permanently marked as a “bad kid.”

Depression came to join loneliness very soon after, at the same time my teacher began to praise me for my magical “turnaround” in my behavior. If she had only known what she had helped to engender in me; the sadness stagnated within me and festered into a darker emotional infection. My life thus became my schoolwork; pride in my work took the place of friendship. If I could not have friends, then I would just be the best in school and no one could disrespect me for that.

I spent the rest of elementary school in this fog, which only a few people pierced through to become friends; I still remember them fondly and have kept up with them over the years. But I remember also the silences which followed every “cool” comment I tried to make in groups; everyone just got awkwardly quiet, and then resumed talking as if I had never spoken. I also remember the moments of aching for someone to just recognize that I was there, that I was a fellow human being, and being too afraid to make the first move for fear of being laughed at and teased. (Isn’t it funny how our brains focus on the negative memories?)

Middle School: A Fertile Ground for Loneliness Indeed

Middle school did not clear this fog very much; in fact, as my body bloomed into its bigger adult form, I began to be teased for my weight as well as everything else. To think that I had looked forward to middle school, thinking would be better because I was with people from two other elementary schools, and I could make a clean slate of things. Unfortunately, the kids from my elementary school warned the kids from the other schools about me on the FIRST DAY, spreading vicious rumors and lies that they had grown up to believe about me.

By the second day of sixth grade, I was again an outcast, except with three times more people around to either tease or ignore me. But now, instead of just verbal abuse, I was physically assaulted, as well. Other kids slammed my head against lockers, held me against the wall so they could jiggle and pinch my flesh. A gang of six girls got together to torment me in the bathroom, dumping bathroom trash (used tampons and pads) down on my head in the bathroom stall, standing on each other’s shoulders to look down at me while I tried to use the restroom in peace. (Years later, I watched the movie Carrie and envied the title character for her ability to get back at all the hateful people in her life. I was all too familiar with the tactics her enemies used against her; the movie hit far too close to home.)

The Only Defense Against Loneliness

If it hadn’t been for seventh-grade choir, I probably would not be alive today. Choir gave me a sudden reason to live–I was suddenly one of the strongest singers in the choir, and other people depended on me for the voice part, whether they liked me or not. I was suddenly useful. The loneliness sped away when I sung with the group, because I had a purpose and I had people who needed me; it didn’t matter that I was fat, that I wore “high-water” pants, or that I still cried easily. Thus I learned something else about society–as long as I was useful, people would like me. I also discovered that I had a gift for vocal music, and coupled with the writing I had begun to do more of, I began to cling a little more closely to life.

Outwardly, I began to be more self-assured as I left middle school and went into high school. I looked very confident and poised on my graduation day, when I urged my classmates in a graduation speech to “be bold” and grab their futures. All through college, as well, I was considered to be studious, helpful, and well-educated, and people depended on me for help in tough classes. I was eager to help, not only because I enjoyed seeing other people achieve their best, but because they were genuinely grateful for my help and appreciated me.

Where Loneliness Still Blooms

But even as successful and “happy” as I appear, even today in my late twenties, I am actually no more self-assured now than I was back in seventh grade, as my teacher training so painfully taught me. As I watched my seventh-grade students flounder in loneliness and self-doubt, I saw myself…even the “teacher” skin could not cover it. I’m a Magna Cum Laude college graduate, generally well-liked by the people in my life, loved by a wonderful Christian man, and on my way to becoming successful with the writing and music I used to keep myself alive. Yet, I still apologize for everything and do my best not to get in people’s way. My past has taught me to err on the side of being too nice and too friendly. If I am considered “nice” and “friendly,” people will like me; if people like me, they’ll stay close to me, and never betray me.

Yeah, I’m a pretty pathetic person once you get to know me. I’ve been crushed by loneliness and depression for so much of my life that it’s almost more normal than normal. Almost everything about me is a coping strategy–my helpful nature, my humor, my writing, my music, even my gaming. Everything I do helps me deal with the horrible fear of being lonely as I once was, even as I’m surrounded with people who care about me. I live in fear of the ill-considered remark, the unintentional slight, the momentary mistake that leads to someone leaving my life.

With the help of my beloved, my friends, and my family, I am starting to dig out from under this loneliness…but it’s going to take a long time to free myself from these choking vines. But I hope one day I can see others as purely friendly instead of as potential enemies, and be rid of this loneliness at last.

Tuesday on the Soapbox

Think Before You Type

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thinkbeforeyoutype
Have an idea for a hilarious joke to post on Facebook? Maybe a prank comment on one of your friends’ statuses? How about a note detailing all the crazy things you and a bunch of friends got into on Saturday night?

Instead, how about not clicking “Post” just yet, and instead rereading what you wrote?

Why Reread? Because It Could Save You a Lot of Pain

Rereading won’t take long. Just for a few seconds, think about how your parents will understand this post, or how your boss will take it. If it’s a joke or prank on a friend, think about how this friend might interpret your words. Is it as funny? Does it make sense to post it now? And, most important of all, would you be comfortable with a potential employer, new friends, or a future significant other seeing this five or six years from now?

The reason I bring this up is because a lot of things get posted on Facebook these days that really shouldn’t be broadcasted. Though writing statuses or notes on Facebook seems harmless, sometimes thoughtless words can get you fired or spark fights (like the Facebook fight over a boy which resulted in a girl’s death).

If You Didn’t Reread Before Posting, You Can Still Delete

We all have things out there on the Internet that represent who we WERE, not who we ARE now–especially if you’ve had an online presence for a long time. But if we don’t delete things that no longer represent who we are, they don’t just vanish into the digital mist; they’re still archived somewhere, and someone may well access it one day much later when it’s embarrassing (or even incriminating) rather than funny or cool.

This is one reason I’ve gone about the Internet deleting and cleaning up my very old profiles. I’ve changed and grown up a lot since I first started using the Internet; I used to curse a lot, for instance. Now that I’m older and more professionally-minded, I don’t want bosses or new friends coming across things I posted that no longer fit my personality, my hopes and dreams, or my ambitions. (I am aware that archives of my old stuff may still exist somewhere on the Internet, but at least my deletions will make it much harder to retrieve.)

So now, before I post anything on the Internet, even blog posts like this one, I stop and think, “Could this possibly get me in trouble someday? Could someone take this the wrong way? How does this reflect on me as a person?” This keeps me from posting a lot of (usually frustrated) statuses that wouldn’t serve any good purpose anyway, and it also keeps me from accidentally offending anyone, which could easily come back to bite me in an uncomfortable bodily region later.

Summary

Since so much of our lives are on the Internet these days (even our work and family lives), it’s important to think carefully before posting anything online. This doesn’t mean that we live “fake” lives on social media, but that we just think as much about what we type as what we say in person.

Tuesday on the Soapbox

Love Transforms Us

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lovetransformsus
The “love” of which I speak in this article can be romantic love, the love of friendship, or the love of God, but its power does not get diluted in the slightest by its different denominations. Love is a powerful force is in our lives, and I have personally witnessed and experienced what a profound effect it can have on us–I believe love can change us when everyone and everything else cannot.

(This post, admittedly, is my attempt to speak of what I don’t quite grasp yet, so it might be a little out there. But it’s been a rare uplifting topic on my mind for a few weeks, so I decided to write about it.)

Romantic Love: A Motivator for Personal Change

For years, I hated myself. Absolutely, definitively, hated myself. Imperfection was the big concern for me–I wasn’t mistake-free, of course, and I got picked on in school for every mistake I made, mostly because I made such a big deal about it. I even began to self-mutilate because of my perfectionism, ranging from beating my own head with my fist to biting the first phalange of my right index finger. I wanted to be perfect, and when I couldn’t be, I had to punish myself. Disturbed logic as it was, it made sense to me in the moment. I didn’t consider myself worthy of love because of my imperfection.

Though I am not completely free of self-mutilation today, I do it a lot less frequently (and with less vigor) than I used to. That, I can credit almost completely to the supportive, healing love my longtime boyfriend has offered me. He doesn’t yell at me or deride me when I begin to bite my finger (as is my wont when life is generally not going my way). He instead sits with me and talks to me, literally “talking me down” from hurting myself any worse. He’s told me several times that seeing me hurt myself frightens him and makes him sad, and that he would rather that I hurt him than hurt myself. (Of course, I would never hurt anybody else–that’s one reason I turn my anger on myself rather than hit somebody who might deserve a good punch in the face. XD)

Over the years we have been together, I have watched my need to self-mutilate shrink to an occasional thing rather than an everyday thing, and I find myself sharing my little successes with him, telling him that it’s been four days since I last bit, or maybe even a week and a half since I last bit. One day at a time? Indeed. It is a daily process, but his support and his love make it possible for me to let the dark crescents of bite marks on my fingers heal, and for me to stop needing to inflict more. This healing relationship has helped me to transform, in a way I never imagined I could be any different.

The Love of God: An Amazing Changing Force

In the mid-2000s, I knew a lady in her early thirties who was a friend of a friend’s family. She stayed with them a few weeks at a time, when she was between houses and between jobs; I soon grew to understand why she was often between houses and between jobs, since her drug use and drinking were a major part of her life, as well as abusive men who stole from her and tried to control her. She spoke often of being so strung out she didn’t know where she was, and on late nights my friend and I would hear her begin to cry, only to fall asleep in the middle of her tears. I didn’t really know what to say to her, how to talk to her so that maybe I could help her–it seemed like she was already an old woman in a young woman’s body, with medical problems and addictions that thinned her brown hair and shrunk her face so much that she looked like a faded portrait of herself.

She moved out of my friend’s house for the last time in 2007, and we lost contact with her afterwards. I worried that she was in prison or in a homeless shelter somewhere; I hoped maybe she had found a place to live somewhere else, away from all the bad memories. The last place I expected to see her again was my church in March of 2011, coming down the aisle to talk to the preacher about moving her membership there.

As I stood in the choir loft that morning, singing the verses of the invitation hymn that called anyone who wanted a few moments to pray at the altar to come down, I saw a trim but healthy-looking woman stand up from one of the back pews and walk down the center aisle toward the front of the church. Her hair, wavy and thick, was highlighted, warm blonde atop light brown, and she wore a smile and a glow that spoke of being whole at long last; she wore a simple blouse and skirt, looking put-together and professional. I did not know her, I was sure–and yet, as she clasped hands with the minister and began to speak to him quietly, I felt that somehow, I did know her. It was not until she turned and glanced at me, and her eyes brightened with recognition, that it finally clicked; she was the friend of a friend’s family from so long ago. She was so utterly changed, inside and out, that the memory I had of her didn’t match at all.

After church services were over, I came down from the choir loft and went to speak to her. There was a radiance about her that almost made me disbelieve she was the same woman I had known before–gone was the frail old-young woman who was sometimes too strung out to answer the door, and in her place was a woman with a new grace and stability. I didn’t get to speak to her long, but I walked away knowing that the love of God had transformed yet another soul, one I never would have guessed could have been reached. The completeness I sensed was so touching and poignant that I found myself weeping. Just as God had transformed my life through the love of a good man, so had He done hers through time and spiritual rediscovery.

I Don’t Know How It Works, But I’m Glad It Does!

I don’t know exactly how these transformations take place. All I know is that it’s hard for me to look back at the way I was before I met my boyfriend and feel the self-hatred thrumming through my memories, because I am quite different now. Yes, the hate does come back on occasion, when I’ve missed a turn on the road for the fifth time, or when I just can’t solve that last puzzle that will make a website work. But it’s a lot less often now. The love God brought into my life changed that for me, just as He changed the woman I once knew from helpless and broken to complete and joyful. Love, in all its forms, can indeed transform us as no other force can on earth.

Tuesday on the Soapbox

Depression: Not Dirty Laundry

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depressionnotdirtylaundry
Depression isn’t something our society talks about very much. I don’t mean our “global” society–certainly in the celebrity world, we’ve heard quite a bit about depression over the last few decades. But in our individual societies, our towns, cities, apartment buildings, family units, groups of friends, we do not discuss depression very much. When it strikes our friends, or even our own family members, we are often the very last to know that there was even a problem to begin with.

It’s sad that depression just doesn’t get talked about, not even with family. It’s somehow a shameful thing, or something we are “meant” to endure alone, not something to share…somehow, it’s almost too painful and personal to share. On the rare occasions when I have brought up the subject of depression, most people brush it aside–they either don’t want to talk about it (“I don’t like discussing somebody’s emotional dirty laundry”) or they disregard it as a real illness (“Well, if they’d go back to church/get a job/get out of their relationship/get in a relationship, they’d get out of it”).

In this article, I seek to dispel some common misconceptions as well as offer some definitions of what depression does to a person.

Depression is not just being “sad.”

What most non-depression sufferers do not understand is that depression is not just “feeling sad,” but feeling NOTHING, as Allie Brosh of Hyperbole and a Half describes in her two posts on surviving her own depression. Things you used to love, you could care less about now. Life itself seems pointless, and enjoyment seems beyond the scope of your mind.

For instance, when I suffered my last major attack of depression in 2008-2009, I watched as all my creative processes slipped away into the mist–first, my web designing, then my poetry, then my musical composing, and finally my singing. I didn’t just feel sad; I felt as if nothing was enjoyable anymore, and I suddenly had no mental energy left to do anything anymore.

Depression is not mere laziness or “being emo.”

It angers me when somebody implies that depressed people are just “being lazy.” Laziness isn’t even part of it–you WANT to get up, you WANT to do things, but the minute you try to climb out of the bed, the horrible nothingness crushes in on you again, leaving you breathless, absolutely unable to fight the slow encroachment of despair. Suddenly, everything takes so much darn effort; just going to the store and facing the stares of people is unbearable, and just the thought of trying to talk to somebody becomes a terror-inducing idea.

As for being “emo,” the emo and goth cultures simply romanticize depression as sadness, and make a fantasy out of suicide; I dealt with the grisly realities of depression and suicide when I drove down the road every day after teaching and thought about driving straight into a telephone pole, just to end the monotony that my life had become. That wasn’t normal for me–I was nonviolent and shuddered to think about death, and yet I was nearly overcome with the need to escape my life.

Depression eats your identity and your life.

Each time I suffered depression, especially the last time, I felt hollowed out…and yet, to all the rest of my friends and family, I was normal. They could not see what I felt inside, and since I felt unable to talk to anybody about it (including God–it was like I had forgotten how to pray!), I endured most of it alone. Having lost the ability to feel and think as normal, having lost the will to be creative, my inner self seemed like just a shell of my previous personality, and I simply kept up the facade to keep others from asking questions and giving me advice I couldn’t even begin to follow.

My life’s normal rhythms, too, seemed lost in a void. During the last attack of depression, I often came home from student teaching, thunked my books and papers on the desk, stripped off my shoes, and landed in the bed almost fully clothed, to sleep for nearly 6 hours. Then I’d be up in the middle of the night frantically trying to grade papers and crying too much for me to even focus on the task. Again, nobody else saw this; I tried to hide this change in routine even from myself. Depression overrode who I was for those endless months, leaving me with little energy, lots of irritability and impatience, and an overwhelming combination of boredom and sorrow.

Depression manifests in different forms.

My experience of depression is not uncommon, but there can be other symptoms. Other depressed and formerly depressed people reported loss of interest in hygiene, hoarding trash items, not going out in public anymore, and avoiding social contact, as well as trying to self-medicate with drugs and alcohol. Some depressed people don’t think about suicide all the time, but it can happen with any manifestation.

For non-sufferers, realize that this illness changes a person, and the depressed person needs your compassion and understanding. Depression attacks every part of you, body, mind, and soul, but sometimes the attacks are a little more visible than other times. People who seem wonderfully well-adjusted in public may lock themselves away at night and weep about formless problems that make no sense.

Depression can be fixed.

The thing that really helps with depression are good friends and family who keep asking after you, who keep trying to contact you regardless. They can help you remember what’s good about life, as my friends and family did for me.

I was incredibly lucky to not only have a supportive immediate family, but a wonderful boyfriend who stood by me, loving me regardless of the changes in my personality during that time. That, plus a timely divine intervention, saved me. (I literally was sitting on the end of my bed staring at the stacks and stacks of papers I had to grade, the stacks and stacks of assignments I had to complete for my graduate school courses, and I found myself thinking, “I might as well kill myself–I’ll never get them all done.” Then, a little thought I couldn’t identify as mine popped into my head: “Why do you want to kill yourself over pieces of paper?” Up until then, I thought the “still, small voice of God” was just a poetic metaphor. I have since experienced it as a real phenomenon, and it snapped me out of my desperation just enough to begin to heal.)

For other depressed people, antidepressants work wonders and keep them stable long enough for them to recreate a life for themselves. I was desperately trying to avoid having to “take a pill every day for the rest of my life to stay happy,” and for now, I’ve managed it, but that doesn’t mean I won’t need one in the future. Depression can sometimes recur in cycles, but it is manageable if you get help (or have great friends and family who help you get help).

A Few Final Thoughts

One reason I decided to write this post is because I read an eye-opening book called The Noonday Demon, which is all about depression, its effects on people, its history and social knowledge, etc. Reading about others’ experiences with depression has helped me recognize more symptoms within myself and others. Though it’s a jarring, poignant read, I believe this book is very useful in learning how to empathize with depression survivors.

By sharing my personal experiences of depression, I hope I’ve taken away some of the “dirty laundry” characterization of the illness. I was able to climb out of my depression without the use of antidepressants, thankfully, but there are an unfortunate number of people who cannot climb out without them. Depression comes in all shapes and sizes, all severities, and affects anyone. It strikes sometimes out of nowhere. And surviving it does not mean you’re any stronger than someone who is still suffering–it just means you’re lucky.

Tuesday on the Soapbox

Respect Retail Workers

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respectretailworkers
Retail workers, as well as customer service personnel in general, have a very tough job, in my opinion, because they have direct contact with the public.  We as customers, admittedly, can be awfully tough on salesmen and saleswomen at times–how often have you seen another customer yelling at a cashier in line at a big-box store, or getting agitated while trying to return an item?  Heck, haven’t we all BEEN that customer at some point?

What we as customers don’t realize is that we individually aren’t the only people that retail workers see all day.  Literally hundreds of people pass through their store every day, and each of them have their own set of demands to make.  Having worked retail myself, and having two parents who have worked pharmacy retail for nearly 40 years, I not only have heard horror stories, I’ve lived them, too.  Customer service and retail workers have a very difficult job, and it’s certainly not for everyone.

Why should we respect these people who chose to take on this job?  Here are several reasons:

They are expected to stand all day long.

Most healthy people don’t think twice about standing in line for a few minutes, even if the wait is boring.  But how about standing on your feet for 6 hours with no rest, or 8, or even 10 or 12?  This is what is demanded of most retail workers who have to serve at cashier counters and the like.  You cannot sit down–if you do, it looks like you’re on break, and you have to “look available,” no matter how bad you hurt.

For me, this turned out to be impossible to deal with–I have terrible nerve pain, bruising, and swelling of the legs and feet that make it excruciating to stand or walk for long periods of time.  Needless to say, I had to quit one of the retail positions I took because I hurt so badly.  But I saw many co-workers stand for hours without breaking a sweat or even losing their smiles.  They bore up under that physical strain, which is much more than it looks, and they did it while looking pleasant and friendly.  Not only do retail workers have to bear their physical pain day in and day out, but they have to make it look effortless so that their customers feel that they are being served by happy people.

They are expected to deal with people who treat them like sub-human beings.

Some people are just plain mean to customer service personnel.  As soon as they come in the door, retail workers cringe–suddenly, retail workers are the “enemy,” somehow, even though part of their job description is to be ready to help.  For instance, there was a woman I waited on in a local bookstore one time who barely even looked me in the eye, even as I tried to be friendly and assist her; she eventually called the manager on me twice, once because I was “hounding her,” and the second time because “I wasn’t assisting her.”  I was, admittedly, glad to see the back of her–I felt as if I were the lowest bug in the dirt when she spoke to me, and it made me mad, because I didn’t deserve to be treated that way.

When you walk into a store or restaurant, it is important to at least treat the workers with civility, even if you don’t feel much like being friendly.  They are fellow human beings, after all, doing honest work for a paycheck just like you.  Believe me, a friendly customer is a blessing–someone who understands how busy a store or restaurant can get, someone who waits patiently rather than shouting “serve me now!!”.  Unfortunately, these customers are a minority–more often, you get shouted at, cursed at, or generally ignored until needed, as if you are a soulless creature with no emotion.

They are expected to instinctively know when their place of employment is being robbed/defrauded.

No human is equipped with eyes in the back of his or her head.  But it sometimes feels as if you need that surgery to be effective employees in retail work!  Somehow, amid your regular work of serving customers, running their purchases through, and keeping the business clean and tidy, you are also supposed to know just when a shady customer is about to make a five-finger discount.  It’s not easy–those who like to steal usually disguise themselves pretty well, and it’s hard to be assertive enough to walk up to somebody and say “Have you paid for that yet?”, not knowing if you’re going to get a gun or knife pulled on you.  Bravery is one of those “hidden” job requirements for retail personnel of any sort.

They are expected to take on-the-fly schedule changes without a frown.

Someone sick on Wednesday night when you have choir practice?  No buts about it–you’re coming in to work.  Your kid have a performance on Tuesday night, but the boss needs you to do emergency inventory?  No way around it–you’re coming in to work.  Retail workers are expected to pretty much have no highly-scheduled life outside of their jobs, because you never know when you’ll be called upon to cover someone else’s shift, or do extra work outside of normal job hours.  You are literally supposed to drop everything, even if that “everything” is really important to you, because people must be on hand to man the storefront. Since retail these days rarely even stops for holidays, the whole career is very time-sensitive, and you have to be ready to work at any time.

Admittedly, many jobs are like this these days, with people becoming more mobile and business becoming more demanding.  Still, with retail being as punishing on the body as it is, you often need more time to recover than your schedule can give.

They are expected to be constantly ready to give 100% or better.

Are you a cashier?  You better scan and bag those items super-fast. Are you a waiter?  You better never drop a dish or forget a customer.  Are you a receptionist?  You better type at over 100 words a minute or bust.  And there’s tons of other retail- and customer-service-oriented jobs that demand more than your best.

Whenever you deal with customers, they generally expect you to be expert at your job, know where everything is, be able to answer any questions–you are their window into the business, and they need information and service fast.  Many things are automated by machines these days, so it’s not surprising that many people treat human service personnel as if they should be machines too, never making a mistake, never forgetting a detail, and never needing to rest.  Unfortunately, not all of us can be Commander Data of the U.S.S. Enterprise; we get stressed out, overtired, or just plain sick, and things tend to go awry because we’re not functioning at 100% anymore.  But we still have to look and act like we’re functioning at 100%.

Summary:

When you’re a customer, keep in mind that the person waiting on you has likely been there for hours. He or she may be in pain, stressed or tired, or may be missing out on a part of life that doesn’t involve their job. But he or she is still serving you, and trying hard to meet your needs. 

Even if salespeople seem surly or rude, patience and a smile can alleviate that very quickly–answering them with rude comments of your own will only exacerbate the situation.  Be kind to retail workers; they’re doing their job so you don’t have to do it for yourself!