Perspective

I’m trying to work on my perspective. I’m not stuck in the bottom of a deep, dark hole nor am I lost wandering in a stone cold labyrinth. Horrific images and vicious voices are relatively quiet (just mentioning them brings murmurs and scenes and I must nod at them, to acknowledge them, and they recede). But I am tired. Not exhausted, but deeply tired with sore, aching muscles that feel like they are made of lead. Even my heart feels like lead. I’m angry that I’m so tired. I wake up tired, I go to work tired and get sore, and I come home to walk the dog and eat – in pain and tired. I fall to bed when it’s still light outside, and for mid September in a far northern state that’s pretty damn early. Weekends are a mix of friend and family responsibilities punctuated with bouts of crying and long periods of bed rest. I’ve been at this for a few weeks now, and it’s not getting better but it’s not getting worse. I’ve found my rut for the next nine months.

I feel sorry for myself and I’m angry. I used to enjoy life. I used to work with passion and play with passion. I used to have gusto. Now I trudge. I drum up a bit of the old gusto in the classroom, and I like to be there, figuring out what the faces of the children mean….are they understanding a new concept? Confused? Bored? Entertained? I want so much for them to learn something, to engage in the content and the process of history, to apply the content and process of history to their lives today, to get insight, to find their place, to develop opinions, to be critical of and also love and appreciate their country. I want it so much for them, as I want for myself to have that engagement in life. I could replace the words “history” and “country” in that sentence with “life” for myself. It’s what I want for myself, and so I try desperately to have a shadow of it in the classroom for me and for them. But I end up angry that it’s just a shadow, an act. I am tired and disappointed at the end of the day when I go home and instead of living with passion I plod through the evening’s routine and fall into bed, uneasy with emotion, hurting both physically and in my heart. How sad that I pretend so much. The gulf between what I portray and who I am seems as wide as ever. Not only has my life derailed, it is de-real.

I belong to an online forum for people with disabilities. The spectrum of disabilities runs from physical to emotional, from almost complete dependence on others for food/shelter/clothing to self-supporting professionals. When I read about their lives, I find a common human element that begs me to change my perspective from sorry and angry to acceptance and thankfulness. One person may write about their bad day that included a trip to the ER and worries about whether or not the food stamps will be enough to pay for food for their family for the rest of the month. Their triumph might be that their dog comforted them and they didn’t get angry with the insensitive nurse. Another might write about how their PCP was verbally abusive toward them and their PTSD kicked in but they didn’t totally lose it, and they might get another PCP to help them shower. Some of these people are completely dependent on the State and the kindness of the people who are paid by the State (in pennies, I imagine) to care for them in very basic ways, i.e. bathing, shopping for food, and taking the right medicines. Their excitement for getting a new shirt or an outing to the mall is immense and such treats are in no way in their direct control. They have trouble finding doctors, therapists, and psychiatrists that will treat them because so many don’t accept their kind of medical insurance and the ones that do have waiting lists. They have trouble finding rides to their medical appointments when they do get them and are at the mercy of public transportation. Sometimes they can’t keep time straight and miss their appointment. These problems stand out in stark contrast to the problems on the other end of the spectrum. A person might write about how the graduate program they applied to is quite expensive. Or how nobody in the fancy restaurant understands why they have a service dog because they don’t look disabled.

My brother once said that it’s not fair to compare the pain of the guy with a broken leg to the pain of the guy with two broken legs. He said that just because one guy has “more” pain, it doesn’t decrease the pain of the guy with less pain, the guy with less pain still feels pain. I struggle with this, as I struggle with where my perspective lies. It’s pretty damn easy to focus on the tiredness and soreness and lack of enjoyment in my life. And I suppose I need to validate those physical and emotional feelings. But then I read about the lives of the people on my disability forum and I can’t help but be thankful for my independence, medical insurance, and warm support of family and friends. I have financial security and a home that I love that is almost paid for. I can shower by myself and wipe my own ass. So am I supposed to focus on what I have? And when I do, what do I do with the dark, angry sarcastic ones inside that make rude comments about how wonderful it is that I can wipe my own ass? In a heartbeat I move my perspective from being thankful for what I have to feeling guilty for having negative feelings like sadness and anger. It is not long before the guilt turns to shame for who I am – an imposter, a dysfunctional monster functioning in a loving world. I appear to be a strong and independent woman helping children develop a sense of place in their world, a loving and devoted friend and wife, when really I’m a scared and depressed child clinging to her husband and her therapist for safety, searching for a reason to live another day.

Despite the fact that I own my own home and have a successful career, I’m sad and angry and tired and sore. I don’t want to be those things anymore. I want a healthy body and mind. And I am ashamed that I can’t be thankful that I can wipe my own ass.