Would you?

Christ of Saint John of the Cross

Here's an open letter to SSM and SL that is 20+ years in the making.

Dear SSM and SL,

How are you? Long time no talk.

I was writing in regards to a meeting we had a little over 20 years ago. It was when I left the convent and we just had a face-to-face to kind of wrap things up, I suppose. Oh my, did I leave that meeting angry. But, I drove off in my brand new VW Jetta, my freedom mobile, you might say.

The thing is, I did leave that meeting angry, but then went on with the rest of my life. I didn't realize just how much things said in that meeting really cut me to pieces. Shamed me is probably a good way to put it. But, the other day, I saw a picture of you, SSM, at a fundraising event for the community that was posted on social media. I did not expect to have such a visceral response. It was like I was punched in the gut and blown away at the sight of you. Bam! I was back in that meeting in that room with the crucifix on the wall and the two of you on one side of table facing me.

I don't think, or at least I hope, you didn't intend to shame me.

Mental health crises are real. The struggle people like me go through are not choices. In my case, my mom stepped in to get me truly life saving care from a psychiatrist because of the deep depression and anxiety I was experiencing while in the convent. Part of that care was to leave. I told you I was leaving. And, right now I remembered another thing that pained me. It seems my leaving was not communicated to others as it should have been. As I was packing, the other postulant came at me because she did not know about the situation. She proceeded to tell me I was in the wrong for just getting my stuff and going. She was not told that I was coming to do that. She and I already had our struggles, so this just added to that whole experience.   

Back to mental health and suffering now. Being told that your own suffering is not real suffering because real suffering was what Christ experienced on the cross. Here's the thing, though. From what the story says, Christ chose to suffer. The details about what crucifixion entails are horrifying, I will admit. That is some hardcore pain and anguish. But he did choose it. I did not choose to have major depressive disorder or anxiety. 

Let me ask you this, would you:

• Tell someone who had been diagnosed with terminal cancer to look at the cross and see what true suffering is?
• Ask a child who is in the foster system after surviving the terrible abuse inflicted upon them by the parent(s) who should have loved and protected them to look at the cross and see what true suffering is?
• Say to a legal citizen of this country who was "deported" to a prison and torn from their family to look at the cross and see what true suffering is?

I'm working on not to "should" myself anymore. I'm trying not to tell myself that I "should" be over things. It is time that I stop minimizing my experiences with my mental health because someone else has great suffering. 

I'm trying recognized that one's suffering isn't negated because another has it worse. That game serves no one well. My hope is that you try not to play that game, too.

With the sincerity I am able to offer at this time,

Meg

What to do? What to do?

 I've made no secret of my past life as a Roman Catholic. You can find posts about it on this very blog.

Lately, the trauma of that time has been creeping up - it's been over 20 years. I've been having lots of thoughts about my time (brief though it may have been) joining a religious order. The thoughts are more about my post-exit. My first major depressive episode was while I was in the convent. The psychiatrist my mom took me to told me to move out as soon as possible. I did. He started me on some meds and things started to turn around. A month or two after leaving the convent, I had to meet with the two sisters who were in charge of my formation as a postulant. I left that meeting angry and hurt. Frankly, I think that may have been when the actual trauma of that whole time of my life hit.

I value that religious community and the role it has played throughout my life. The have a page on Facebook, which I follow. It allows me to see what they are up to. For the most part, it's good to see. But, every so often I will see pictures with those two specific sisters from that meeting. Sometimes, especially lately, seeing them takes me back to that room, back to being told, while pointing back at the wall, that my suffering is nothing compared to the true suffering of Jesus Christ on the Crucifix. What. The. Actual. Fuck?

Is this why people shouldn't seek out exes on social media? Is this a bad idea? Should I stop following the group that means so much because of these two popping up in my feed occasionally? 

I just don't know.    

Our Father

This post's theme has been sitting in my drafts for months. 

I was thinking about my dad. It's not something unlike me to do. This whole grieving process is really something. You never know when a happy or sad memory will hit. It can be such a little thing that triggers it. Or, it's day on a calendar that marks some significant time in your life together. 

I lost my father. 

My four siblings lost their father.

We all lost the man who fathered the five of us.

However, when I think about it, we all lost a different dad. Each of us had our own relationships with him. Our memories and experiences differ. 

I read something one of my older brothers wrote about memories of things he got to do in his childhood with our father. It really struck me. It was sweet. It was his dad. They had their things. Things I didn't share in.

My childhood with my dad didn't involve days at the then Cleveland Indians' games. I went to evening Mass with my dad and would get a sucker from the corner drug store on our walk home. He would lie on the couch and watch public television. I would climb up and lie on his belly and watch Julia Child cook something neither of us would ever make. I would hang out with my dad on Saturday afternoons after my morning class at The Cleveland Museum of Natural History. Before heading home, we'd make a stop at Lakeview Cemetery to visit my grandparents' and other family members' graves. Then we'd stop at Hough Bakery where I would get a Lady Lock. 

When I was older, he gave me his copy of The Catcher in the Rye from his teenage years when it first was published. He said that he thought I'd like it. How did he know? Also, I became his date to see A Christmas Carol at Cleveland's Playhouse Square. We did this a few years in a row. Then we went on to get tickets for a partial season to see the world renowned Cleveland Orchestra at beautiful Severance Hall. We even got to experience the performance of my dreams when we had tickets for Carl Orff's Carmina Burana.  (My dad had the 1975 album that was a recording of the Cleveland Orchestra at Severance Hall in 1974. When I was little, the album art shocked and horrified me.)

Those experiences were with my dad.

Our Little Song

LITTLE HANDS
By Inland Sky

Little hands
The world is yours
Hold it close with open arms
Little feet
With miles ahead
Take it slow, see it all, take it in

I see me in you
You in me
I see me in you
You in me
I see it in your eyes
I see it in your eyes

Little heart
Dance it out
So the ins and outs won’t bring you down
Little dream
Grow up tall
With a little rain, a little sun, you’ll feel love

I see me in you
You in me
I see me in you
You in me
I see it in your eyes
I see it in your eyes

Little hands
The world is yours
Hold it close with open arms
Little hands

I came upon this song when making an Instagram post about the grandson. It got me in the feels and became our song to listen to when in the car.

My grandson is not biologically related to me. I do not have any biological children, as I've written about before on this blog. My daughter, Conner is Shawn's from a previous marriage. But, I'm still "GrandMeg" to this little boy and I never look at him as a "step."

There has always been a nature vs. nurture argument in human development. I recognize that the lyrics to this song may seem to be about biology - seeing oneself in a child your grandchild. However, as a hands-on grandparent who has been one of his primary caretakers while Conner works, I think I've had some role in nurturing this boy. I think I am able to see me in him and him in me. 

The boy with the little hands and little feet pictured above is having his 4th birthday today. How can that be? It seems like his birth to now went in a flash. At the same time, I don't really remember my pre-GrandMeg life. He has Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) and has had some developmental delays along the way. But, this not-so-little guy has grown so much physically and mentally that he leaves all of those who love him in awe. It has not been an easy road for him and for us. It is our road, though, with many miles ahead.

I hold his little hand to keep him safe when crossing the street or walking through a store. I imagine one day he will hold my little hand to keep me safe when climbing a stair or getting out of a car. We will have a full circle moment when I will still see me in him and him in me.