beth anderson

Another day, another misconception…

I’m not intimidating, you’re intimidated. There’s a difference. I’m not mean, nor aggressive, I am honest and assertive and that makes you uncomfortable. And it’s not ME that makes you uncomfortable, my PRESENCE challenges your comfort. I will not be less for you to feel better about yourself. from Lessons Taught By Life

Things happen for reasons. In a world where my thoughts, opinions, and actions have been misunderstood, misconstrued, and/or misinterpreted for decades, “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore!” Many thanks to Peter Finch for uttering these iconic words in the film Network.

The opening quote appeared as I scrolled through Pinterest this morning. Though I’m not wild about posting stuff that contains grammatical errors, at times I can’t be picky. Before you assume something that isn’t accurate, I taught English for 25 years. It’s part of my being to spot errors.

Like many women of a certain age, I was raised to be kind, respectful, and well-mannered. In our day, that really meant, “keep your opinions to yourself.” Ladies were not expected to be outspoken or to defend themselves verbally. Hell, we weren’t allowed to vote until a little over a century ago.

I do not view myself as an intimidating individual. Genetically I was created to have a physical presence. Maintaining a physical presence should not insinuate intimidation. In the same way, I was also created to have an intellectual presence. Ditto in regard to intimidation.

Over the years I’ve learned that, as an individual, my existence counts. That includes, but isn’t limited to: my emotions, my values, my opinions, my actions, my beliefs. Due to some situations not in my control, I was also blessed with mental health challenges. This is the part where some of you say, “See? I told you she was nuts.” That is an incorrect assumption.

Dealing with mental health issues is not on par with physical illness, though it should be. It’s not as though I’m sporting a cast, a bunch of stitches, an ostomy bag. I am sporting all of those and more on the inside. And yet, I manage to conduct my life as though I was just another regular person. I’m not treated that way, though, because of the aforementioned misconceptions, et al.

And despite my upbringing, I’ve learned that I have a right to share my opinion, to demonstrate my intellect, and to protect my right to exist. I no longer defer to others who may feel my opinion is not valuable. I’ve earned my right to exist in this mess of a society as much as anyone else. I’m am no longer an agreeable doormat.

Social media, while useful, is also tremendously harmful. It reduces communication to two-dimensional written words. Unless one truly knows and understands another, it is difficult to gauge the tone and intent in regard to anything written on social media. The writer knows his/her tone and intent.

As an individual, and especially as a woman, I have been called out, criticized, misinterpreted, and challenged for decades. If a person does not understand the meanings of the words I use, my tone, my intent, feel free to seek clarification. I’m happy to engage in civil discourse. And if accusatory, incorrect, and misinterpreted statements are thrown my way I’d very much like the chance to discuss and to resolve the issue in a respectful manner.

However, if one chooses to hurl insulting and incorrect assumptions at me and then block me from responding, that’s just bush league and, frankly, childish. I’m a writer. I use words carefully. I have a sense of humor. It is sharp at times. And, honestly, 98% of the time my use of humor is not intended to be hurtful. It may be sarcastic to prove a point but the intent is not to be malicious. I know how that may be done. I use it in my fiction writing. But if you refuse to let me speak my intent, that’s on you. No one knows me well enough to know my true objective unless I’m asked for an explanation. Not liking my explanation doesn’t invalidate my worth.

A simple lesson on the misunderstanding of intent can be seen in Bruce Springsteen’s song “Born in the USA.” It’s been adopted as a patriotic anthem by some who just don’t understand it. Case in point are these lyrics…”I had a brother at Khe Sanh/Fightin’ off them Vietnam Cong/They’re still there, he’s all gone…”. This is not a flag-waving anthem. It’s a scathing criticism of government and society. One may not see the forest through the trees .

I’m off the soap box. Thank you for coming to my Ted talk.

All of it

“all that we have loved deeply, becomes a part of us.” This nugget of wisdom was given to us from Helen Keller. Because I think deeply 90% of the time, I have time to pass my mind over many ideas, subjects, topics, etc. I do not think deeply as a conscious choice, it’s just what my mind does. When I think about who I am, I am more likely to ponder who I am not.

Today’s thoughts are relegated to words. Words comprise my essence, words bring me joy, words are ingrained in my soul. Due to being a voracious reader most of my life, there are a ton of words inside of me. I didn’t always derive important meaning from them. As William Butler Yeats said, “The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper….” There is so much to delight our senses and to deepen our souls out in the “world.” Many of these things are fleeting though they pack a lifetime of sensory stimulation in them. Think of bees gathering pollen, a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, a hawk streaking to earth to strike its prey.

We may experience these images over and over and likely have a different sense of them each time. And that’s the simple beauty of it. Along with the beautiful, we also experience the horrific. It’s unavoidable as it’s part of our experience in this life. There are natural disasters, wars, the ugliness of human nature. What you dwell upon is your choice.

When I’m asked to describe myself, I usually give the same answer. “I like to laugh.” I’m quick to laugh and I enjoy laughing…cue Ed Wynn and the epic scene from Mary Poppins. I’m as happy ugly laughing as I am emitting a polite chuckle. I’m not one to shut down a laugh as one might with a sneeze. If I want to laugh, I do. There are times when decorum dictates the appropriateness of this behavior…cue the Chuckles the Clown funeral scene from The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

Truth be told, I’m not one to describe myself. When I was younger I was quickly typecast into a litany of roles, none of which was a huge part of my essence. I’ve been called butch, a dyke, a jock, a tomboy, a comedian, a loner, a leader, a queer, a fat-ass bitch. I’m none of those. And yet, I’ve carried all of them. I am heterosexual. My relationships with men have been stunning and also have sucked. But I love them (men, not the memories). I was athletic in my youth. I like to laugh. I enjoy time alone. I am a leader but I’m also able to follow. In as much as I can be odd, I am queer. Fat-assed bitch? At times.

Seldom do people refer to me as I think of myself. To paraphrase a passage from The Help…I is smart, I is kind, I is important. That’s all you need to know. And I bet I’m able to make you laugh. But don’t ever underestimate me.

There’s always more than the eye sees.

The Alone Girl reflects…

The Alone Girl is a thinker. There is safety in one’s imagination. In one’s own mind, a world may exist where things are beautiful and happy and safe. There are no harsh words being spoken, no threats of violence, no hyper vigilance for what may come.

The chronic state of being hyper vigilant and hyper aware is achingly exhausting. Not only is the Girl maintaining a facade of normalcy, her body and mind work double time to protect her. She is perpetually on guard. On guard as a sole defender.

If there was an easy part, it was playing the role of a dutiful young lady. Trying to look well maintained on the outside while inside was a jumble of buzzing hornet’s nests, thoughts resembling swirling scribbles from a disturbed mind, and the ever-present desire to be somewhere else.

The Alone Girl learned life was easier by doing the “right” thing, pretending to be happy, and performing the tasks expected of her at a proficient level. It freed her conscious mind of space necessary for the anxiety and apprehension of what could come. Space that needed to be maximized for self-protection.

If anything, the Girl should have trod the boards. She was adept at assuming normal behaviors, a pleasing countenance, stabs of humor. Her own “private Idaho” as it were. Except hers felt like she imagined war could feel. She absorbed the gist of Edwin Starr’s song War. He told us war was good for nothing. Maybe if she had focused on “Life is much too short and precious/To spend fighting wars each day/War can’t give life/It can only take it away.” There was no time to focus, just time to survive.

In retrospect, concepts jump out like a smack to the forehead. “If only” becomes an ill-advised mantra. The mind and body achieve Herculean methods to survive. But like most well-oiled machines, once a threshold is attained and the mind and body are stretched to the limit-the machine breaks down.

Like many, the Girl thought she could navigate the dangerous shoals of life on her own. As smart as she was always told she was, intellect is impaired by pride and the drive to appear to be normal. Hope is a double-edged sword. Trouble will inevitably arrive, but there may be a savior on the horizon. That type of hope is an illusion.

“Danger there’s a breakdown dead ahead/And just maybe you’re in way above your head/I may burn, may upset you/But you know I’d never let you down…”. The Alone Girl absorbed Boz Scagg’s words as though they were true and accurate. It was just a song, another example of non-reality. Because she would be let down over and over and over.

The Alone Girl brawled her way through life, internally speaking. A lady never shows anything is wrong and goodness knows one never talks about it. There isn’t much more for her to sacrifice. Her physical scars attest to life in her “private Idaho.” Internally, wounds are festering amongst myriad disfigurement from a lifetime of survival. If the Girl was told “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” one more time, she would look at the speaker and tell him/her the truth. What doesn’t kill you makes you sad, anxious, and broken. It may give one the “strength” to survive…but at what cost? What cost?

Thankful to God for her ability to detach and envision a private fantastical life through her imagination, she retreats and recharges for the next life battle. And copes through expression.

More than the start of summer…

Memorial Day is often viewed here in the US as the unofficial start of summer. It’s unfortunate that more Americans do not truly understand the meaning and impact of this holiday. This holiday began as a means of celebrating the lives of those who died in war. We have an entirely separate holiday to honor any individuals who have served in the military.

Many Americans have lost sight of the meaning and significance of this holiday. To most it means a cookout, trip to the lake, end of the school year, three-day weekend. Memorial Day began its life as Decoration Day, a day observed by many through visiting cemeteries and decorating the graves of the Civil War dead. Though it was a somber occasion, it was also taken on in a celebratory fashion.

Families and groups would spruce up the areas around the graves and make decorations from flowers. Also a social outing, picnics were prepared and served. Since the rural cemetery movement began in the early part of the 19th century, many burial sites had been moved out of the more populated areas to the outskirts of a town or city. This was done in response land preservation, sanitation, and other concerns.

There is a large and historic rural cemetery not too far from where I live. Several members of my family lie in repose amongst the company of many historic and non-historic individuals. There is even a former US president. It is a beautiful and serene area. Abutting the property of the rural cemetery lies a very large Catholic cemetery, also constructed in response to the rural cemetery movement.

Many other members of my family are spending eternity there, including my brother. Though none of my family members died in war, many of them are veterans of national service. My family numbers Civil War, WWI, WWII, and Korea amongst their service.

I’m now the caretaker of their memories. For years, my mom and I visited her family’s two plots in the Catholic cemetery. The newer plot, purchased in the late 1930s, is the one we visit most often. I brought 2 folding chairs, a rake, pruning shears, and a picnic lunch. I often included a small flag because my great-uncle Jim’s grave is not marked for his military service (WWI) so he never gets a flag. My uncle Bill has a military marker (WWII, Korea) and thus receives a flag each year.

Those visits are part of the past as my 96 year old mother is not safely able to walk the expanse of uneven ground to reach the plot. I do take her by it in the car so she can have time with her family: mother, father, brother, aunt, uncle, and son. Though almost 100 feet from the car, she can see the main family marker and also see that I’ve tidied the area and put a bouquet of silk flowers in place. We then drive to the adjacent cemetery so I can pay my respects to my father (WWII).

I’m sorry that folks have lost sight of the meaning and tradition of this holiday. It honors those who made the supreme sacrifice of their lives. They are more than deserving of a few minutes of our time. Canadian doctor and soldier John McCrae wrote a haunting poem regarding his experience in WWI. I derive great meaning from it and I feel it speaks to the significance of this holiday.

My two special guys, how I miss them and how proud they were to serve.

Celebration is vital…

I’m sure I’m not the only one who has suddenly realized that there is far less of life ahead of me than there once was. And it happened at breakneck speed. Putting regrets aside, I plan to incorporate more celebration into whatever time may be left. We just don’t really know.

I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Personal loss is inevitable. That’s a given. But circumstances, emotional involvement, and so many other factors play into it. I’m accepting of grief. It’s necessary and a process that is individual to each of us.

My first few years of college involved dabbling in coursework across several disciplines since I didn’t know what I wanted to study in-depth. Thankfully I had an interesting Sociology professor who taught us about Elisabeth Kubler-Ross and her model for the “five stages of grief.” It was one of the first “textbook” theories that made sense to me. I’m not at all textbook-oriented and jettisoned ideas of any career path involving further study of them.

Where is this all coming from? I attended a celebration of life yesterday. It was in honor of a woman I first met in elementary school. She and I were not friends in the traditional sense. I’d say we were acquaintances who each possessed a respect and fondness for the other. I embrace the reappearance of those I’ve known at different stages of my life. It gives me the opportunity to experience the individual from a wonderfully different perspective. And it gives us a chance for an enriched relationship.

I am now clearly able to see the gifts in people that my immature mind wasn’t able to process. I would have to say that my 25-year teaching career also helped with that. I’m an observer. I’m a thinker. I’m highly sensitive. I have a unique ability to spend time with a person, either in person or through written word, and I’m able to come away with a deep, instinctual understanding of the person’s psyche. Look, this isn’t scientific. I find that after an interaction, I just “know” stuff about you. I feel your pain, I feel your joy, and everything in between. I stopped sharing any observations because it has blown up in my face. So much for caring for people.

It’s easy to become mired in routine and drudgery. It’s also easy to become cheerful and kind. A smile and a greeting may go a long way. It takes just a small moment. This is easily seen in Catherine Pulsifer’s Thoughtfulness Shows. “In each gesture, big or small,/Thoughtfulness weaves a magical thrall./A caring touch, a mindful gaze,/Brightens up the darkest of days.” Perhaps a tad schmaltzy but it’s cheerful.

And most people from my era will recall Simon & Garfunkel’s wise words, “When you’re weary/Feeling small/ When tears are in your eyes/I will dry them all/I’m on your side…”. Resolve to do a kindness each day. It takes very little effort.

Neat nook needed…

In the handful of homes I’ve owned, one “thing” was always lacking. I’ve long wanted a dedicated space of my own where I might immerse myself in creative pursuits. Decades passed before I was willing to admit that I did indeed have creative abilities.

Arts and crafts were never my thing growing up. I understand now it had a great deal to do with my being left-handed. Demonstrations had to be translated in my head from the right-handed world to my left-handed realm. Fine motor skills require my left hand. Gross motor skills may be done with either hand in my reality.

I abstained from creative pursuits until I was in my 20s. Late in that decade of my life, I learned how to do counted cross stitch and simple crochet. I crochet right handed but am apt to cross stitch with either hand so I have to remind myself to be consistent. I find it’s noticeable, in the appearance of the stitches, to my eye if I switch hands.

In the last few years I’ve become more interested in using photography as a means of expression. I’ve never had any training, I just know what I like. And, of course, I’d like to use the written word in conjunction with the photos. When I was teaching, I was always amazed at what the photography students learned and produced.

I could watch videos to learn but that’s not really an optimal method for me because I’m so distractible. I will figure it out when I make the time to do so. None of this addresses my need for a nook, though.

The idea of a she-shed has been floating through my mind for too long. It isn’t difficult to find places to write…coffee shops, camp porches, park benches, basically anywhere there’s a flat, sturdy surface. But then, it’s nice to have a place that speaks to you as you write. For several summers I rented a camp on a small lake. I loved sitting on the screen porch and writing.

It was easy to lose myself in that setting. The fragrances of nature, the birdsong, the lapping water. So easy to recall but recollections lack the tactile effects. While I can picture it and hear it, I’m unable to feel it. And it doesn’t speak to me unless I’m present. I prefer to be transported by my senses. And drift. “And so it was that later/When the miller told this tale…”. It’s so easy to drift given the correct impetus.

The process is complete. My thoughts have drifted elsewhere. I’m no longer nook-focused. I will continue to develop the concept in my head. “And although my eyes were open/They might just as well‘ve been closed..”. Drifting, envisioning what could be. I wonder if Gary Brooker ever tired of playing his wonderful song and singing those haunting lyrics. I never tire of listening to it.

“A Whiter Shade of Pale” is quoted in this post. Written by Keith Reid and Gary Brooker.

Is there peace of mind?

“I understand about indecision
But I don’t care if I get behind
People livin’ in competition
All I want is to have my peace of mind”

These lyrics by Tom Scholz have been running through my head recently. The song is entitled “Peace of Mind” and is affiliated with the band Boston. I’m aware this band was/is quite popular and I’m certain I could sing along with many of their hit songs. But, trust me, you don’t want me to sing. As a wordsmith, phrases often capture my attention.

After reading a bit about this band, it seems they rose to prominence in the mid-70s and peaked in the 1980s. They were never at the top of my list and may have never made it to any mixed-tape I may have made in the 1980s. However, I’m sure I sang along to their tunes on the radio.

The 1980s was my lost decade. It started out well enough but progressively worsened with each year. I will share that I righted the ship of my life by the end of the decade but I’m far from ready to discuss the events of the decade as a whole. What does this have to do with anything? By now, I’m sure you think I’ve just created a huge tangent. Though I’m proficient at tangential thinking and storytelling, this is not one of those moments.

“All I want is to have my peace of mind.” This is all I’ve ever wanted. I’ve worked toward it my whole life but it remains out of my grasp. On a simple level I will admit my life is stable. My possessions are meaningful and more than sufficient. My career was meaningful and more than sufficient. That’s the tangible stuff. Peace of mind is a subjective concept and could be seen as tangible or intangible. Individuals measure peace of mind in any of a number of ways.

I’d like to experience this state as I conceive it to be. Here’s the real tale. I don’t know that it will ever happen. Words of a pessimist? No, words of a realist. I have a handful of chronic illnesses. That’s not an unusual state for many individuals. A couple of mine, severe depression & generalized anxiety disorder, while manageable, are very challenging. My life has been a series of obstacles and speed bumps. Again, not unusual for most individuals.

“Don’t let me be misunderstood.” A song written for Nina Simone, best remembered as a cover by the Animals. I’m misunderstood a great deal. Why? Because many people are dismissive of mental health conditions and illnesses. People don’t think they’re real. People think they may be overcome with more effort and self-discipline. People just don’t comprehend what it really is.

I used to tell my students that it’s okay to be ignorant. It’s what you choose to do about your ignorance that’s important. So if you read about people who talk about how difficult it is to get out of bed at times, or shower, or pay a bill…please, take them seriously. The vast majority of us are sincere and challenged by the most simple of tasks at times. We aren’t lazy. We don’t lack ambition or self-discipline. In fact, we possess a rare and unique superpower. Many of us have the ability to function in a “normal” manner and to seem as though we don’t have the slightest of issues with life. It’s taken us a long time to hone those skills and the “I’m normal” facade is exhausting to maintain.

How do I know this is genuine and real? Because I live it. Every.Single.Day. There is no vacation from it. It never takes a day off. When I say this existence is exhausting, it’s truly impossible to describe the levels of physical and mental exhaustion. Does it ever end? That I cannot tell you, except to say that some choose to end it themselves. Two folks, whom I called friends, could not bear it any longer. I miss them beyond any logical explanation. Because I know. I get it. It’s hard.

I don’t want pity. I want understanding. Take a little time to read about mental health illnesses. Don’t dismiss us as lazy and indifferent. It comes at a great personal cost. It influences friendships, intimate relationships, credit scores, day-to-day life, maintaining one’s physical health…just too many things to list. And please, please, please understand that when you say, “take a deep breath and get some air,” “put your big girl panties on,” “you’ll be fine,” “did your cleaning lady quit?,” you contribute to our self-mortification and lack of confidence. Self-education is good. Besides, I’ve worked too damn hard to give up.

According to Google, this is peace of mind.

Always waiting…

I feel my life has been spent in a perpetual state of anticipation. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting to be noticed. Waiting for Godot. Waiting for purpose. I’ve waited for that “something” for a majority of my life to my own detriment.

I will be forever waiting. “I have climbed highest mountains/I have run through the fields.” These words from U2 metaphorically describe a constant feeling within my mind. “I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.” Will I be searching forever?

Not to be trite, but I’m looking for purpose. What is my purpose for being here? My consciousness holds so many ideas that have never come to fruition. Though it isn’t my “fault” my ideas haven’t come to fruition, it’s more of a lack of being assertive. I’ve never been one to prioritize my ideas to a group. Is that what’s holding me back? Doubtful.

I wrote a book. Some might say, “big deal it’s just a local history book.” I’m not dismissing it. Far from it. I’m proud of my effort. Mostly I’m a better person due to the interactions with the book’s readers.

And yet, I wait. Wait for inspiration. Wait for that one moment. Wait as life goes on around me. “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow..” lamented Macbeth as he had not realized the depths of his descent into a horrible hell. That isn’t what I want. Nor am I the hopeless optimist of Little Orphan Annie and her vision of tomorrow.

My eye is on the “prize”though I know not its substance. Will the waiting ever end? Will fulfillment ever be mine? Will I keep searching? I’m programmed to continue my quest for meaning. I also know I have to put in some hard work. My mere existence is hard work. I accepted that long ago. I’m just so tired, more tired than I’ve ever been. As long as the light of my quest burns within, I will keep searching…and waiting. I hope I find “what I’m looking for”…

The same old…

If you’re my age or older, I’d bet you can remember going to a grandparent’s home and seeing it as a museum piece, frozen in time. Each piece of furniture never changed and always occupied the same place in the room. In those days one’s furniture lasted and was handed down from family members to the next generation.

This idea is stuck in my mind lately because my mother had to move to memory care. Six years ago she transitioned from the family home of 53 years, a two-story colonial, to a small apartment in an assisted living facility. The apartment had a sitting room and a large bedroom. Her latest move to memory care has her down to one bedroom.

My house is packed with furniture from her past moves as I sought to combine some treasured pieces with my own, pieces I remember from my earliest childhood. I already rent a large storage unit and acquired another for this latest move. I will need time to sort through things and consolidate in the future.

Her bedroom at the memory care facility contains two important pieces of furniture that she will always recognize. One is the dresser from her bedroom set, approximately 75 years old, and one is a dresser/bookcase that is probably almost 70 years old. For most of my life it was in my brother’s room. It was noticed in this last move that the latter piece is now cracked on the side but it will hold together.

It’s funny how our current younger generations have no such attachments to things. I’m happy that I do as it’s a bridge to happy times for me. I can remember how my mom would scrimp and save to add another piece of furniture to our house. It didn’t happen often because she purchased good quality furniture. I’m thankful not to be a person who needs to change the look of my home frequently. If the furniture is functional and still looks nice, it’s fine for me.

My mom is no longer the parent I remember. She looks like my mom but age has robbed her of her ability to think. I’m thankful she still knows me. I’m comforted by seeing some of those pieces of furniture and other belongings I associate with her. And they remind me of the mom who was such a vital part of my life.

Words fail me at the moment. Emotion has taken over. “Mother’s love is peace. It need not be acquired, it need not be deserved.” Erich Fromm

Her dresser and mirror flanked by two drawings done by her mother.

One of my brother’s dressers. Ethan Allen was a good investment.

N.B. I’m not writing for pity. And I know so many have gone through this. Writing is a way for me to process my emotions. I’m writing to maintain my sanity.

Another chapter…

from the book of writing hard and clear what hurts. I’ve had an overly close relationship with my mother since childhood. Due to various circumstances, it feels I’ve been “taking care” of my mother since I was ten years old. At the very least, I was a protector. Initially from my father and brother, who could be physically and verbally abusive, to all other perceived manner of threats. But it has certainly provided its own set of issues as I continue to “take care” of my mother.

The other day my mom moved to a memory care facility. The administrators at the assisted living facility, where she lived for almost three years, told me in December to look for a memory care facility. I’d seen the cognitive decline, but it was swift. For now my mom is at the “top” of the class for cognition at her new home. At her age of 96, I know it will not last long.

My mom has understood me throughout my life. She knew, and accepted, my faults, health challenges (physical and mental), and supported many of my dreams. I’m glad she was able to see my first published book.

It remains that I’ve lost two valuable anchors in my life in the past two years. This is challenging for me, very challenging. Many times I feel adrift, many times I feel panicked, many times I isolate myself. An overwhelming amount of the time, I do what I’ve always done best…force myself to my feet and put one foot in front of the other. It’s a much slower progression these days. My physical health is the worst ever, an arthritic knee cries for help, one eye is a little worse for wear, and the perpetual is the compulsion to overeat to calm myself. My domicile shows the state of my mind…cluttered.

My anchors are gone. No one understood me the way they did. No one accepted me the way they did. No one supported me the way they did. It will take time to find new anchors, to ask for assistance, to trust. It will happen. For now, it’s one foot in front of the other until I’m too exhausted. Then it’s rest and repeat. I’m so tired.

“So angels say – on yesterday – /Just as the dawn was red/One little boat – o’erspent with gales – /Retrimmed its masts – redecked its sails – /And shot – exultant on!” Emily Dickinson “Adrift! A little boat adrift.”

“I’m just a soul whose intentions are good/Oh Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood…” The Animals