Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Consider This as Me Swooping In

Just before I swallowed the pills, I wanted to melt away. About 20 or 30 minutes after I swallowed the pills, I slipped into sleep, a rare thing.

Some time later, no one came to save me. No one swooped in to pull me back, giving me hope, listing my talents, telling me I was loved. No medic pumped my stomach or injected me with death-defying drugs. No gathering of friends made me comfort food while joking about dead-serious topics. The most desired love of my life didn't shake me and make me promise never to leave him ever again. None of the movie situations happened.

I just woke up.

When I say it now, as I have many times when I talk about suicide, I shiver a little. I have listed the things I swallowed on paper. It was every pill I could get. It was enough. More than enough. But I woke up.

I don't know why or how. I do have some strange chemical composition. Mosquitoes won't bite me. Never. If one lands, it hurries away. Coffee doesn't keep me awake. Other things. For some reason, the lethal dose of drugs I swallowed and processed through my body gave me a long, deep sleep. And then I woke up, very thirsty, a little queasy but alive.


I have severe depression, which most often presents itself in me as a cancer of the will to live. Medications put me in remission. Talk therapy keeps me waking up from month to month. My love for the view of deep blue in my daughter's eyes keeps me alive when all else fails.

But I still occasionally find myself face down on the tiled floor of my front hall wanting to die. It's not such a bad place to be for those times. There aren't any sharp objects, pills, weapons, ropes, or anything dangerous within my reach there. A cat or dog will usually lick my face or climb on my back or both. Time passes. I get up on my grievously bad RA knees and go back to living.


You can't depend on someone else saving you. Robin Williams' homeless, broken former professor character in The Fisher King saves Jeff Bridges' suicidal shock-jock character. That was just the movies.

Sometimes no one comes. And you will not wake up from those pills. You just won't. Suicide is not romantic. There is nothing less romantic than a dead body.


I am known for my angry response to someone's suicide. There is nothing worse than seeing your own mistakes played out in front of you. I worry that others, particularly teens, will follow the leader. I grieve the mothers that ache for a view of blue or brown or green eyes.

But I am also known for my ability to hear the pain you want to pour out like the blood dripping from a cut wrist. I understand that it just hurts so much. That it won't stop. That the chemicals in your brain are trying to make the chemicals that move your muscles kill you.

If you want to talk or find help, I am your girl. Call or text or FB message or come over.

But you are going to have to save yourself from the pills or rope or sharp things by asking. Robin Williams can't swoop in like in the movies and pull you back from the fire.

1-800-273-8255 or Suicide Prevention Lifeline

Sunday, January 12, 2014

The Word is "Love"

You don't need to be Superman to have super powers.

My friend Mindy wrote on our word this week about a guy who loved without obligation. You should read that first.


My oldest sister, who knew him before he was a raging drunk, says my dad was stupid in love with my mom. Totally gaga. He had to be. The one thing he ever did to defy his mother was to marry mine.

And everything was peachy until something came between him and his true love. Took her time. Divided her loyalties. Broke up his ideal life of a woman in total devotion to him. We happened to him. His children.

Some of us fared better than others.

I didn't have the worst of it by a long shot. He treated me, when he was paying any attention at all, as a kind of toy. I was a talking yo-yo, or maybe a smart set of jacks. He could use me to amaze the trashy women he flirted with at the bar we frequented while my mother earned money for the family.

"She's a little cutie, Jim. I'm gonna buy her some peanuts." From toy to circus monkey.

Worst was when Daddy used me like a marionette, pulling the strings to dance me around like a favorite in order to torment another sibling. Too little to understand the manipulation, I was made a partner in his cruelty.

Although this business wasn't the reason I only had one child, I have often thought it a blessing I couldn't repeat that little Punch and Judy show with my own kids.


I married Clark Kent.

It's true. Glasses on his face, affable smile, and mild-mannered down to his sensible shoes.

From the day we met, he loved me so much it was fearsome to behold. Totally gaga. So in love, he wouldn't protect himself from the love and openly told me how he couldn't believe I was with him. He bared his heart in his chest and stuck my hand inside, pressing my fingers around the pulsing muscular lump of it. Every beat said It's yours.

Wake in the night to whispers in my ear. "Are you sure you want to marry me?"

I was sure. I did.

And we had a child. And here is where I became suspicious that he was wearing red and blue tights underneath his clothes.

He was smitten. Knocked out crazy over the moon gaga over that girl.

"I can't believe how lucky I am."

Every minute of his life as a father has been the antithesis of what my own Daddy represented. He gave our daughter so much -- support, guidance, unconditional love. Best of all, he loves her mother. He never made being a family a game of musical chairs where one could find herself on the outside looking in, wishing for love and respect.

It's his birthday this week. This is my present for my Clark Kent. Thank you, honey. I'm still sure.

Friday, January 03, 2014

The Word is "Waiting"

Every December, Adrian takes off between Christmas and New Year's Day. This year, he doesn't go back until Monday, 6 January. Since 2007, I have been on break from classes every Christmas, too. We huddle on the couch in our pajamas, binge watch some good TV series or movies, and eat too much.

I graduated in May of 2013. There are no natural breaks in my year since I became a novelist. I grant my own vacations. So, I have taken a break from writing, except for these prompts from my writing group. The word is "Waiting."

I am, by nature, an active waiter. When I am at the pharmacy, I pull out my iPad and read or write. If I am ready for someone to pick me up at home, I clean things while checking the window occasionally. I even tidy up my makeup drawer while stuck timing my hair color. Twenty minutes is just about right.

It would seem I have to be puttering around all the time. Busy, busy.

But I don't.

I can sit and stare out the window or lie about on the deck on a chaise lounge, weather permitting, and just be there, doing nothing more than breathing and noticing the sights and sounds around me.

I am able to close my eyes in just about any situation and meditate my way into a calm state that reduces pain.

Sitting and staring in nature came to me when I spent lots of time as a child up a tree. Because of my age, I was between groups of kids in my rural home. I don't socialize well or gladly. I spent a lot of time alone.

The first years, I would wander on the ground under the trees on my grandparents' farm or in the fields on their out-lying property. I was earth-bound, a natural putterer. My grandmother Tommie encouraged me to branch out. She showed me how to get under the house with a casual, "Watch out for snakes. Make noise." She led me to the attic access and told me how to step on the rafters. My first high spot was a window in that attic. From there, I could see Tommie and Granddaddy taking the afternoon rest under a maple tree as they read the newspaper.

Years later, my grandparents retired from farming to their smaller house up on the hill, the one I had lived in when they farmed. The property had, and still has, the most amazing black oak trees. In a community with no two-story houses, the attic of the farmhouse had seemed high. On the hill, those trees were the top of the world, as I knew it.

Still fearless for me when I couldn't be for myself, Tommie instructed me in the art of climbing a tree. Pick a low limb with a forked branch that will hold your weight. Grab each branch, facing into the fork. Let your weight fall back as you throw your feet up into the space between your arms and the forked branch. Wrap your knees around the branch. Hook your toes around the limbs and use your thigh muscles to assist your arms as they pull you into the tree. Stand up from the sitting position and feel for a limb above you to steady you as you walk the limb up to the trunk of the tree.

Find a perch.

Watch and wait.

And the tree will talk to you. The stories a tree will tell can wait for another word prompt.

Saturday, December 28, 2013

The Word is "Vulnerable"

It is the cold time.

When I think on Keeling from here in my life that has run from poverty past sufficient to plenty, I think of summers, with blackberries found on spider-ridden brambles or of trees that harbor all manner of insects but usually something outstanding like locusts that shed their skins when they grow out of their previous selves.

Sometimes it is spring that I snatch from my brain's long thing gray lines of axons and dendrites--cobwebby and spidery at the same time. If spring, it is buttercups--single, doubles and scrambled egg ones--that my grandmother Tommie says were spread down Hwy 70 when the state put the road in across the front of her daddy's land, taking their front yard and its many drifts of bulbs and redistributing it for miles. Years later, buttercups lined the road a ways down where I lived in a house trailer on family land.

I rarely think of cold times. Funny how I can think of the many fireplaces and wood stoves, another favorite recall, without drawing a line to the chill air that drives us to them. But wood stoves were also for cooking, and I usually prefer to jump that particular synapse, which leads inevitably to strong coffee in a tin pot, biscuits, and the safe, gentle woodsmoke smell of Granddaddy.

If I took the other path at the memory junction of cold times, it would lead to electric heaters that must be kept clear of all paper and cloth so they won't send the trailer up in flames. I learned, when our neighbor lost his, that a trailer home is the most efficient incinerator outside of a crematorium. All heat and combustion is directed inside, with only the exploded windows to leak out any flames. And they are too busy respirating the whole conflagration. Hungry fire sucks and sucks oxygen. Everything inside the metal walls is dust by time the volunteer truck arrives. Walls melt. Only the iron undercarriage lasts, and it's a warped mess.

Or I think of the electric stove, which my mama would turn on and leave its door ajar to add a little warmth to the kitchen where breath could be seen. The light bill will be high, but I cain't help it. We cain't freeze. We didn't freeze. We shivered. The water line froze, though. Lots of times. Once, on a rare time when my daddy was around, he came to thaw the pipes while mother worked and we were at school. He managed to set light to the bottom of the trailer while using a blow torch to warm the lines that came up under the bathroom. Didn't burn much. Just left a mouse-sized hole after he patched it up. Jack of all trades; master of none. At least I could finally wash my hair, even if it meant goose bumps.

Summer means vegetable gardens and neighbors who lets you pick corn.

Winter means burning up precious calories staying warm.

Summer is up a tree; winter is under the covers all day.


When Adrian and I moved back to Germany the last time, the oil furnace of the base housing row house put out so much heat it stifled me. Adrian was fine. Ariane had never known want. I gasped and woke up with warm hands on my lungs, pressing out the air. We learned to leave a window open near the head of the bed on my side. Drafts of icy air slid down my throat, pinked my nose, prickled my ears. That's more like it.

Thursday, September 05, 2013

10 Hate Crimes Against Students

The blogger at The Other Class created a list of Top Ten Hate Crimes Against Professors, "things students do that constitute hate crimes (because we hate it)." I'm at that midway point where I have finished my MA but am not teaching. I feel the need to clarify now, before I change sides, the hate crimes against students, things professors do that constitute hate crimes (because we hate them).

1. Holding yourself and your knowledge in such esteem that you can't admit your humanity. -- You make mistakes. [Like that pronoun disagreement in the quoted sentence.] Professors cannot hold all knowledge. The vast majority of my professors freely admit when they don't know something. But there are those, and their pompous pictures are popping up in your head right now, who will prevaricate, pontificate, postulate, and puff rather than say, "I don't know that" or "I can't recall right now." It makes you untrustworthy. We know the difference between not being prepared for what you are teaching now and not remembering every character from every book you have ever read.

2. Syllabus proofreading crimes -- You cut and pasted that from another semester, didn't you? And now, since it says in section two of your syllabus not to ask you questions in email about things on the syllabus, we don't want to email you and ask whether you want papers turned in "ONLY in class," as it says in section four, or if you want them in the dropbox on Blackboard, like it says in section six, or, and hand to God this happened, if you want them turned in to your office two days before class. My very favorite professor called himself "calendar challenged." He took to sending his syllabus to me for proofreading before publishing. He was not a puffy postulator.

3. Instructions vs. Syllabus War-- If your syllabus says Paper Number Two is due on March 5 at 4pm, please tell me why the instruction guide for Paper Number Two insists that it is due at class time on March 2. This could be why you get emails at 8pm on March 1.

4. Allowing students to flaunt rules. -- Your syllabus says that tardiness is a serious problem and that it is disrespectful. That one girl is late to class every day. Seriously? Once or twice is bad enough. If she is late every day, you are losing your standing as the leader of this band of merry scholars. We talk about this outside of class and, believe me, students hate it when someone gets away with murder. If you really don't want students texting, make that clear, state the consequences, and then toss him out of class when he texts. How about this? Phones Off, On the Table, Screen Down, Hands Off.

5. Changing the syllabus -- every week. We know that things get messy during the semester. We also know the difference between shifting things around to meet educational needs and you not having a handle on what is happening in your class. I know of at least one professor who has a hard time filling up a class because every student says that she cannot ever produce a syllabus that works. Often, she wouldn't have a syllabus at all. It makes us insane to never know what is going on with due dates and expectations. We have lives and jobs and children.

6. Giving an extension on a paper because some people didn't do the work, or worse, to build in a little extra time. This may just be a personal peeve. Other students seem thrilled to know that the paper due today will not really, really be due until next week. However, today means today for me. I didn't go with my daughter to a play on Friday night. I skipped my husband's award dinner last week. I did those things because our contract said that I had to turn in twenty-five thoughtful pages today. So, instead of relief, I am just pissed that you "built in a little extra time" by publishing the due date a week ahead. Let today mean today. You are not helping the slackers learn to wake up by changing the alarm clock.

7. Germs: Errors of Omission and Errors of Commission -- We all know it. School is a breeding ground for sickness. I don't want to be in class with a cougher. I don't want to be in class while sick. Understand that when you say our grades will drop one letter grade -- "no exceptions" -- for more that two absences, you have just herded sick people into your class. This is a tricky line to walk. You want students in class. You want sick students at home. Why not address sickness and absences together in the same paragraph of the syllabus. Let the conscientious student know that there is wiggle room. Encourage them to contact you in case of contagion. I have heard this many times from a red-eyed sniffler: "I feel awful, but I can't afford to lose a letter grade."

8. Ambiguously worded questions on a test. -- One of the best things about going into grad school studying English is that I never took another test written by someone who is not a competent writer. Questions should not be so "ambiguous, misleading, or poorly worded" that the student wonders if she is playing the quiz on Michael Feldman's Whad'Ya Know? show.  I had one religion professor so adept at writing questions that could be answered several ways that I was forced to rewrite them in the margins so that I could show which one I was answering.

9. Technophobic Professors -- We are studying in 2013. Know how to use a computer to produce study materials.  Be able to produce a graphic to support your lectures. Know how to use the basic features of your college's course interface or learning portal. Embrace digital media learning. Post messages. Update the syllabus. Put all handouts online where your forgetful or absent students can find them. Enter names into the class roster online. Encourage students to interact online by making sure they can contact each other to ask those questions you don't want coming to you in email.

10. Not showing up or being late for office hours (or class -- yes, this happened). -- No meeting is that important. Post office hours on the door so that students without a smart phone don't have to run to the library to check the syllabus. Send out an email and post on the course interface immediately, if you are sick or late. More than once, I drove to campus only to find a cancellation note on the class door. More than once, the technophobic professor knew she wouldn't be in class early enough to have prevented my hour-long trip in heavy traffic.