PBSD

Sometimes I am a real serious victim of Post Busy Stress Disorder (PBSD).  You haven't heard of PBSD?   Hoo boy.   Lucky you.

I got back from Thailand feeling pretty effing centered, let me tell you.  We spent a lot of time in meditation and doing all kinds of what you might call spirit work--shamanic blessings and Buddhist blessings and time in nature and breathing time and time together.  The light in the jungle is pretty soft and diffuse in February and everywhere is lush and green.  Time works differently there.  Your body is in serious danger of turning into a huge pile of smiling, relaxed, tuned-in ooze.

It was a break from mom-ing and professor-ing and all the other duties.  But I also gave myself a vacation from all of my daily worries:  answering emails, doing my hair, putting on makeup.  I packed maybe 3 outfits for the whole trip.  This meant I was completely disgusting by the end of the ten days, but it also meant I had a lot of free time to not worry about how I looked and just totally, totally experience the whole she-bang.  There was one moment at the foot of a waterfall that was along the lines of an out-of-body experience.  So that was nice.

Plus:  elephants.  All over, everywhere we went.  They are good to be around, on a soul level.

So even though it took 36 heinous hours for me to get back to the states, I felt pretty good.  I would have liked that feeling to last.

Hilarious.

I got back on a Saturday night and had to teach Monday night.  I spent Sunday puttering around the house, I think, doing laundry, straightening up, going through mail.

Then Monday happened.  And then two weeks went by, with many, many fourteen-hour work days and no days off.  A few deadlines happened.  Also, a monster NSF grant.  A conference.  Plus, my grandma was feeling really needy after not seeing me for ten days.  And my kids.  Maybe E., though he hides it well.  Definitely Peanut.  For sure Peanut.  This happened to him while I was gone, and he still hasn't quite gotten over it:

I don't know what his expression is intended to convey here, but it is along the lines of, "Why must I suffer so?"

I'm tempted to go on, but that would be the PBSD talking.  One terrible symptom of PBSD is the desire to list everything you have accomplished from your to do list on social media.  Part of this is wanting someone to notice that you are dying inside while maintaining an exterior of gettin-er-done-ness.  It's also because when I'm suffering from the throes of EBD (Extreme Busy-ness Disorder) my life is run as one large to do list, and then I start communicating with people in list form, even when the Extreme Busy-ness has turned into PBSD and I am no longer heinously busy.  I can feel this happening to me.  Rather than connecting with the human in front of me, my eyes glaze over, and I either start thinking about how I can check one more thing off the list or I feel a compulsive need to go over with them what I have already checked.  As if this is important.

It's a sickness.  I know that I have done this to many of you, my loved ones.  Dear All of Facebook:  I apologize.

The other really bad symptom of PBSD is when, even as the Extreme Busy-ness has passed and life is just it's old kooky, full self, you still feel and act as if you are suffering from EB.  For example:  I woke up this morning with an open calendar and many things on the list.  This is a happy occurrence, because for the first day in a long time, I would actually have some time to accomplish the things on the list before bedtime.  I might even have an hour of free time!

Boy, did I have some plans.  Let me tell you.

But then a bunch of wee little piddly emergencies happened that required emotional decision-making and clarity on my part, and one thing list-making does not give you, usually, is emotional clarity.  For that, you have to sit still for a while or talk to someone who might be able to listen and perhaps even offer useful advice.  You need some space.  You need to be in touch with your center, your feel good, your north star.  Not in touch with a list.

Then a meltdown occurred because I was not, after all, going to get the things on the list done.  And I very badly needed some space.

I can see now that this meltdown was, oddly, a happy occurrence.  Because I did call someone (thanks Dad!) who was able to listen to my emotional quandary and, in fact, offer some very good advice.  I was able to handle my quandary (which was never on the list) from a place of integrity and clarity and then, as if by some miracle, I felt the hold of PBSD, and the list, loosen its grip on me.

Yep, a meltdown brought some clarity.  Hallelujah.

Which brings me here.  Because every once in a while it is good to do something not on the list, like blogging.  It is good to listen to what you want and need in the moment, and not just to what you must do.  I am happy to have my perspective back.  And some space.

Strings: All You Need for a Happy Marriage

What's a happy marriage?

One day Josh was telling me that a friend of his confessed, "If it wasn't for the kids, I think we would have gotten divorced by now.", and I said, "Who wouldn't have?"  Josh smiled an all knowing smile and nodded his head in agreement.

Josh and I were high school sweethearts. We had an intense and passionate relationship.  I sometimes say when I'm trying to explain how I felt about him, that for a time, I really think Josh replaced Jesus as my savior.  I knew he was EVERYTHING, and that we were destined to be together forever.  I knew that nothing would ever make me question my choice in him or my devotion to him.  I knew that we were predestined, meant to be, the only two people on the planet to ever really be in love, and I knew that no one else understood this feeling.

On a Christmas morning the year after we graduated from high school, Josh proposed.  I knew this was the beginning of everything I'd ever wanted.  I also understood that there would be trouble.  All that, for better or worse jazz, I knew that we would face bad times, but I also knew that the all consuming love we felt for each other would get us through anything, and keep us "happy".

You see, I believed that any unhappiness would come from outside of ourselves.  I never suspected that either one of us would ever question our decision to be together.  I was wrong.

Now, you're worried, you think I'm going to announce my divorce.  Sit tight, I'm not.  I love Josh in a much deeper and more spiritual way than I ever loved him before,  because I have learned a lot about marriage in the last 17 years and 8 months.  And one thing I've learned is that sometimes the bad times come from within.  They come from you, they come from your spouse, and those can feel worse than the bad times that come from outside.   They might even make you question whether you should be together.

In my marriage, a marriage I would clearly define as a happy one, there have been countless times where the only thing keeping us together was our children, or our mortgage, or the business we own. There have been plenty of times when through tears I've thought, "What if we would have both been happier with someone else?  What would my life be like without him?  Should I leave?"  And I'm sure Josh has had the same conversations with himself.

At the end of these conversations, when we've made up, and we've told each other why we choose the other, and remind each other about how much love is between us, and all is right with the world, I look at him and know that I've made the right choice.  I know that we can indeed get through anything together.  I know that time and again, through all of these bad times, inflicted from outside or in, we end up choosing each other.  We will always end up choosing each other.  That's commitment folks.

For those days when my marriage is being held together by the string of my family, or my mortgage, or my business, I feel fortunate to have built this life with him, that keeps me connected to him. We've tied these strings to each other to keep us together when those times are tough, when like any human we wonder if we've made the right choice.  Sometimes those strings are tight, testing our ability to stay connected, and there are so many days when the strings between us are slack because we're holding onto one another.  Either way, they are strong.

I'm writing this blog post for Josh's friend, and so many others who never thought these worse moments in a marriage would come from inside the marriage.  The friends who've heard all these falsehoods about marriage and happiness.  The friends who think those questions they have about the solidity of their marriage are unique, and indicative of the end.

It's ok, if sometimes it's only the strings holding you together.  It's ok, if you're questioning whether you should have gotten married in the first place.  It's normal, and you can still have a happy marriage, as long as neither of you chooses to cut those ties that bind.  It's all your choice.  You can choose to weather the storm, letting those strings hold you to each other in an ocean that's trying to rip you apart, and if you grab onto that string and pull you'll soon be back in each other's arms.

Take heart and know that lots of happy marriages had moments when the only thing that tied them together was the the kids.

The Elephant, The River

One of the things that most convinced me to violate reason and financial responsibility and social acceptability to go to Thailand was a line from the travel agent's trip description that said "After a hike to a hill tribe village, you will go into the jungle to find your elephant, ride it into the river, and bathe it."

Basically, I read that line, and I knew I had to go.  I didn't know anything about Thailand or about the elephants, not to mention how I was going to afford the trip, but I read that line, and I signed up.  It was the one detail from the schedule I remembered in all the preparations for the trip, and for when I got there.  When people asked why I was going, I told them about this detail.

I didn't really let myself imagine it, though, me riding an elephant, bathing her, seeing what she felt like, acted like.  I kept the thought of it locked away, like a little present to myself I knew was coming but didn't want to spoil the surprise of.

But then, the elephant, the river.  Things happen.  Things turn out not the way you plan.  Things are complicated.

The trip was fantastic--every day, just an amazing collection of once-in-a-lifetime experiences and blessings.  The elephant ride came late in our journey, the day before we were set to leave the jungle.  Six of the women in our group chose to ride early in the morning--and all came back glowing from the experience, some having had near-mystical experiences.  Because mornings can be cool in the jungle in February, they hadn't ridden into the river or bathed the elephants, but riding on the necks of those big, beautiful beings, experienced deep connections with the animals.

I had felt a cold coming on and chose to have a slower morning--I wanted to ride the elephants with the other group of women, late in the afternoon.  We spent the day driving around in the back of a truck visiting some villages, taking gifts to preschoolers, hiking through the jungle, and then rafting down the river back to Chai Lai Orchid.

We got back late, and the elephants were finished with their workday, and there was a great scramble to get us on their necks and off for our ride.  I felt like I didn't even have time to think about what was happening, and four of these huge mama elephants were all crowded around a high platform--I had to decide whether or not to try to squeeze in between them to get to the platform stairs, which meant putting myself in the middle of eight giant back legs.  Plus, there were two babies who were just scampering around, and I felt hyper-aware of that, and didn't want to make sudden movements and freak anyone out.

You know:  trampling.  It's a bummer.

Plus, there's this:  elephants who work in tourism in Thailand?  They're not treated that well, usually.  They're often owned by people who make tons of money from them, and who push the mahouts--the elephant handlers--to work the elephants harder than they should be (the mahouts aren't well treated, either).  This usually means that elephants have saddles attached to their backs, and then four or five (usually Chinese) tourists take rides on them.  The more tourists, the more money.  The mahout sits on the elephant's head.

This isn't great for the elephants.  It's much more humane to have a single rider who sits on their necks.

Plus, the elephants drag their chains around with them. Chains are actually the most humane way (compared, say, to ropes) to tie the elephants up at night so that they don't wander off and cause a lot of destruction or escape, but, you know.  Chains are evocative.  They signal slavery.  So there's that.

Plus plus, one of the elephants at Chai Lai Orchid resort (though none are owned by Chai Lai--they don't support these practices) is trained to bark like a dog, put her front legs up a tree, lay down and roll around, and so on.  Circus monkey stuff.  Hard to watch.  This had been going on in front of us for a few days.

So I'm real aware that these elephants are working hard all day, and then we get back late, and they're tired, and I'm feeling very ambivalent about the whole "riding the elephants into the river" thing anyway, but this is the thing I came to Thailand for.  

Even though it ended up not being what I was there for at all.  Funny how that works.

But I don't really have time to decide, and in that case the default mode seems to be to just do it, so I scramble up to the platform.  Get on the elephant's neck.  No saddle, which is good, but I still don't feel stable at all, and it's so high up.  I'm nervous.  The elephant takes off from the platform and as we pass the side of the building, I get clipped in the head by an overhang.  It doesn't hurt, but it reminds me that I have no control in this situation.  I'm just along for the ride.

Next, instead of a ride into the jungle, we hit the river.  Because after this, the workday is over.  The trick of the river is the elephant takes you in, and then the mahout orders it to roll, dumping your ass in the water.  This is supposed to be hilarious, and it is thrilling, I'll admit.  But then the elephants are commanded to stay on their sides in the river, with the idea being you'll climb back on and the elephant will roll to standing with you on it.

Except these are giant, giant animals (did I already say that?) and when they're on the sides in the water, they're moving around, kicking their legs, and they're slippery and wet.  Plus:  end of the day.  They're not really that into listening to the mahouts, who are on the river bank, watching and yelling commands in Burmese.  My elephant doesn't want to lay on her side at all, for a good long time.  Then finally she goes down, and I get dumped.  I didn't get the message that I'm supposed to get back on.  The mahouts don't speak English and I don't know what they want me to do.

Finally, after what feels like hours, she rolls on to her side, and I figure out I'm supposed to try to get on, though she's worming around, and I try to get on the elephant's back again.  This is not easy, because she's on her side, so you have to kind of situate yourself parallel to the water for when she rises.  She starts to get up, and I slide off into the river again.

The mahouts are shouting, I don't speak Burmese or Thai, and I sort of want out of the whole thing.  I want them to stop yelling at the elephant.  I feel like she's tired, and has had a long day, and is over it.  The mahouts seem to want their day done with too, and are tired of stupid tourists.  I don't know what's next, or even if I can get back on.  It's weird to me that I'm smiling in these photos (and they are funny!) because I remember feeling, um, a little terrified.

Then my friend Julia appears, as if out of nowhere.  I hadn't been able to see or hear anything except the mahouts and the elephant, but of course everyone had been watching.  So Julia, fearless Julia, who had had her peaceful ride on the elephant that morning, jumps in the water and seemingly without any fear at all climbs on our elephant.  She must have yelled at me to get on too, because before I knew it, I was on behind her, moving her hips over to the left so we'd be centered when the elephant rose, and we got out of the water.

My God, she saved me, this Julia.  You can see I was hanging on to her for dear life, after all that.

It really did feel like triumph.

But then Julia got off at the platform, and I rode "my" elephant to the top of the mountain in the jungle, her baby walking beside us the whole way.  She yanked at leaves at we went by, a hungry mama done with her day.  It was quiet.  I was still shaking from the river.  The exhilaration of getting out of the river was wearing off, and I was glad to get off at the top of the trail and let that mama elephant be, and think about what happened.  I walked back to Chai Lai soaking wet, covered in elephant mud, and unsure about all of it.

Here's what I think now:  I would have been just as happy not riding her at all.  I would have been happy feeding her, bathing her, and touching her.  This day, for example, where we bathed a non-working elephant at Elephant Nature Park, was just as awesome:

In other words, I didn't need to be up top at all, but didn't know how to stop the process once I was in it, or even what I wanted or how to ask for it once it had begun.  This seems like a metaphor for so many struggles I've had to find voice in the midst of things I'd begun but then wanted to stop.

And, as our tour leader noted, this is all really complex.  I don't mean for my experience to take away from the experience of the women who rode in the morning.  Or to blame the mahouts, many of whom are exploited refugees themselves.  Tourists make life possible there, in a lot of ways.  I don't have any answers.  I just know how I felt in that one goofy moment after being dumped in the river.

And the fact is I did ride on an elephant, did feel the wiry hair on her head, the movement of her massive body beneath me, her willingness to take me with her and not hurt me, even when she was tired and being poked with the mahout's ankus, a sharp metal hook.  This brings tears to my eyes, thinking about it, about how easy it would have been for her to really hurt me, any of us, and how she would have been justified, and yet this is not what happened at all.

Right Sizing

Oh, man, I need to write about how Shtopping wrapped up.  Also, I need to figure out how to write about my epic journey to Thailand.  It's not that there's nothing to write about--it's that opening up that faucet is hard to do in blog-sized chunks and so I need to figure out how to make sense of it in pieces.  That might take a little time.

But what I want to write about right now is the idea of Right Sizing.  "Right-sizing" is a term that engineers use when they're designing a new technology or product.  It's a framework that encourages you not to over-engineer something, to provide a bunch of features or size that isn't necessary for the way people actually use something.

An example would be your typical remote control.  Most remote controls have tons of buttons on them that you probably never use, right?

I hate that, don't you?  You go to someone else's house, and you're babysitting or housesitting or burgling them, and you just want to sit and watch some HBO, but you can't even figure out how to turn their TV on because they have sixteen remotes and each remote has a hundred buttons.  Not right-sized!  Over-engineered!  Counter-productive!

When we moved here my dad gave us a Roku.  I loved that interface immediately, mostly because of the very simple remote.  Just the buttons you need, one little box, easy to use.  Right-sized.

You might be able to guess where I'm going with this, but in case not, I'll spell it out:  I've recently realized that my emotional remote control is not right-sized.  It is extremely over-engineered.

This actually came to me in a very loud, very clear conversation with an imaginary moose who just happens to be my spirit animal.  You're laughing right now, which I totally understand because once, when I was on a train in Anchorage, I saw a moose running.  That is one animal who should probably not be running at any point in his life, ever, because:  parts flap around everywhere.

I'm guessing if you were riding one of those guys the sound of all that flapping and slapping would be downright deafening.

But moose is actually a very awesome spirit animal, and very wise, and when I was in Thailand I learned to have conversations with him whenever I have a problem.  If you're curious about this and want to do more, you could bop around this website a little.  All I know is that it works.

Your eyeballs are stuck, rolled back in your head.  I hope you get help with that problem soon.

Anyway, I recently went to Moose because I was frustrated again with E., and I was like, "Moose?  What the hell!  I'm working so hard on building some Real Love and realizing we are all drowning and therefore all in this together, and so why do I get so mad when my husband knocks back four beers on a Friday night and then keep myself up until 2 in the morning thinking about running away to Bali?"

And Moose, who is usually placidly chomping on some grass when we have our chats, was very quiet for a minute.  And then, he said:

Right Size.

And that was it.  He said it.  I never use that term and try in general not to talk about engineers so it came through loud and clear.  Also:  cryptic much, Moose?  At first, I was like WHAT THE.  Moose is an engineer?  And then I laughed.  Because Moose was totally right.  I was blowing some shit clean out of proportion.

Now don't get me wrong:  I was bummed that E. chugged those four beers for no reason I could see on a Friday night.  We had to have a talk about that and about how the drinking keeps us from connecting.  That's a legit conversation to have.

But, you know.  Four beers:  no big deal, in a cosmic sense.  He just laid about on the couch afterwards.  He didn't drive, or beat anyone up, or get stupid, or use it as an excuse to go shoot heroin.  He just basically fell asleep a little early.   Not a federal crime.

But my emotional remote control has a few too many buttons, and really, allowing each one of them to get pushed every time I turn around does nobody any favors.

Four beers doesn't warrant me staying up all night indulging in escape fantasies, in other words.

So that's my mantra for this week:  right size it.  Feel what I feel, talk when I need to talk, but then quit taking everything so damned seriously.  Cut people some slack, cut myself some slack.  Trade in my over-engineered emotional remote for a Roku-type emotional remote.

This has been so liberating, the few times I've tried it.  It just allows me to step outside my own madness and to observe myself over-reacting.  Instead, I can think about whether my reaction is right size and whether there's another way to deal with my funk.