The Quandry that is Investment

How do we decide who we let into our life?

How do we decide if someone or something is worth the risk...worth investing in?

How do we decide if we should put in the work for something or someone that is not a guarantee?

Where’s the tipping point, and how do we place value on something that isn’t designed to last forever...because, life will end. Our time will run out and we have no control over when it stops, just as we didn’t have a say over when it started. I’m fully aware of the critique given to those who choose to end their own lives, the stigma and viewpoints…The thing is, life and death are more the same than we would give credit for. Both are, for the most part unplanned, emotional and the staging point of a moment that brings transition. Death gets a bad rap, and if you question that opinion, just look at what comes to mind when you think about birth and death. Birth is bright and celebratory newborn with diapers...death is dark marked by the grim reaper. But what if it didn’t have to be like this? Would you be willing to set aside your own beliefs and selfish desires to allow someone you love, the chance to exercise some level of control over a life that has been less than kind…

It seems tragic to think that any of us would put ourselves and our own happiness over that of another especially if the other person would live in pain either physical or emotional, poverty, or alone. Why should someone else have to suffer in any way shape or form because you want them to live? The truest measure of compassion and empathy is to put aside your own feelings and happiness to ensure the happiness of another. It’s not to say that it is an easy idea, or a feel good concept but what if you were forced to live or die regardless of your stance or beliefs? The simple fact that we pass judgement on someone based on our own feelings and sense of morality, is in fact, a misguided attempt at control. The very same control you are trying to deny another.

Yes, I understand the moral code of valuing life, but let’s be honest...most of us apply said value when it suits us...how very judgemental. People act as though wanting to die is a selfish act, an irrational and emotionally immature gesture...but I would propose that the opposite is true. It takes great courage and insight to be that self-aware. I’m not saying that anyone should make a determination on living or dying in the heat of the moment, but there are times when we are well within our right mind that we can weigh the benefits and deficits of continuing to exist in this life. After all, who better to make such a serious and important decision than the person living that life...

One of my most favorite quotes comes from the most amazing television show on the planet, Wynonna Earp. In season 3, episode 8 where ‘Kate and Wynonna are about to use Peacemaker to send a demon to hell, but instead of just shooting the demon, the demon falls to her knees and then grabs the barrel of the pistol, bringing it to the skin of her forehead, indicating to please shoot her there.’ Kate says to Wynonna, “It’s no small thing, getting to choose one’s own end.” That quote punched me in the gut the first time I heard it. I remember fumbling for the tv remote because I was sure I must have misheard the statement. But I didn’t, I rewound several times, and sure enough...I heard it correctly.

I fully realize there is a lot to unpack in the previous paragraphs, so let me bring it back to the question at hand. How do you decide who gets the investment of your energy, time, love and friendship...how do you decide if someone is worthy? If we start going into relationships with some sort of ill conceived notion that we get to set the duration of the relationship, how many of us would be okay having that standard placed upon us...the answer, zero. Life isn’t supposed to be solely based on how long we are here, it’s supposed to be about what we do while we’re here. Some of my best friends, and closest relationships have come and gone, some flicker like the burning embers of fire and some burn hot, and bright but just as quickly disappear. Placing a restriction or some sort of qualifier on people coming and going from our lives is futile if you really think about it. We are not promised a damn thing in this life. Trying to exert that level of control is like trying to smell the color 9...it’s crazy making.

If we really want to invest in someone or something, shouldn’t we do it regardless of what the outcome could possibly be? After all, plans change. Circumstances can be altered. Viewpoints can gain perspective. Sure the outcome is highly suggested, but do you give up on the here and now just to avoid the “potential?” I’m not trying to force anyone to change their beliefs about the value of life, or dictate the design of relationships...I’m just flipping the quarter so that if you can, if you are able...see the other side. I’m not making a judgement call on which side is the best because one does not come without the other. But if it makes you feel better...flip the coin.

Best of three wins.

Eye of the Beholder

I don't know how everyone else views the world, but I'd like to think that I see things a little differently, but then again I would also expect others to feel the same way. I know we see colors, black and white...light and shadow...shapes and lines, but I see the world around me like I'm looking through the viewfinder of a camera. I'm always looking, and not always intentionally, at the world like you see movie directors in Hollywood films where they put their thumbs and index fingers together in the shape of two L's making a rectangle from which to look through. I honestly don't intend to view life like that, but I've done it for so long that I can't remember a time it was ever different. 

I don't consider myself a professional photographer by any means, not even in the loosest definition. Yeah, sometimes I get paid for the work I do but mostly not. Since I started my current journey with the click click, I've captured many beautiful photos. But far more ugly, blurry and mishandled photos if I'm really being honest. I've enjoyed shooting landscapes, hot rods, trains, portraits, sports and insects. It's easy to take photos of pretty things. It's easy to capture the bright and heartfelt images that make up our calendars and computer wallpapers but what about the rest...the things we pass by everyday with no more than a thought or sideway glance...but likely never notice. I was going through some of my older photos, the random ones that I never really knew what to do with and suddenly I realized how much my photography mirrors my everyday life. So here's a quick collection of said photos and would ask you this, do you see the reflection? 

Don't worry it's not a trick question.)

So what conclusion did you reach? 

I spend my life working with the personification of these photos...those we castoff, throw away, step over, pretend we don't see. The human equivalent of used lighters, flipped over shopping carts, spent shell casings, shattered properties and broken parts. My eye is drawn to the images we refuse to see, while my heart and soul are drawn to those we deem unworthy, beneath us and dirty. I find hope and compassion in some of the darkest places, this doesn't make me special and it doesn't make me better than anyone else. 

Tell me, are your eyes open to the world around you? What will you deem worthy of beholding? 

My challenge to you, find something that makes you uncomfortable, sit with it, experience the thoughts that threaten to drown you and simply float. In that momentary panic, remember that change is sometimes painful, but worth it in the end. If you feel that it's not worth it right now, then it's not the end. 

Sometimes what can feel so scary, is the not knowing. And sometimes when you feel like you're drowning, if you just stand up...your feet will touch the bottom. It's all about perspective. 

 

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Comment as Diz Ruptive Photography by Debra Carlsen

Why I do, what I do

Why I do, What I do

For anyone who reads my blog, it can be an interesting yet confounding experience. It’s a lot like how my brain works, sometimes it behaves rationally, and employs logic to make sense of this world. Yet, other times it is chaotic, impulsive and overly emotional. There are times that I sit down to type out a post, and I sit for hours just staring at the screen...waiting for it to magically transform before my eyes into some sort of brooding epiphany of literary greatness. Alas, it doesn’t happen like that...ever. I will admit that there are times, where I plan to write one thing, and end up writing something totally different. So when those times come along, I try to be present enough in the moment to let my fingers type out what my mind is guiding them to say. I’ve recently admitted to some friends that I’m a hot mess, well not so much hot but very much a mess. I shared some of my fears with them, and some doubts and let them into the inner ramblings of my mind...and caused them concern. I didn’t mean to, it was never my intent and I wish I could take it all back. But I know I can’t, and I assume I felt safe enough to tell them for a reason, I just wish that maybe I didn’t feel so broken by it.

With all that being said, the previous paragraph was included to add some context to a larger discussion that I won’t present here but should you feel so inclined, check a post entitled ‘Intention’ for more background information...or not, whichever. As previously mentioned, there was a discussion that I instigated for reasons I still can’t wrap my head around and one of the things that came of it was a question posed by one of my friends, “Deb, I read your blog and I have one question. Why did you choose to go into the profession that you’re in?” I got lost in thought staring at the words and for a brief moment I was like ‘is this a trick question?’ I started typing out my response and then deleted it, just a few more times I did that dance with the keyboard...finally I typed out “that’s a complicated discussion.” But you know what, I’m not so sure that was an accurate statement on my part because my initial response is one I should have gone with, yet I second guessed myself which brings me to this rambling post.

The answer is relatively simple, I didn’t choose this profession, it chose me.

For a quick recap of what my “profession” is, here’s the  alphabet as typed out on my business card. Debra Carlsen, MSW, MHP, LISCWA, SUDPT. In regular speech it plays out like this...Debra Carlsen, Masters in Social Work, Mental Health Professional, Licensed Independent Social Worker Associate, Substance Use Disorder Professional Trainee. Goodness even my eyes glossed over at all of that. It’s a bunch of very expensive letters that I will be in debt with for the rest of my life, all just to say that I’m a social worker, I provide mental health (therapy) and work in addictions. Sigh. I think I just rolled my eyes hard enough to see my own hind end. I work with those who are chronically, severely mentally ill and those who are addicted to substances. My clients are often homeless, broke, beaten and cast aside. They belong to a group that gets targeted first for blame, they are often overlooked, underfunded, mentally, physically and spiritually broken and at the top of the list when resources get cut due to budget short falls. 

Okay, I need to get back on course here and actually answer my friend. I do this work because I do, I like it, it’s important and it matters. I do this work because so many other people either won’t, can’t or don’t care enough to take all the shit that comes along as a byproduct of our society's values and moral standards. There has always been inequality and injustice in this world, I just happen to have been born an empath who let life take me where it wanted me to go. Not because I’m cool like that, but because I honestly had no intentions of living past my 30’s. In my mind, my dreams I always die a violent death. I have always maintained that I was not meant to live this life, either not worthy or misplaced and broken...this life is not mine to live. So it made sense to me, not to plan anything out. I never intended to be good in psychology, social work or addictions...I just kept taking the classes because I was really good at them. One thing led to another and classes led to degrees...that led to jobs and here I am. 

In all honesty, the one purposeful step I took was getting certification and hopefully eventually being an official addictions specialist...but I didn’t really start that process for me, I started it and continue it because my clients deserve better. I seek to better my understanding so that I can help them, advocate for them, show them their worth and comfort and guide them with more than just empathy and compassion. It’s not much, I’m not much...but if I’m going to be here, then I should at the very least make something count. I don’t do this because of the money, or the applause or for the keys to heaven...I do this because I was called to do so and I’m really fucking good at it. In fact, the only time I feel like I belong on this earth, in this body...the only time I feel worthy of this life is when I’m doing therapy with my clients.

I’ve spent most of my adult life pushing people and relationships away, they are too messy, too complicated and too risky for someone who is living on borrowed time. I keep people at arms length because I don’t want to be mistaken in my belief of who and what I am. I don’t want to accidentally start to love myself, find peace or acceptance this late in the game. I’ve lived this life with a specific set of directives that I learned before I could walk and had further cemented in my mind and heart every Sunday. It would be cruel to suddenly have sight granted to these eyes at this stage in my life...I can’t suddenly have everything I have ever known, be wrong. I know it’s destructive, but it’s all that abuse, trauma and self-loathing that has made me who I am...it’s made me an amazing therapist albeit someone who can give great insight to others but cannot apply an ounce of it inwardly.

Rereading this, I’m not sure I really answered the question. Just know that it’s all I have at this point. It's the best I can do at answering a question that should seemingly be easy to answer. 

Out of Panic Comes Madness

Wednesday started like any other day, my alarm went off...I hit snooze a few times and eventually forced myself out of bed. Did the usual morning bathroom routine, started getting dressed and heard mom call my name. I stopped because it was so faint I didn’t know if I had actually heard her given that she usually isn’t awake when I leave for work. I stilled my actions and listened, after a brief moment I heard what sounded like vomiting and raced up the stairs. Cricket was in her bed, but mom was doubled over in her chair violently vomiting up green frothy bile and crying. Immediately at her side, I questioned what I could do...what do you need of me? She had trouble talking, but I could make out her faint request for a new container to wretch into. Quickly I collected the needed item and provided it to her, still crying and heaving the words she spoke unmistakable. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, something’s wrong.” She continued throwing up, her sobs loud against my ears and my actions stilled so that I could offer whatever assistance she requested. 

With a thundering quickness I emotionally fell to my knees when she whispered “I want to die.”

Words failed me, but actions did not. I searched her purse for the card holding the numbers to the consulting nurse and dialed with intent. After a few moments, I was patched through to a nurse who oddly held the same name as my mother. She directed me to ask specific questions, requested more information and quickly advised that 911 be called stating, “you’re only in your early 70’s, we want you around a lot longer, so I think you really need to go to the ER.” I quickly recognized my mother’s facial expression even as she continued to vomit...she has always been one to minimize her pain/symptoms and has with assurity denied my previous attempts for medical intervention. After hanging up with the consulting nurse, I asked my mother “can I have your permission to call 911?” Normally I would defer to her wishes, but I didn’t even allow her the chance to respond and quickly dialed the number and began speaking with the responder. The report on my end was much the same as the first call, and so too were the associated questions asked of me to relay to my mother. “Ask her to smile, do both sides of her face react the same? Have her raise both her arms straight out and keep them that way, was she able to do that and were her arms the same? Have her repeat the early bird gets the worm, did she say it without slurring or forgetting?” She passed all the tests, but decided to send the paramedics anyway.

It was perhaps 20 minutes from the moment I thought I heard mother call my name to when the paramedics showed up at the house. After more questioning and then a brief discussion where they questioned me about having her take some tylenol and just relax instead of going to the hospital...her responses were more latent, it was becoming clear to everyone that she was losing the battle with her mind. No longer able to answer questions, complete a sentence or identify objects the decision was quickly cemented that she was going with them to the ER. At first I begged them to take her, but was relieved when the choice was no longer in question and they ushered her to the ambulance. It was something I will never erase, hearing her say with urgency “I need...I need...I need…” and yet totally unable to complete one thought. I could see the tears coming down as she struggled to find the words, fought to make herself known but try as she might, coming up empty. 

After closing the front door, suddenly finding myself alone I remembered that I had put Cricket in the back bedroom and quickly retrieved the crying dog who was panicked at the loss of mother and the smells of strangers in her territory. I comforted her as best I could, almost tripping on her closeness several times while racing around my apartment to finish getting dressed so I could race to the hospital to be by her side. I finally glanced at my phone while leaving the house and noticed a text from my mother’s number, “I.” For the next 24 hours, that text would haunt me because I feared it would be the last text I would ever get from her. While sitting in the ER, I looked at the time stamp of that text, and noticed it was around the time I heard her call my name and then something shifted inside me. Hitting me like a freight train, mom wasn’t able to call out my name...but I swear I heard her...at the very moment her text reached my phone, that was still set on silent. My mind reeling, I excused myself to the nearest bathroom and broke into hysterical sobs.

From the moment I reached her bedside in the ER, to the moment they wheeled her out of the room and up to the neurological floor...time went in fitz and sparks. Sometimes passing so agonizingly slow that even the clock hands seemed trapped in tar...and then other times passing like a blur of motions convoluted by loud alarms, occasional intercom notifications and mom’s seemingly never ending retching sounds. For a time, nurses were arriving en masse taking blood, putting in tubes, the room a flutter with activity and then it all slowed to a trickle. It took several rounds of pain and anti-nausea medications to finally provide my mother with a few moments of relief but her condition did not improve. And if I’m being honest, neither did mine. I busied myself providing updates to the extended family that mother is close with, reaching out to a few of my trusted coworkers and my Earp family on twitter in an effort to keep my mind from totally unraveling.

As the hours unfolded, medical folks would come in and out either checking her vitals, asking me how she was doing or taking her to other areas of the ER for testing. She could no longer answer yes or no questions, she would repeat statements as though she were answering new questions and I kept myself from drowning until the time came where she was asked by one of the doctors while pointing at me, “do you know your daughters name?” Suddenly the waves crashed over my head like being driven and churned by a hurricane and my world went dark. The hands on the clock stopped moving, the alarms became muted by the overwhelmingly crushing depths of the panic rising within me. She couldn’t tell them my name. I stifled a sob, grateful for the mask that hid my facial expression and diverted my eyes to the foot of her bed. 

Keep it together Deb. She needs you.

 

Time kept passing, and the more I tried to force the ‘what ifs’ and ‘what nows’ further from my mind, the more I felt the swirl of panic nipping at my feet like angry little dogs trying to pull me down to the ground. I took solace in the fact that mother had finally succumbed to sleep and stopped throwing up...I felt enormous sorrow while looking at my mother knowing she had been vomiting for more than 6 hours and then feeling the pull of guilt as I realized she had been battling this alone for 4 hours before I joined the fight. Her respirations dropped low often and I was encouraged to remind her to take deep breaths so that the alarms wouldn’t wake her, and I did just that every time her numbers dipped. I stood silent guard while placing gentle kisses to the top of her head and stroking her shoulders...learning what actions would calm her while not waking her enough to bring the pain back to mind.

At one point I remember leaving her room, leaning my back against the wall, finally letting the sobs overtake my body as I slid down the wall. I felt so heavy, so lost, so alone. A passing nurse stopped to check on me and offered the obligatory tissues to me, which I gladly took. Only after clearing my head and drying my eyes did I return to my mother’s side. I refused to show my mother any evidence of how terrified I was at what I had seen unfold before me. She would need me to be strong, to be a steady hand and I’d be damned if I failed my mission. It wasn’t until I reached my car in the parking garage that I shattered into pieces. The rest of the night, I vacillated between panic and worry as I thought about how hard it must be for mother to be alone in the hospital and not be able to communicate her needs. Then I mentally chastised myself because I feel certain there must have been something I could have done to better help her. It took me almost 5 hours of calling the nurses station to get any information about her condition but what I did get, gave me no peace of mind.

Sleep danced around me all night but never once held my hand, I was worried about what life would be like now...how would I be able to afford in home care for her? How severe is the damage in her brain and what now? The most amazing thing happened the next morning, a little after 7am my phone rang despite it being on silent and low and behold, there was mom on the other end. Not only had she figured out how to use the phone, she was able to remember that she had to dial 9 to get an outside line. That was the first moment, I think I really felt like I could breathe. 

While things are still in limbo as to what exactly is going on with her, we’ve ruled out stroke and heart attack, but more tests beget more tests and now she finds herself in a speciality hospital while they take a closer look at her neck pulmonary veins for blockages. The best news of course is that I can visit her now, and by all means I will take that any day of week. The house has been empty, my vision has been black and white and the silence here is deafening. I’m a little less panicked now, but I can still feel the madness just under the surface.

Inequality/Injustice

Inequality/injustice can take on many forms, impact different people in unrelated ways, it doesn’t care if you know any better or what country you live in. It exists simply because we as a species have allowed it. Nothing more, nothing less. It has been around since our time began, from the height of Rome and Egypt, Vikings and Crusades to the current caste system that regulates how government and countries are run. I feel confident in saying that at no time during our evolution on this world did we exist as ‘one’. This is not uniquely our own though, this need to quantify and qualify our society is found in the animal kingdom as well...the difference is that only the humans as a species thrives at the control and suffocating oppression of others. Our species designates importance based on many things; gender, fitness, size, color, culture, religion, education, profession, socioeconomic status, household makeup...the list goes on and is by no means exhaustive as I have laid it out here. 

I could write a book, actually several books on each and every type of inequality/injustice there is in our society. But in all honesty, I am not well enough educated on the various schools of thought nor do I have a working understanding of each...I just simply do not fundamentally understand why we are, the way we are. Even when the way we are, hurts others. It would be a disservice for me to try and generalize with a broad brush when to do this the right way, I would need a tiny brush capable of the most minut strokes to do right by every sense of the word. So I’m going to try and focus my thoughts to a smaller subsection of society, one I belong to. Well, actually it’s more like four...just hear me out.

In my religion, women are supposed to be subservient and do as the men say. Women are not allowed the same rights, functions or designations as the men. In my religion, those not heterosexual have even less rights, functions and designations than even the women. In my religion those not married and sealed in the temple are viewed slightly better than being non heterosexual but still not as good as men in general. So basically, no matter what or who you are if you are not a heterosexual man...you plummet down the list of importance. If I take who I am without other qualities and stack them up, I’ve already struck out. I’m a woman, who is queer, not married in the temple and single. 

The kicker is that I didn’t set out to talk about the religious aspects of inequality/injustice within my religion...I actually wanted to address the impact it has on those with mental illness and/or substance abuse. Because I identify more with that population than those of my own faith. Every day I watch it in action, the haves and have nots. The well to do and the homeless and destitute. The worthy and the undesirables. It’s played out everyday before my eyes, the song may change but the dance is always the same. 

The narrative goes something like this...the only time people pay attention to the mentally ill are when there’s a disaster or tragedy of some sort, and even then the view point is slanted and negative. People cross the street to get away from them, walk around or over them, maybe spare a few bits of change when they see them at stop signs asking for help. Still other people view them as ‘lowlifes’ or ‘people who can just get up and get a job but they’re lazy and on welfare.’ I don’t think people really understand that mental illness isn’t something you can just get up from, move past or ignore. After all, we praise the people who are strong, even if they lie. But villainize the weak when they are being honest. As for the homeless...the vast majority of Americans are just one paycheck from walking the streets. We are not so different, in fact, more similar than you would ever understand. The mere fact that many of us have to decide between our medications or paying rent speaks louder than a million screaming voices. 

I don’t know why we have to feel the need to designate our differences, I mean they are what make us stronger and more complete. Can you imagine how boring life would be if we were all the same? Yet at the same time I understand that labels are how we understand our world, at least in the pharmaceutical world anyway...without a diagnosis (label) you can’t get services or medications. It’s a sad business I’m part of, a broken system serving broken people in a broken world. The enormity of what it would take to fix this life is overwhelming and leaves me mentally exhausted and feeling helpless. We would have to flip the entire script of everything we have ever known. Money would need to be spent on preventative care, we would need to invest in each other, we would need to fund programs without the empirical data that we currently use to judge the effectiveness of worth. We would change the funding structure, the governmental process by which decisions are made based on fear and history...only to be more mindful and future oriented. 

I don’t think we could do it. We hold so tightly to our current ideals that the idea to publicly fund all communities, to provide free healthcare, to make free meals in school, to provide for each other starting at birth to set people up for better outcomes, frankly terrifies. We would have to start at the bottom and work our way up, instead of from the top down to the bottom. We would need to divert funds from the military to health, education and social services...all that currently hover around the last to get funding. We would in essence need to change our entire value system. This problem feels too big to deal with, I mean how do you change something so ingrained into the fabric of our country? 

Well, for starters we could admit that mistakes have been made. We can admit that we aren’t all that and a bag of chips. We could humble ourselves and ask other countries what they have done and learn from them, for better or worse. We could make ourselves a priority instead of the government deciding who gets what. There’s a lot of things we could and would need to do, but nothing changes until we admit that there’s something wrong. Until that happens, we are doomed to continue to repeat the mistakes we make. Both on an individual level and societal level. The thing about inequality/injustice is, it’s everywhere but only if you choose to see it. Therein lies the rub, because a lot of people don’t want to believe that it exists. As if the understanding of such a deeply rooted issue will blind them and destroy the dreams they hold most dear. Problem is that burying your head in the sand can only work for so long, before it pulls you down and engulfs you. It would be easy to surrender at this point, after the life you thought was real burns but that’s when you rise, take a stand and move forward creating the change that pulls you from ignorance to informedness.