Being present to myself: a muscle I'm learning to exercise

Sometimes staying present and in the moment is less attractive to me than, well, emotionally skipping out of town. I do this in a myriad of ways, from day-dreaming, to having expectations that are not particularly well-founded in reality, to simply avoiding things that need to be done, like paying bills or doing the laundry. Sometimes, I just go on autopilot and wake up one day realizing the two-year old Diana is driving the bus. What?!? How did that happen?

The two-year old me is really cute, if I do say so myself. She has a knack for fun, loves people, and is highly entertaining. But whatever you do, do not let her drive the bus.

I'm learning about certain survival techniques that I developed early in my life, most of which were geared around ensuring an ongoing connection with the essential care-giver in my life, my mother. I've written some about this before. Unfortunately, because of her own depression and general personality, she checked out emotionally by the time I turned two and my brother was four. For a two year old, so my therapist says, this is a terrifying turn of events. Mothers are supposed to create a safe haven for their children, and the children need to feel that all is well. This was missing in my experience.

So I spent a great deal of my formative years inventing only marginally successful ways of staying in connection with my mother. One of the most vivid memories I have took place when I was around four or five, by the time my brother was off to kindergarten and I was left at home, alone, with my mother.

As if it were yesterday, I can remember lunches with mom where she would say nothing, not look at me, just sit there passively and with a vacant stare. This panicked me -- I actually can feel the same physical sensations as I write this -- to the point where I had to employ some strategy to bring her back. Usually this involved asking her tons of questions, about her childhood, about what her wedding was like, about whatever. Anything to get her connect with me and give more than a few monosyllabic responses.

The older I got, the more sophisticated the schemes. Mind you, I was too young to know what I was doing, but I had to do something or else I felt like I was going to die. I made up skits with elaborate costumes to entertain my mother. I would share earnest and heartfelt feelings I had with her -- which made her uncomfortable and so she would make jokes about my sincerity. When I was sick, I tried desperately to get her to lay a cool hand on my forehead, which she would do for maybe 5 seconds, and then say "That's enough -- I have laundry to do."

I kept thinking, "if I could just find the key to unlocking the mystery of my mother, a cascade of love and understanding would pour out on me, and I would know everything is ok."

Well guess what: I never found it, this key. But that didn't keep me from trying.

In fact, I applied that desperation for connection with many adult role models in my life, from teachers to other friends' parents to the au pair we had live with us for two years. As an example I fantasized before going to sleep at night that I would protect a beloved teacher from a criminal with a gun, myself being shot in the process. I imagined, over and over, how this teacher would be so indebted to me that she would forever show up in my life as the mother I always wanted.

The skills I developed to defeat my inner desperation and longing were great...as long as I was under the age of 18. As an adult -- not so much. But these survival mechanisms became so automatic that I had no idea they were operating with me, especially in times of panic or fear. Even now I am trying to unpack them, understand their role in my life, appreciate them for how they allowed me to survive, and let go of them.

Easier said than done.

Lately I have been chanting to be more present in my own life, to show up for myself. I had an experience recently that made me realize just how much, in times of stress, I can abandon myself, the adult part of me. I check out. Then, no one is left to drive the bus but the two year old. I go unconscious, and the two year old, driven by fear, takes over.

I began to have an inkling that something was amiss because I had an emotional meltdown over something relatively trivial last weekend. I went down this crazy-assed spiral into a very black abyss, from which I thought I would never recover. It was insane -- part of me was imploding, and yet another part of me was watching it all happen. And in that moment, I felt like there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. The 50-year old Diana awoke from the back seat of the bus to find it being driven by a two year old. Holy SHIT.

The reason this is all happening is because....well, I don't really know, but I DO know that I have been doing my Buddhist chanting a lot lately to root out the causes of my unhappiness. I guess maybe it's time to be the adult driving the bus 100% of the time. I'm not denying that the two year old doesn't exist, or doesn't need to be cared for at times, but really, I need to be driving ALL the time.

The other day, I put a card on my altar that says:

Get real and
LET GO:
--of expectation
--of wishful thinking
--of fantasy
--of false attachments

I need to let go of these two year old ways of being because they aren't serving me anymore. Because they are completely unconscious, they cause me untold pain and suffering. Even though being in reality and always in charge can be painful too, it's not an "I'm gonna DIE!" kind of suffering. It's the suffering human beings live with in the world.

Several things have been so encouraging to me on this quest: for one, chanting so much has really elevated my frame of mind. I am learning to appreciate the incredible effort of the two year old self to ensure I survived, rather than despair that I'm learning these difficult things about myself at the age of 50. The two year old did a remarkably good job, and she can go back to being a kid now.

I also have been reading some Buddhist study material about the idea of "Myo" of Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, the name of the Mystic Law at work in the world. Daisaku Ikeda encourages practitioners to "...Open the way with the wisdom to perceive the essential truth amid changing circumstances." I interpret this to mean, open my life to the wisdom that no matter what happens, know that I am already a Buddha, that I am already complete. The painful realizations about myself are not who I ultimately am. I am not my pain. I have done nothing wrong. I am only human. And being human is the only way to manifest the Buddha wisdom already within me.

Scarcity versus Abundance: the Lesson of the Sushi Boat

I know this will probably gross out my vegan friends, but I occasionally partake of sushi, being on the West Coast where fish is deliciously and abundantly had. I've not been in a while, mostly because sushi is expensive and I have been rather penniless lately. It's something that is definitely best left as a treat and not something to do all the time.

However, one aspect of sushi couture I absolutely CANNOT get behind is the concept of The Sushi Boat. Whoever thought of this was either high at the time (and not a good high), or had nothing but greedy aspirations. Note in the photo: the sushi is spinning around the dining area on little boats in water. You can see by this photo the boats are not doing the slow tour around the sushi bar, but rather the speed demon pace that instills panic in people like me.

When sushi travels in this way, rather than leisurely as you order it, your (my, actually) propensity is to grab as much as possible before you've even taken the first bite. Whereas sushi in a normal restaurant is meant to be savored slowly [I had a sushi chef reprimand me a few years ago because I ordered too much at once, screaming "SUSHI NOT FAST FOOD!], this experience is built on the idea (for me) that if you don't pick this dish up NOW, there will never be another one.

I was trying to explain to my therapist today an analogy for what I was experiencing in terms of scarcity and abundance lately, and the sushi boat metaphor came to mind. When I am convinced that certain things in life are actually very scarce -- like love, or in this case, sushi -- I make choices based on this belief, and they aren't necessarily healthy choices. I've chosen partners based on the idea that "this is the best I can do," and I have ordered too much food because I was afraid there would not be enough. In both cases, I was completely focused on satisfying an immediate need, fearing that unless I did so, there wouldn't be enough for me.

Lately I've been experiencing the freedom that a perspective of abundance affords me. Now, it's important first to say that there are many things in life that are not objectively abundant, such as money. I'm broke. Totally. I maxed out two credit cards this week. If there ever was a more perfect illustration of "scarcity," I would be shocked.

Scarcity also shows up in my life through my beloved dog Taz. She's 16+ years old, and is pooping out. Although she receives the best care, the best food, and the most love, she's dying. Let's be honest. She had a seizure over the weekend, and I was so fortunate to be with two of my closest friends at the time, because without them I might have fallen apart. My wonderful home-visiting acupuncture vet dropped everything Sunday night to care for my old girl. While she is better, she will not be here for long. So time with Taz is very, VERY scarce.

And yet....despite these obvious instances of scarcity, I have been feeling a level of abundance lately that can't be denied. It's an odd thing, because while certain things are definitely constricting my life, I don't feel constricted.

In the past couple of weeks or so, I started seeing that everything happening in life is just that -- life. Between the reality of my dog dying sooner than I want and the fact I am turning 50 [OMG] in less than two weeks; the possibility that I need a hysterectomy to the realities of my finances -- all of these things have shown up not as tragedies to lament but life to be lived. I'm not sure how I can explain it, other than to go back to the sushi boat metaphor.

Think of it this way: the sushi boat is everything in life we want and aspire to: a good job, a loving family, a relationship that lasts, etc. But these things are moving constantly, because life is all about change. When I sit in my chair of scarcity at the sushi boat restaurant, I panic and feel I have to grab everything and hold on tight. I may never get that piece of sushi I want again, so I better act now. NOW. NOW!!!!!

If I am sitting in the chair of abundance, however, I can delight in the way the sushi is constantly changing. Maybe there is a surprise for me, just around the corner. Maybe the piece I really wanted will come around again in a new and exciting format. The point is, I know in the depths of my life that there will always be more sushi and I don't have to act now to get it. It will come to me.

That's the abundance I feel. I am sad that Taz is dying, but thrilled I still have her. She has much yet to tell me, and I will make sure I listen. After all, SHE comes from abundance.

From a place of scarcity, I find it hard to take in the kindness of strangers (or friends for that matter). If I am always on guard to ensure I am not left out of the scarcity wheel, I can't really focus on -- or accept -- the love and richness that already is there for me. But from the world of abundance, the view is incredible. Lately, I've had such an embarrassment of riches: from my friend Martha giving me her heart-felt concerns about how I do my blog, to Sandy's comforting of Taz right after her seizure, to Anne's remarkable tour of duty through all the fun that Chicago has to offer. What is there to lament?

Life has not changed for me; *I* have changed. The only thing that I have done is consciously chosen to improve my life condition. I personally do this through my Buddhist chanting, which affords me the opportunity to elevate my state of life to something higher than, well, animality (the state in which I am always reacting to my environment, a place I have often lived for long stretches). Others will find their own ways to elevate their life condition.

In any event, there is still the same difficulty that life often dishes out. I feel sadness at the immanent death of Taz, but I don't despair. I'm just being present with that reality, in the same way I am present with whatever other reality shows up on my doorstep. I am choosing to see it all differently, from a place that it's all a gift. I am showing up at the sushi bar with hope and joy.

The view from 40,000 feet

My friend Martha has a cool way of looking at life -- she calls it "the view from 40,000 feet." It's a nifty way to gain perspective on an issue that is troubling -- a way to get away from ground level, close up, where things may not be so clear.

I hadn't talked to her in a while, and we had the chance to have dinner a week ago. I have been thinking about things she said ever since.

I told her about the stuff that's been going on with me, my struggles and fears. I essentially told her that I was tired of being dope-slapped by the self-realizations that seem to come every single day of late. I am seeing myself in a new way, and it's been painful [read any of my previous blog posts and you'll understand what I'm talking about].

She asked me, "What's the view from 40,000? Looking at this from far away, isn't it exciting to know yourself better and better? Isn't it interesting?" I said that I supposed it was, but I feel a lot of disappointment lately, too, like disappointment at my divorce, feeling at the mercy of my emotions, and so forth.

She encouraged me to try not having any judgments about my life at this moment, that I have the choice to meet everything from the standpoint of, "oooh, isn't THAT interesting?"

A few years ago, I made the following prayers/determinations at the beginning of the new year:

1. I will not be ruled by guilt. Guilt is useless, and is just a way to maintain control over the self that I falsely believe is dangerous.
   
2. I will not be ruled by obligation. I will do things because I want to, not because I feel obligated.
3. "Because I want to" is reason enough to do something. I don't need to justify myself.
4. I will stop worrying. Worrying robs me of the energy I need to make real changes in my life.

OK, so to be perfectly honest, the first several months of trying to implement these four goals were a nightmare. All I could see were the ways in which my life was completely ruled by guilt, obligation, justification and worry. It was awful. But eventually, I was able to make some changes in my life based on these four goals that I never would have imagined making.

One of them was actually getting divorced. It may sound weird or cavalier, but I feel like the end of my 15-year marriage was a direct result of these prayers. In retrospect, I saw how much my relationship was dominated by guilt, etc. And in changing these things in myself, the dynamic of the relationship changed, too. And not for the better. Although I stuck it out for a very long time, ultimately the relationship just became too destructive and it had to end.

Back to the present....after my conversation with Martha, I thought a lot about the need to add more prayers to these essential four. So I added a fifth: "I will allow myself the space to be me without judgment." This one is a struggle right now, but it's coming a little easier than the four original determinations did. I am catching myself more quickly when I am judgmental or think things should be different than they are.

And I've now added a sixth, too: "I will take other people at face value." I am so weary of trying to figure people out. I've done this my entire life, the result of having an emotionally vacant (and at times, scary) mother who I needed to track constantly. I am sick of it. SICK. I do it so much that it is like second nature to me. I just want to be the kind of person who takes what other people say at face value, unless evidence points otherwise. I don't need to do the research to find that evidence. It will be apparent to me, and I can relax.

This last one is harder for me because it is hardwired into my survival drive. It's very old. But, I am determined to integrate this new attitude in my life, because there is so much more to do in life than spend 24/7 trying to discern what someone meant by something they said or did. If in doubt, I can ASK. Duh.

This morning I awoke with a new appreciation for my life, what I have, my friends, my family. I felt happy. It's been a while. From 40,000 feet, the view is pretty great.

The importance of naming

OK, so this is a little convoluted. I was remarking with a friend how ridiculous it is that some people -- people who OUGHT to know -- don't actually know our names. I'm not talking about people who only know our nicknames [in my case, this is definitely true....some friends only know my by a moniker given to me freshman year in college: Didi's Wilson-Malone...don't ask] but specifically people who have been schooled in our real names and who, for whatever reason, choose to ignore it and call us something else. In my case, there are legions of "friends" who think my name is "Diane," despite repeated reminders to them that they are dead wrong about that.

[My mother might be slightly at fault for this. She has, upon occasion, referred to me as "Di-ane," said in a luxurious southern drawl, even though she named me, for crissakes. It's something she thinks of as "cute." There are many friends from grade school who call me Diane to this day, probably because my mother set the standard some 40 years ago. I find it endearing and yet annoying at the same time.]

In any event, I think it's been crucial in my life to get names and naming right. I want to know how people's names are spelled, whether there is an "E" on the end, or if there is something unusual about a name. Is it pronounced Jee-nah, or Jenn-ah? Do you prefer "Steve" or "Steven"? These things matter to me.

Names and naming are integral to my view of life, and have been for years. When I was introduced to Nichiren Buddhism, I was thrilled to learn that the phrase "Nam Myoho Renge Kyo" is the name Nichiren gave to the mystic principal at work in the world -- a universal principal or energy that we cannot put our finger on per se, but something we know is there. In my youthful quest to understand the meaning of life and its source, I had searched for some way to name the thing that underlies all things. None of the concepts I had encountered really fit the bill; Dao was close, but lacked a practice; "God" was overburdened with Judeo-Christian baggage.

In my process of self-discovery, the act of naming -- I recently realized -- is also crucial. I move through personal angst more quickly if I am able to articulate my experience to others -- for example, through this blog, or by sharing my truth with others one-on-one. By naming what is going on with me, I am able to establish an emotional ground, a place to land. I can say, "this is what is true." Considering that so much of my formative years was spent being told that what I was experiencing was NOT true, I am able to reclaim reality as I see it. And in doing so, I discover myself there.

It's not that I want to -- or do -- wallow in stuff that's going on with me. I don't have an investment in giving my experience more emotional torque than it deserves. Frankly, my experiences truly SUCK at times. But, in being able to name the experience that belongs to me, not only do I establish who I am in it, but that experience paradoxically loses its steam as well. By naming it, I can eliminate the desire/tendency to make the experience more real than any other experience I have. I deflate its power over me. I can see where it comes from, how it manifests in my life, and then consciously decide how I will react. Is this some attribute that I want to keep? Is it something that I need to let go of? What age am I reliving right now? How can I support and nurture the part of me that experiences this trauma from thus-and-such vantage point?

Consciousness is an iffy thing. Sometimes being aware (for me anyway) is a double-edged sword. It means I am painfully reminded of how sometimes I move through the world completely UNconsciously. However, unless I am conscious of what is going on with me -- even if I cannot control it at this moment -- how can I ever possibly make a change? How can I take action based on self-knowledge? The struggle at times is to see the painful bits and remain compassionate towards the self that doesn't understand, or doesn't see, or is afraid to change.

"Helpful" things I learned at the age of 2

My last post was about living life at the age of 13. Well, friends, I am regressing. I am now facing shit I conjured up at the age of 2, it seems.

Here's some background: around the age of 2, my mother decided to have some kind of emotional breakdown. She was young, educated, and I think completely unsuited for motherhood. Except that's what you did back then, in the early 1960s. My brother, a mere 2 years older than me, was probably a handful, a youngster full of "why" questions -- why is the sky blue, why this, why that.

Mom's breakdown consisted of an ongoing paranoia/panic that she would lose control and slam my brother's head and mine against the wall to kill us both. Like the good wife and mother she was, she went to a shrink for help, but he was completely useless. In classic form, he told her that if she weren't so selfish and thought about her family instead of herself, she would be fine. In disgust, he turned her away, without real help and certainly no medication.

Mom did her best to pull herself together, which was only marginally effective. My paternal grandmother came during the day to "help" my mom out around the house, while dad was at work -- which really meant, grandma was there to make sure mom didn't act out her fantasies and kill us. It was a charming time, all the way around.

[BTW, I know a lot of this because my mother filled me in on the story when I was in my 20s.]

At the age of 2, however, I am sure I didn't understand what the hell was happening. My mother withdrew emotionally, and I recall vividly her vacant stare. In later years, I remember trying to engage my mom in conversations over lunchtime (I was maybe 5 or 6) and the panic I felt at her monosyllabic responses. I would do anything to have her connect with me. I learned how to perform little vignettes for her amusement. I made up games to rope her into my world. When I was supposed to be napping every afternoon, I rarely did, instead listening from my crib for signs of life in the house.

So at the age of 2, my therapist tells me, I would have likely gone into survival mode, since at that age connection with the mother is paramount. Except for me, it was there and then wasn't there. My mother disappeared, and even now -- 47 years later -- she's not entirely "there" all the time.

As an adult, I have somewhat made peace with the fact my mother has been emotionally unavailable nearly my entire life. However, I have also learned that, deep within me, are ingrained thoughts and responses of a pre-verbal variety that I am STILL trying to untangle.

One of the "helpful" things I learned at the age of 2 was that, without effort on my part, loved ones leave and never come back. Even WITH effort, the return of connection is never assured. Saying goodbye to a friend even now sometimes engenders fear or panic, especially if it is uncertain when the next reunion will take place. And in potential love relationships -- well, fogeddaboddit!

My 2-year-old way of trying to maintain connection is something I am just now working through. I see it in action sometimes, but often I cannot seem to stop it. Recently, it's completely in my face. Here are some things I do to maintain connection in the face of the 2-year-old's terror:

1. Manufacture attachment. Make myself indispensable in some way to the person I don't want to leave me. Create a need for my services in others. Examples include being the best prop designer for the high school musical; being able to create a papier mache rock at the last minute; helping build a bridge over a backyard creek (as I have all the right tools); designing a recording studio with no prior knowledge but figuring it out anyway (pre-internet, mind you).

2. Be in-demand as entertainment. Make myself the go-to person for fun. This was more common when I was younger, but I can still wing it if I have to. Examples include: dressing up in costumes to put on a show for my mom; making up new words to old songs to lobby for some dessert; being the life of the party by telling stories of my life that are only SLIGHTLY exaggerated.

3. Offer compliments, adoration and statements of affection to others in the hopes of getting the same in return. If that doesn't work, then demand compliments, adoration, and statements of affection from others. This one is really biting my ass these days. I am seeing this at work in awful, painful ways, something I didn't entirely see I was doing until recently (as in, this week). I am trying to pay attention to what energy I am putting out there to discern what I am trying to collect in response, and jesus christ on a crutch, it hurts.

To add insult to injury, my inner critic has been telling me what a loser I am for going through this at nearly 50 years of age. I feel sometimes like I should have figured this shit out a LONG fucking time ago. I feel humiliated at only now being aware of some very old, ingrained habits. And it is showing up where I least want it to.

My inner critic does really need to leave for a permanent vacation. Lacking compassion for the 2-year-old self, I know intellectually, is not going to help matters at all. I said months ago I wanted to live my life differently, and this is what I got. Dammit.

My process of human revolution -- inner transformation -- is painful, but I want to change. I want to show up as a fully actualized, happy person. I don't think I can get there if I am being operated by a 2-year-old's fears. I am determined to let go of these old habits, even if it takes me the rest of my life. I don't think it will, but I really haven't a clue. It takes faith.

Ah, to be 13 years old again....NOT

"Just when you thought it was safe to go in the water...." [cue ominous music]

Last time I wrote, I mused on the end of my divorce proceedings. However, the proceedings have not actually ended. I thought they would be, but no. Maybe this week.

And of course, the non-ending of my divorce has afforded me new opportunities for self-reflection. Which I despise.

Actually, what has afforded me new opportunities for self-reflection is the realization that, soon, I WILL be complete with the divorce, and it is time (finally) to get on with life, in all its glory.

And by "glory," I mean angst. Here I thought, "wow, the divorce will be done, I can get on with things, and life can return to some [mythical] cheery, problem-free existence." Right! In fact, new crap has already surfaced, much to my chagrin (but to much delight to my therapist, whose untiring effort to create the Susan Jane Martin Full Employment Act has come to fruition).

After 15 years of marriage, and as I quickly approach the half-century mark, I am faced with the completely weird experience of feeling like I am 13 years old again. I feel like a pimply-faced, hormonally-challenged teenager who has not a single clue how to be in the world. I feel all my emotions on such a raw, vulnerable level, unclear how to share that without scaring the shit out of others.

Fifteen years ago -- maybe longer -- I made a decision (unconsciously) to take that vulnerability and shove it where the sun don't shine, out of fear of humiliation, whatever. <-- In writing this last sentence, it occurs to me that this habit of shoving vulnerability somewhere unseen is actually something very old, from childhood. It's just that who I was in my marriage reconfirmed the need to repeat this mistake.

Reflecting on my youth, I recall so many moments where the tender-hearted, vulnerable me was ridiculed and/or misunderstood. Some were inflicted by unthinking teachers, some by my dysfunctional parents, some by the natural cruelty of other children -- but all left their mark on me. I was so, SO sensitive as a youth, and hid it well from people, mostly by becoming the class clown, the best friend to others, the helpful one, the one who could make a papier mache rock needed at the last minute for the high school musical.

It didn't help that I was also miles taller than others my age, even in high school. I have been my present height since 7th grade, and if you have seen some of my posts on Facebook, including the pictures, you will know what I am talking about. How better to deflect from sensitivity, awkwardness, and vulnerability than to be the one person everyone could count on. "Nope, no needs here! I have set aside my needs to make YOU happy!"

So, in therapy, I recently declared that I want to face my new life differently, by reclaiming the vulnerable, sensitive person I have always been but have hidden away. I want to share the part of me that has needs. I want not to fix others, but just me.

All nice and dandy in theory, but let us just say that as the rubber hits the road, friends, it SUCKS. It SUCKS MAGNIFICENTLY. I felt such pain yesterday, for example, that I wanted to fucking crawl under a rock and die. Just like when I was 13 years old, telling my bestest friend that I loved her (not romantically, I thought, as I wasn't aware of such feelings then) and having her look at me with such disgust.

The interesting thing, however, is that unlike the 13-year-old, I just FELT like withdrawing; I didn't actually do it. I just hung out with the feelings and thought, "well, this mightily sucks!" It was an odd experience, to have the feelings of pain and vulnerability and be able to identify them as such. The shift between observing and experiencing was exhausting, but instructive.

I suppose that progress is being made; at least that's how I have to hold it. Otherwise, I might just go back to making papier mache rocks.

"nothingness" does not mean "nothing"

First, an apology. I said last year I was "starting a blog." However, my dear friend Marla noted that it's not a blog if you don't, well, blog. Therefore, I have not blogged, and you may feel duped.

And I have not blogged since August 2009. Why is that? Because I have been going through the throes of a divorce. Let me tell you, it's like another job, really -- there is a lot to do, many papers to fill out, gobs of statements of fact to compose. And that's true regardless of whether your divorce is friendly or not.

And mine wasn't, even though I thought it would be. Even though I longed for it to be. Even though I continued to pine for same as I got the snot beat out of me in one way or another. I kept thinking, "this HAS to get better, right?"

And no, it wasn't the fault of my attorney. She was the real gem in all of this, a person I could trust and share my innermost anxieties with. She was no ambulance-chaser; on more than one occasion she disabused me of the belief that somehow (a) this was going to be a slam-dunk and (b) I would become far richer monetarily because of my divorce. Neither were true; she didn't lie.

But I digress. Since August, when I hired said gem-of-an-attorney, and last week (when we reached a settlement), there has not been a single day in which I was not obsessing about some aspect of the divorce. I won't go into the details, because they are not relevant; rather, the focus of this particular post is about obsession and what happens when the obsessing goes away.

While all of this divorce shit was going on, I also was worrying about the lack of work I was running up against because of the economy. As a consultant, I have to look for work and heretofore that has not been an issue. However, since most of my clients are cities and counties -- and you know how THAT is going these days -- I haven't had nearly enough work for the year.

I then thought I would get creative and use the lax time to work on a paper for my PhD requirements, something that had languished for quite a while. And for a few months, I was applying myself and actually finished the paper, and started on another.

Then, at the beginning of this year, as the divorce stuff heated up, my work plummeted, and the skies turned gray, I sort of fell apart. Well, actually, I became quasi-catatonic. I could not do much of anything -- even though I had a lot of time on my hands.

So I began obsessing about every little thing regarding the divorce. I saw my ex in various places with various new loves. Initially I was devastated; then I became irritable. SHE seemed to be having a lot of fun, while I was in a state of near-constant despair. I reviewed paperwork my ex submitted with a fine-tooth comb. I wanted to know everything I could about what she was doing, so that I could strategize how to respond. I wanted to be prepared for anything thrown at me.

We finally started meeting face-to-face to discuss the terms of a settlement. Actually, it started out with going through volumes of paper, representing 15 years of assets [stuff] that we collectively accumulated, to discern who got what. The reduction of my longest-ever relationship -- my MARRIAGE -- to "who bought that dresser" made me sick. Made me sad, devalued.

The night before one of our last meetings, I lay in bed with my beloved dogs, the sound of their breathing signaling the existence of us, a family. MY family. And all that other "stuff" started to melt away in importance. I heard Alanis Morisette in my head, singing

The moment that I let go of it
Was the moment I got more than I could handle
The moment that I jumped off of it
Was the moment that I touched down.

("Thank U")

I realized then that I didn't need anything, that all of this "stuff" could go away and I would still be here, part of a family. None of it mattered anymore.

Last Thursday, I met with my ex and we reached a settlement. I left the conference room and repaired to my attorney's office, where I started to weep. I felt a strange mixture of sadness, relief, and god knows what else.

The following day, when I thought I would feel better, I felt worse. I cried most of the day -- big, heaving sobs that felt like they traveled back in time to a grief that has always been there. I was now left with this gigantic open space in which obsessing about the divorce was no longer available as an escape. There it was. Nothingness.

I couldn't fill it with too much wine, too much food, too much anger. There were no reams of paper to shove my head into, no books that could carry me to some other land for even a few minutes. I struggled with the feelings I had in my despairing youth of wanting to die. "There's always suicide," I heard a voice in my head say -- and then I would laugh out loud at the stupidity of it all.

Today, a week later, I can still feel the vastness and it scares me. I am afraid of the empty space. I am afraid there is nothing left to me. I am afraid that I have no meaning outside my struggles, and I am afraid I will find a new suffering/obsession to fill up that space. I am afraid being strong, honest, open-hearted and joyful will mean no one will care about me. I feel my identity has been locked in the suffering, and now no one will see me. I am not needed, nor do I need. I am nothing.

And yet...[you knew I wouldn't be a total bag of downers, didn't you?] Yesterday I went for my regular energy healing session with the wonderful CF, and she set me straight: "nothingness" does not mean "nothing." In the vastness, the calm, the "no more suffering about this one thing," there is Spirit. There is Buddhahood. There is the force we cannot see but want to believe is there within us. Some days I believe it, some days not. Today, I will try again.