The night; the cool,
The squares of light
Across the lake.
My home, your home,
Our home, no home.
Earth, air, fire, lake.
Camp ground rules are:
Peace in the night.
The night; the cool,
The squares of light
Across the lake.
My home, your home,
Our home, no home.
Earth, air, fire, lake.
Camp ground rules are:
Peace in the night.
This is a shout-out to my sisters and brothers with mentally ill adult children. This is to say: you are not alone.
You are not alone when another parent laments a horrible night fighting with a son or daughter over curfew, and you try to commiserate while silently recalling the weeks your child vanished with no word. You are not alone in feeling the stab of pain at the photos and mementos other parents take for granted. You are not alone when your silence at celebrations is a veil between you and shared joy. I am with you.
You are not alone when you run into your child’s classmates’ parents at the grocery store and hear stories of graduations, weddings, careers, and grandchildren, and are struck dumb. What can you say? “The electroconvulsive therapy seems to be helping,” or, “It’s been almost eighteen months since the last relapse and it looks like this new boss is very understanding about the absences”? You are not alone when you wonder what they’ve heard, and what they are not saying. I wonder too, in silence and gracelessness.
You are not alone in those other awkward silences, when you relate a funny story, an achievement, a talent, or a celebration pertaining to that mentally ill person whom you love. You know those silences: the person you’re talking to is momentarily confused, because they thought your child was that child, the one who…you know. How can you be praising that child’s talents or skills or achievements or sense of humor? And you want to shout, “This child of mine is NOT circumscribed by illness!”
You are not alone in your anger at your child over the behaviors which make life so much more difficult and painful. Or in your anger at the people who take advantage of a mentally ill person’s confusion verbally, financially, sexually, violently. You are not alone in your desire to protect someone who cannot be protected without also being imprisoned. You are not alone in your confusion over where to draw the line between making allowances for things mentally ill people can’t help, and enabling unacceptable behaviors that they can. There are others out here, like me, whose hearts are a battleground between the rescuer and the judge.
You are not alone when the phone rings in the middle of the night and you panic, clawing at the sheets, and flailing in terror that this is one of those times when the police, or the ER, or the psych hospital calls to tell you your child is arrested, unconscious, suicidal, hallucinating, self-harming, attacking orderlies, or any of a litany of other behaviors. Or, the worst call of all, the one you dread the most: the call to say your child has overdosed, successfully committed suicide, been shot or stabbed or bludgeoned to death by a cop or a drug dealer or a stranger or a lover. And you are not alone when the most shameful thought flickers momentarily through your mind: at least then it would be over. And you are not alone when you crush that thought desperately, so fearful that even allowing it to cross your mind will somehow make it true, make it into a hammer that will smash your heart to pieces forever.
My sisters and brothers, that hammer keeps pounding away at our hearts. Let us keep our hearts warm and pliable so the blows will be the blows of the forge, to mold and shape our hearts and leave them stronger and more resilient, and shining like metal, like steel, like gold! Let this be a flame to warm your heart: you are not alone.
The more I learn about human history, psychology, anthropology, and economics, the more I come to believe that community is the most dangerous and evil factor in our existence. Whenever anyone rhapsodizes abstractly about peace and goodwill, the nebulous word “community” seems to appear. These rhapsodies generally evanesce as soon as the wind of reason blows across them; the end of such discussions is hurt feelings and spilt-milk tears.
From the work of Solomon Asch, we know that it only takes three liars to cause a fourth person to lie. For those who don’t know, Asch conducted a series of experiments in which volunteers were shown lines of differing lengths and asked to match a separate line to the one of the same length. The task was clear and obvious and less than 1% of subjects gave wrong answers when tested privately. Yet, when tested in groups of four or more, when the other group members (secretly “planted” by the researcher) identified the wrong line, a third of the test subjects gave the same, plainly wrong, answer as the other group members. What is more, only half of them later admitted that they knew the truth; the others had actually trusted the perceptions of the group over the evidence of their own eyes. Remember, this was a very simple question: which line is longer? When the reasoning is more complex or the differences are subtler, how much stronger is the influence of group opinion?
Following this reality further down the rabbit hole: We also justify choices we think we have made, even if they are opposite to what we actually chose. In the case of voting, this means that, even if an individual rejects a particular choice, as long as she buys into the idea that her will is reflected in the will of the collective, she will mentally justify the choice of the collective.
From the work of those such as Peter Killworth and Robin Dunbar, we know that our human brains can only handle the complexities of understanding and having true social relationships with 150-300 people, the size of the smallest social groups, such as clans, in hunter-gatherer societies. Any larger group must be managed by heuristics, where people (or objects, concepts, anything) are mentally pigeonholed based on obvious characteristics. A judgmental way of referring to heuristics is use of the word stereotyping. Heuristic stereotyping is the only way to imagine that we are taking everyone’s interests into consideration when we make decisions as a city, as a state, as a nation, or as a world. Put another way: when an individual accepts the idea that decisions must be made as a group, the only way to think about the interests of the group’s members are by applying heuristic stereotypes to the group’s members. But humans are far more complex than stereotypes, and to talk about the interests of “women,” “blacks,” “the handicapped,” or “workers” is to disregard the ways in which any individual woman, black, handicapped person, or employee may have differing interests or needs. In this sense, every person belongs to multiple communities, but no community. The only way to value every person as an individual, is to refrain as much as possible from making decisions for people as a group.
We also fear loss far more than we value gain. This is true even when we have more than we need, or when the losses and gains are of points or chits that have no value. If we are told that “we” own something, even if it is something that we cannot use, such as a nature reserve, government building, or military base where we are not permitted to go, we fear the “loss” of something which is of no good to us. On the other hand, if we never have something, we do not fear to lose it. This is the genius of withholding taxes, which disappear from a worker’s pay before she ever receives it. If everyone had to write a check for their withholding, FICA, and Medicare tax every payday, they would feel the loss and recognize that the collective is taking from them. The same is true of IVA taxes in many countries, where the IVA is baked into the price of the item at many stages along the object’s being brought to market. Taxes and regulations on business are likewise more popular than sales taxes or taxes on individuals, because we never see the increase in prices that results from the taxes on producers. Yet, those who set taxes, fees, and regulations know this very well and choose to push it out of their minds and disregard it, telling themselves it is for “the greater good.”
And last of all, we are easily stampeded into fearfulness. Whether it’s fear of Muslims or fear of guns, the narrative of attacks floods our primitive brains with adrenaline and focuses our attention on doing whatever is necessary to combat the perceived threat. It is only by careful thought and consideration that we can realize that the risks to our safety posed by guns, Muslims, or whatever this week’s terror totem is, are very small. And it is only in quiet and relative isolation that we can perform the careful thought and consideration needed.
In short, whenever I hear anyone discussing politics begin a sentence, “We should…” I want to interrupt right there. “We?” Who is “we?” Do “we” have to do this as a group? What if I don’t want to be part of this group? Can a group of those who want it done, do this thing on their own? Most of the time, my answer, whether it’s building a wall along the Rio Grande, or taking away people’s belongings because they might hurt someone, my answer is “count me out!” If it is so important to you, you do it.
The truth is, I am only rarely part of “we.” Are you? When?
My neighbor in the RV park says, “Hello.” If he said any more it would be weird, creepy, awkward, suspicious. I flash back to Cuenca and the cholas sitting in the market with grandchildren running around their knees, the old men in the parks on the benches, greeting one another and conversing with anyone who happens to come near. That includes a pale-faced gringa trying to improve her command of Spanish, eager to learn about their lives and tell them about hers.
It’s so trite to say, “people who don’t have as much, value what’s really important: friends, family, music, enjoying the company of others.” Yet, it is true. I think I never really believed it; I felt like people here in the US enjoy those things too, AND PLUS we have spiffy cars and electronics and nice clothes and kitchens and the best stuff ever in the history of all mankind! What I found living a year in a developing country was that, no, all the stuff really does get in the way of what is real. The things really do distract people from one another. The entertainment media streaming at us all the time really does confuse us and make us cold to one another.
We look at the stuff and the shows and the movies and the video games and the commercials and the news and the signs and the billboards and we are in a trance. We drive in a trance from place to place. We compete in a game to win prizes which we may not even like when we get them. Every now and then we look up and catch each others’ eyes, startled to remember each others’ presence, and stammer a few words, unsure what to say when there is no business to be transacted. What a relief it is to get back down to watching, buying, consuming, earning, and to know everyone around us is doing the same! We are all doing it, so we don’t owe each other anything. Not courtesy, not a moment’s attention, not a smile, and certainly not the truth.
Let us speak one truth before it is too late: we are not the greatest and we never were. We are the world’s dregs: the criminals, the religious fanatics, the political dissidents, the neglected twelfth children, the sexually trafficked, the captive losers in small, local wars. We were all turned loose on a continent whose tech was ten generations behind, and we ran roughshod over it; we then turned our aggression outwards in two world wars and a perpetual global occupation, and claimed control of the financial structure everywhere. We began to tell each other lie after lie after lie about how it all became possible, and we believed those lies, until the truth was hidden in plain sight among a million other stories we liked better. Our youth find nothing more motivating in life than a handful of pills. We want to work and we can’t. We strive and struggle to get a scarce job, and then discover that we are not creating anything of value. Our children’s brains are wilting inside their skulls before they are even born.
We are safer than anyone has ever been in history and yet we are consumed by fear. We have more knowledge available instantly on our phones than our parents could access at the best library on the planet. Yet we are duped over and over by transparent lies, because they are told by pretty people on glowing screens. We are ashamed of our pain, ashamed of our stories, ashamed of our need to connect to other human beings.
Say more than hello. Just say it.
Someone called her a witch, but that’s an insult to witches.
How about loathsome, deformed, toadlike churlish ogre?
Vile, filthy, contemptible bilious hag?
Repulsive, bawling, corpulent odoriferous harpy!
I walk out the door past the dandelions which are there every day.
Bud, flower, and white-down seeded blossom side by side.
Like botanical drawings: leaf, flower fruit.
Here at the equator, the lion’s tooth never dies back under snow,
As back home the yellows of August whiten and blow away with breath.
My father used to gather them with me and we would wait
Until the very moment to exhale showed that the summer was over.
They would fly away on the breeze. Trying to catch them
Was my first lesson in letting go when the time comes.
I let go of him when he blew his head off with the shotgun
An act which my mind forever conflates with the white seeds
Of a dandelion floating away in the Fall, unknown aim, unknown
Fertility of sand, stone, soil, who knows where they will fall?
I know the dandelions here will keep blooming and blowing
Long after I am gone. This is the center of the world.
Science tells us that everything can be broken down, systematically analyzed, and understood. At least, that’s what I learned at the Bronx High School of Science; Northwestern University tapped firmly on the notion with a large mallet and seated it in the slots in my mind as I worked on my BS in biology, and by the time I was grinding away at neuroanatomy, pathology, and endocrinology in chiropractic school, my train of thought chugged reliably away on the steel track of theorize, analyze, test, conclude, refine theory. Spirit, spirituality, belief, mysticism: these were something separate and peripheral. Like the supposed separation of church and state, the Ineffable was reserved for recreation and socialization while the Measurable was what really mattered.
While I was grinding away at fulfilling the requirements of my credentials which would make me credible and grant me permission to earn a living doing something I was good at, the really dweeby math and physics geeks who rolled their eyes slightly when I said calculus was a challenge for me, wandered off into a land of abstraction and came home with things they named weirdness and chaos. This was cute, but then it wasn’t because they really meant weirdness and chaos. As I struggled to reach the point where I could gulp huge swaths of data whole, digest them, and shit out mental algorithms that would make me the best diagnostician ever, they slyly whispered: you can never know. Starting conditions affect the outcome. Fractal repetitions will lose you on orders of magnitude. You cannot analyze it. You can only appreciate it.
I had to take their word for it because my mind wouldn’t wrap around the math. Perhaps, I pensively mused, I should follow my heart, which was always annoyingly pulling me towards other people. And I found the church! I found belief! I dusted off my inductive reasoning and found God’s word in the Bible; I became part of the global body of Christ and we all devoted ourselves together to the love of that word, the Logos, the eternal utterance of pure love which created, creates, and will create the Universe. We did. Really. Except it turned out that involved a lot of eating bad food and singing bad music and judging people unkindly and telling people what to do with their reproductive organs. I tried several flavors of Christianity just to be sure.
I HATE being told what to do! Always have, since birth. It’s who I am. It’s part of what made me a vehement feminist when young and idealistic. And I hate still worse being told what to think and what to ignore. And the whole ignoring-the-parts-of-the-scriptures-we-don’t-like-while-flogging-the-ones-we-do-like-a-dead-horse part of religion finally tasted bad enough that I spit the whole thing out.
The basic principles of morality are actually pretty clear and simple: don’t hurt other people or take their stuff. Love God and do what you will, as Augustine said. The rest proceeds fractally from that. All the rest of it is pretty much just yak, yak, yak.
So okay, that’s the non-aggression principle; you caught me, I’m a libertarian. Maybe an anarchist, depending on what kind of day I’ve had. Don’t hurt people or take their stuff. Anything people have to be forced to do is not something that actually needs doing. The best outcomes are always win-win. And one of the most satisfying things I know is helping other people. I made a successful solo career out of it, until the arthritis in my hands, aided and abetted (in an obvious conspiracy) by exponentially expanding healthcare regulations, made it nearly impossible.
Of course then there’s the helping versus enabling dichotomy. Crazy sadistic nutjobs and alcoholic narcissists bloomed floridly on my family tree. Gaslighting was a family evening at home. Tied up, whipped, and suffocated was a visit to Grandma’s. The inductive reasoning came pretty naturally to me because as a child I had to always remember what to think so I’d know what to say. Not whining here; worse things are happening to other people all over the world right this very moment (and you and I are paying for some of them). I’m just explaining why I kept giving second, third, and successive ordinal chances to people who disrespected me, including people I gave birth to, until I mostly stopped. Fuck that! On a personal level, boundaries are beautiful.
So now you know what this blog is about. If you prefer a cheerful, happy blog about traipsing around in an RV and enjoying the beauties of the most prosperous nation in the world from the open road, check out https://peripateticperi.wordpress.com . You’ll probably find it much more to your liking. This blog will have sex, religion, and politics in it, sometimes in the same post. Sometimes in the same sentence. Also conspiracy theories. And cussing. But it will also have poetry and whatever deep insights I can convince myself are not just the drugs talking. There will be beauty.
That’s where I’m going. You’re welcome to follow me.