Telling The Truth On Time

Today I took part in a telephone conference.  I was there.  Of course.  My brother, Gary, was also present.  As were his social worker, one of the unit psychologists and a regular staff member from the ward; his psychiatrist is out of town for two weeks or our ranks would have swelled by one.  It was probably the most successful meeting of this sort that we've had since he's been a ward of the California State mental health facilities.  Due in large part to the fact that this past weekend was probably the WORST weekend that he's experienced there in quite awhile.

His social worker called me last Friday to introduce himself as Gary's new one-on-one therapist and to ask if I wanted to start being in on their regular team meetings.  He's a recovering alcoholic with a rough childhood in his own background . . . I liked him immediately.  His sense of humor is also quite generously developed and made for an easy-flowing call.  Most social workers seem a bit retracted or hesitant, maybe reserved is what I'm shooting for.  I tend to feel that I'm being somewhat 'worked' or treated carefully with a tiptoeing around the truth with them.  Not one iota of that existed with Mr. Smart (we could call him Maxwell for fun thought it really isn't his first name).  I welcomed that as a rather nice change of scenery in the story of Gary's life.  "Next Tuesday, say-y around 3 or 3:30?  Will that work for you?"  Would that WORK for me?!  He could bet his sweet bippy it would.  I've been waiting to see this game move forward.  And maybe there would be some actual insight from the participants.  I scribbled the info on my Emdeon note cube.  Something to which I looked forward with curiosity and interest.  I'm generally underwhelmed with these types of get-togethers.  Gary often doesn't interact, or at least not in-depth where the sharks are swimming and feeding on his guts.  The
-ists and -ologists folks often speak as if we are all 6 year-olds.  Or they simply orate the entire time without any apparent regard for what Gary or I might add to invaluable words they are offering up like sweet incense to the head of the great psychiatric ward in the sky.  I guess it's fair to say that the few I've actually sat in on with Gary over the past two years or so bore no respectable fruit from where I sat and listened.

Now, about the weekend.  As I mentioned in the previous entry here, Gary's girlfriend had a scheduled court date this week.  They've both known for weeks that it was coming.  Back and forth, back and forth, they lobbed that ball around, but he felt like he had a grasp on her impending departure.  And then the surety that she would be gone by Monday (yesterday, though she actually left this morning) set in for Gary.  Goodbye might as well be like death for him.  He handles them poorly, so sure that it signals the end of the friendship.  In fact, WE never utter the word goodbye to one another, always finding some other phrasing with which to end our chats.  We've settled upon the lighter version of goodbye as expressed by the Italians, 'ciao.'  I actually used it today with his team when I clicked off on my iPhone because it's so ingrained.  Hah!

Anyway, that niggling tickle of anxiety began to exert pressure that became something far more overt a presence.  It was more emotion than he had the tools to handle.  So, he reverted to finding an outlet for the pressure through more familiar ways.  In this case, he stole liquid hand soap from the supply room.  Added a large quantity of salt to it, which separates the cleaning grade alcohol from the solids.  And then he downed the potent chemical which many in his situation lean on when they can't find real alcohol.  It's incredibly dangerous.  In fact, last year his girlfriend has a very serious binge on the stuff and found herself in a coma and close to death on the medical ward.  This was before they became something more than friends.  That episode happened on the heels of Gary's use of the substance which bought him an entire weekend in the hospital with an IV and meds and absolutely no memory of what he had done while under its influence.

Gary called me this morning.  As he often does, he relayed his weekend wobble after the fact, but sparing no detail under my gentle cross-examination.  He tells me the truth, he's fond of saying, he just isn't always 'telling the truth on time.' We rehashed his episode, his voice revealing the physical toll he was suffering from effects of his abuse.  I listened.  Going over my own feelings and thoughts as they marched alongside his recitation.  Examining them.  Absorbing them.  Lining them up with that I know of myself and who I know Gary to be.  I checked my initial frustration and sense that he had  done this to me -- because he didn't -- and reminded him that he would have setbacks despite his recent successes.  Often, those bad days come right on the heels of exceptional weeks.  He should expect it.  Address the elephant in the room so that it wouldn't grow larger.  And continue on his path.  Don't let the slip-up be anything other than a a momentary lapse.  Learn from it.  Realize that it's normal, in his case, in my case, in anyone's case, to stumble under the weight of incredibly stressful and emotional happenings.  My disappointment wasn't going to help a thing: he carried enough of it for all of us.  Me, him, his girl, etc.  Guilt is his strong suit.

When we reconvened by phone with his team on board, I tried to spend my first minutes just getting a feel for the room and its players.  It didn't take long to realize they this team of people actually a) care about him; b) know him to a certain extent; and c) are not putting on airs or loading up the back of the truck with a pile of steaming stinky brown stuff.  They are the real deal.  After two years, my brother's circumstances have finally placed him on a ward where there's a much higher than average chance of him receiving the help he NEEDS and WANTS to get him where he must be, internally, before he can ever hope to get where he would like to be, externally.  And for the first time, Gary uttered a beautiful string of sentences which basically expressed his desire to be better as a goal ABOVE that of getting out.  He put the cart BEHIND the horse.  That there is progress, people.  Real progress.

We hung up with a promise that they would meet with him EVERY DAY next week to see him over the hump of his withdrawal from the daily comforting contact he so came to rely upon with his girlfriend.  A scarred woman for whom he holds very strong affection and deep abiding concern.  Our goal is to help him discover a safe alternative avenue for his need to divert emotions and stress.  He can't lean on her.  Not all the time.  No person is that for another: a 100% source of distraction/cure/healing/etc.  He must possess his own inner resource for dealing daily with the ongoing challenges of being a human being with a disposition for addiction.

It's been the goal all along.  But it took a bit of doing to cut back the briars which had overtaken that particular path.  After today, I feel certain that Gary can actually see where he needs to next place his feet.  I raise my coffee mug to that progress.  Salud.

Like-Minded

On a morning when a bedtime of after 2AM has left me with less than quality sleep, I feel better, more mentally sharp, more on task, than I have since returning home from my recent trip to Colorado.  And there's a reason for that.  I finally blogged last night.  An entry on Push-Ups.  And though it wasn't the exact entry I had in mind, and I nodded off into instant deep sleep for several long minutes at a time right there at the keyboard -- it's a minor miracle I didn't inadvertently delete the entire post -- I satisfied that persistent itch which has plagued my fingertips and brain cells for almost two weeks.  That itch which settles in with aching familiarity on a highly regular basis whenever a subject leaps into my consciousness.  That itch which longs to block out the every-day rotation of chores and responsibilities which is presently my life and chain me to a desk and keyboard for infinity  That itch which maintains a running inner dialogue regardless of what my physical self may be doing.

For those individuals with a driving passion, a talent, a gifting of specific ability, whether that passion bears fruit for anyone outside of oneself, be it music or painting or running, WHATever it is, as human beings the driven among us are never completely fulfilled unless we find and use valid outlets for that passion.  To varying degrees, ignoring these inclinations or putting them off can just about drive one mad.  Historically speaking, I believe there are examples of some who WERE driven mad.  (Though I suppose a handful of those actually allowed their passion TOO much reign over their existence.  I've witnessed enough madness to know it makes a lousy house guest.)

Because my night-writing reflects the dregs of mental energy remaining within me by the end of generally very full days, I thought I would forgo my morning walk and channel that supply of fresh internal sunshine into my blog.  Specifically, an addendum, or perhaps more of a sister-entry, to the Push-Ups blog entry of last night.  Because that brain-bouncing ball has yet to stop rebounding within the tight confines of my cranium.

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There's a word I use with regularity that I find to be under-utilized in our culture of instant messaging and sound-byte conversations.  Every time I say it, I feel good.  I feel as if I have hit a big ol' nail RIGHT on its head and driven it home, thus securing some vital part of an ever-growing framework in my life.  That word: simpatico.  

Dictionary.com defines it thus:

sim·pa·ti·co

   [sim-pah-ti-koh, -pat-i-]  Show IPA

adjective

congenial or like-minded; likable: I find our new neighbor simpatico in every respect.

Origin: 
1860–65;  < Italian:  literally, sympathetic, equivalent to simpat (ia ) sympathy  + -ico -ic.  Compare Spanish simpático, Frenchsympathique, German sympatisch

That will do quite nicely for my purposes here.  I'm even tickled with the etymology given my affection for the romance languages AND my German ancestry (not to mention the country presently hosting my middle child and her spouse). 

Often, my insertion of this word into a conversation has to do with food -- i.e. "I'm totally simpatico with this coconut cream pie" -- or a casual reference to a friendly feeling or instant between me and another person -- i.e. "You and me . . . we're simpatico today."  But it is the second half of the initial definition which interests me.  Like-minded.   

My life is replete with people.  People rich in personality, abounding in love, rife with wisdom, abundant with generosity.  Family, friends, neighbors.  Stating that I am truly blessed is NOT a trite comment nor is it an understatement.  If at all possible, I prefer to be realistic in my description of a thing.  Good people don't require hyperbole.  (Hey!  I sense a Gloria-ism there!)  **Please be advised that I'm in now way eschewing hyperbole as an effective writing tool!**

A significant number of these relationships developed over time.  A slow unfolding of personal histories and beliefs, of similarities and differences.  A delayed unwrapping of an unexpected present.  Untying the ribbon and setting it neatly aside.  Peeling back the colorful paper.  Folding the layers of tissue paper.  Until the final big reveal.  And then there's the appreciation and continued use of the gift in the months and years to come.  Those are most wonderful and life-affirming.

But every now and again a truly incredible meeting happens across my path.  One which seems to mesh perfectly with the elements of my life in that very present circumstance.  To me, given my very real Christian faith (of which I do not specifically highlight in my blogs but guides me around the bases in every entry), these are anything but chance.  Behind these lightning flashes of familiarity is a divine orchestration intended to encourage and mobilize both me and the other party.  And regardless of how often we actually engage in one another's life in the future, the life-changing aspect of that meeting of simpatico forever alters my spirit for eternity.  Whatever that turns out to be.  I must be very specific here and emphasize that I do not intentionally seek nor choose these relationships.  They have been made-to-order at some point in the past, every seam expertly stitched, each hem of exacting length, cut to enhance every contour and feature, and they rest upon a padded hanger awaiting the the specified minute that they will be fitted to my life.  Until they are given to me, I didn't realize I even needed them.  But once they are in my possession, I can't imagine what my days and nights were before them.  And this in now way detracts from my developed friendships in any way.  There are many holes within to be filled and fitted with lovelies who come to me in forms and ways as varied as the stars in the black velvet of the night sky.

Recently, a moment of simpatico occurred at my husband's multi-class high school reunion of all places. My mind wasn't even focused on the event, excited and distracted as I was to surprise family and friends with my unexpected presence for a family reunion taking place over the same weekend.  An introduction to a group of siblings led me to a dazzling smile so unassuming in nature, so naturally placed and fully lacking any guise or guile, that it stayed with me without need of any photographic reminder (though I did, indeed, have ONE, just ONE) every day after that.  In the ranks of these siblings were a brother and sister duo, Carrie and Chris.  In high school, they were fellow musicians with my husband and played in a band with actual talent and not one simply fueled by dreams and ambition.  I'd heard a good many positive stories about them.  Never had I met them though I shared space in their small town of La Veta for a summer.  (That's when me and my hot pink shorts, but fully decent, unwittingly garnered my husband's initial attention all those many years ago.)  They knew nothing of my dead-snake-slinging episode, an intimidating moment for my husband-to-be in which he watched with horrified fascination as I swung an impressively large bull snake carcass around my head for some unknown but entertaining reason.  They knew nothing of my 23 years with their high school chum.  Nothing about our trials or our children or our travels from state to state in search of employment and peace.  I left La Veta.  End of story.  

But what was clear from the onset, and was only brought into sharper focus during dinner conversation, was that we knew the same God.  We had endured separation from Him and restoration to Him.  And that created a simpatico, a like-mindedness, that can't be replicated with human efforts, no matter how empathetic or brilliant one might be.  Our character was evident in the short span of time we were given together.  That we were all completely unique individuals could not be discounted, but the connection had little to do with such concrete elements as traits and habits.  It was clearly one of those defining Jesus-moments which can't be fully described, or understood, unless that particular thunderbolt has knocked you flat on your spiritual behind!  On one hand, before these two -- TWO in one fell swoop -- I can count the specific people who have entered my life in this manner.  I won't be do that here but they know who they are.

From that moment on, after breaking literal, and spiritual, bread over a crowded table in a non-air-conditioned gymnasium, with rivulets of sweat running the length of my legs and belly beneath a pretty darned knockout of a bargain dress (if I do say so myself), I found myself close to tears whenever thoughts of these two came to me.  I found myself praying for them out of the blue.  An amalgam of gratitude, humility and awe had settled over me . . . and was there to stay.  A constant rendition of a blog entry ran through my head, hour to hour, day to day.  I wanted to take note, record it, share it, explore it.  I went to great lengths to explain it to my husband.  Because he figured largely in this happenstance.  Knowing that these two were his friends at a hugely important time of personal shaping and influence in his life moved me beyond the power of my beloved words.  I felt such joy in realizing he had made a choice to gather them in his circle.  And that they had all exerted influence over one another during those critical high school years.  Meeting them closed the gap of understanding about who this precious man of mine is and how he came to be who he is.  I knew of his family.  I am a part of his family for life.  I dearly love his family, both nuclear and extended.  But aside from a few guy friends that he hung out with regularly, I hadn't met anyone who shared his passion for music from way back in the day.  And as I started out this entry with a rundown on the drive of passion, it is only fitting to close it out in like manner.

There lies a deep well of passion within me.  I've used that phrase several times in this entry, "within me."  Though I often become entangled in my residual battles with self-image via the body, it is the 'within' which most concerns me.  And it is there that my COMpassion resides, spilling over into my desire for a deeper understanding of, and relationship with, Christ and the people He sets in my path (and not all of them sharing the same faith or set of beliefs).  A compassion which completely covers and nudges my desire to relay through word and sentence and paragraph the warp and weft of the ever-growing fabric that is my life, my experiences, my lessons.  

Writers are to write what they know.  I . . . know . . . me.  In the most completely non-narcissistic way possible because my desire is to be stretched and pulled and reshaped for a glory beyond and above my simple, though often quite wonderful, human existence.  There's nothing very glamorous or flattering in that sort of personal knowledge because it is a mirror I hold up to myself and NOT rose-colored glasses.  That's probably why I hold those stylish Ross dresses in such high regard!

Are we simpatico in that?