I Wish I Could Talk to You

Daily writing prompt

Who would you like to talk to soon?

I’m a pretty self-contained person. I really don’t feel the need to talk to anyone, except my friend and mentor Les, who died some years ago at age 95.

I talked to him the other day in a dream. I ran into him on a stair landing and gave him a hug. He told me he was in a hurry because he needed to meet his other family, and we parted ways. That was the most real dream I’ve ever had; maybe I really did talk to him.

If I were to talk to him again, I would tell him how my life has changed since my bipolar diagnosis, how I didn’t feel like crying for hours anymore, how my crushes didn’t control me. I would tell him I had more trouble feeling in touch with the spiritual world and how that worried me. I would tell him how my ordinary day reflected quiet joy, and how a lot of that had to do with my husband. He would know I was in a good place.

I would thank him again for all the times he listened to me, above and beyond the line of duty. How I don’t think I would have gotten through life without that. And I would apologize for all those times, because if I had been in my right mind I wouldn’t have needed so much support.

We talked about all this before, a few years before he died, so it’s not unfinished business between us. But I would talk to him again about it, because I am so bewildered about what it means to be become sane after fifty years of crying jags. Who was I and who am I now? He might have known better than I did.

No Religion

I wouldn’t call what I practice religion. For example, I’m a Friend (Quaker) who hasn’t gone to Meeting in years, because there’s not one close enough. I believe in Quaker doctrine such as the peace testimony and the Light within. I don’t know if I believe Jesus is divine because I don’t connect to him. I don’t believe in being saved. I don’t believe in the God of the Bible (have you read the Old Testament?), but I believe in the Inner Light of the Quakers. I pray in a running dialogue to Him. Or her. I know She answers prayers by making me more able to face situations, not by fixing things for me.

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I don’t pretend this makes any sense. It’s like I believe in something, but not the God I was brought up with. I want God to be something I experience, not just pay lip service to. I want a relationship, not abject worship. I want a God of love, not the insecurity of the Christian God, who throws people into Hell for not identifying with Him (always Him).

God was so much easier to access before I was treated for bipolar. This concerns me, because it makes me think God was a figment of my over-amped imagination. I miss the God who talked to me. Perhaps that’s why I struggle with religion.

Life Before the Internet

I’m 62, so I’ve lived life before the Internet. It was a time before information flowed readily and before we had the world at our fingertips (literally).

I remember researching before the Internet, which required reading through periodical indices and card catalogs. A lot of reading, and a lot of taking notes, and for someone like me who was not organized as I should be, a lot of frustration.

I could not write novels before the Internet. I wanted accurate detail in my books. For example, I had my idea for what became Whose Hearts are Mountains in graduate school, but I couldn’t pack up and live in the desert for a year to find out about desert life. It would have been hard for me to pick a spot in the desert and determine the flora and fauna, the temperature, and the layout. What I knew back then was that deserts were hot and deserted.

Now, facts flow almost as fast as I can type. I have written several novels, because I can do research while writing. I can access publication databases online from my home. I can answer random questions or look up childhood experiences to reminisce. I don’t know how I would do without the Internet, and I hope I never have to find out.

Having it All

I have it all, all I really need. Let me explain.

I see ‘having it all’ as a matter of contentment. Is one satisfied with what one has? Typically, no. A bit of research shows that Americans want 10% more income on average no matter what their income is. A vague discontent seems to be the lot of the US.

I don’t think of ‘having it all’ as a material-laden destination other than having one’s needs and a reasonable number of their wants met. How that looks depends on the individual. In the US, that means a house; other countries (I’ve heard) differ in that. I see ‘having it all’ as a matter of satisfaction with lifestyle, which is more than just possessions. It’s friends, family, the safety of where one lives, rewarding pastimes and the like.

I am satisfied with my life. I have a solid marriage with someone who I can be myself with. We own a house and our cars are in reasonable shape.

I have a good job that challenges me. My hobby (writing) gives me plenty of flow activity. I have some health challenges, but they’re under control (except for the arthritic knees). I could use more friends, but as I don’t get out much, I don’t know what we’d be doing.

In my eyes, I have it all.

The Curio Cabinet

I have too much stuff. I have wearied of a materialistic lifestyle, although I don’t know what I’d do without the gadgets I have amassed over the years (sarcasm). I have some collectibles, and a collection of coffee pots (which I do use occasionally). I have one possession that I treasure more than any, however, and that is a curio cabinet that my dad made for me.

It is in the form of a primitive pie safe, with no carving and no curves. Where there is punched tin in a pie safe, my dad put panes of glass. The cabinet is made from wood scavenged from a packing crate, and the glass was scavenged from the old windows that had been replaced in the house I grew up in. It’s stained in antique oak stain.

The only thing it’s lacking is my dad’s signature. My dad died several years ago, and I would have loved that reminder of him. But I have my dad’s work, and it is my most treasured possession.

Legacy

Daily writing prompt

What is the legacy you want to leave behind?

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When I was younger, I didn’t think much about legacies. I needed all my energy to go from day to day. At the same time, I wanted to do something big to be known by. I didn’t know what that would be, but I was going to do it. Oh, to be young and bipolar!

In my 50s, I wanted my stories to be my legacy. I still do, but very few people have read them, and they’re not picking up very much traction. So the messages in my stories remain unread, and that will not be my legacy.

I never thought much about my students being my legacy, mostly because I am not a popular teacher. I’m not by any means a bad professor, but since being prescribed meds, I am not the high-energy, zany professor I was before. (I’m also not the depressed professor I was before.) But maybe this is short-changing my abilities and my relationship with my students.

I am now convinced I will never know what my legacy is. Perhaps it will be simply being a kind person. Part of being bipolar and being medicated has been realizing how ordinary a person I am.

Speaking about Freedom

Daily writing prompt

What does freedom mean to you?

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I competed in the Voice of Democracy contest held by the Veterans of Foreign Wars Auxiliary, which was held in the high schools. I had to write an essay about the topic “What Does Freedom Mean to Me”. I was born in a rather conservative town to rather liberal parents, and I turned out more liberal than they did.

When I got the assignment to write the essay, I included a popular topic of the day, Selective Service Registration. Or more to the point, protesting Selective Service Registration. At about this time, all males turning 18 were required to sign up for Selective Service, from which they would be drafted for military service if the country ever had a draft. Some males were not signing up, and of course the country was enraged. I, as a child during the Vietnam War era, thought I would stand up for their right to protest. In an essay to the VFW. I finally settled on “Freedom is the right to stand up for what one believes in, even if it’s not popular, and accept the consequences.”

When I read the essay to my mother in the kitchen, she said, “Good luck with the ladies at the VFW.”

And then I won the local contest. “They must not have read it,” my mother deadpanned.

I had to compete at the district level, which consisted of reading the essay on radio. I got to read my protest piece over the airwaves by invitation of the women of the VFW. My mother was still laughing. We figured at that level, I would lose to the unctuous young man who compared the country to a family and didn’t even mention freedom, and we were right. But that was okay with me; I made my point on the air and that was enough.

My Broken Leg

Daily writing prompt

Have you ever broken a bone?

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When I was in graduate school, I got hit by a car. I was a pedestrian crossing a street with a friend, and the car merged into traffic — or, rather, merged into me. I had stepped forward when I saw her coming toward me, and I stepped back, but not in time. I rolled over the hood of the car and ended up in a sitting position on the pavement.

“Is your hip okay?” my friend screeched.

“My hip is fine. My leg is broken.” I exuded an eerie sense of calm.

“How do you know?”

“Because when I lift my leg, my foot feels like it’s not going anywhere.”

The woman who hit me had a cell phone (an amazing thing in 1991) and called the ambulance. When they arrived, they bundled me onto a stretcher. “Which hospital do you want to go to?”

“Well, let’s see. Which one does my insurance take?”

“She’s paying for your hospital bills.”

“Ok. Which one has the better cafeteria food?”

“You’re going to Carle. It’s the trauma hospital.”

“Ok.”

I didn’t feel much pain as they loaded me into the ambulance. I felt the bumps. I was pretty sure the only place I was hurt was the leg.

By the time I got out of head-to-toe x-rays, five of my friends were there to see me. They warned me that my parents were on their way from about two hours’ north. I was hurting, and finally a nurse gave me morphine. (I’ve been told that I’m pretty funny on morphine.)

All I had was a broken leg, but about an inch of bone was shattered. I understood they were going to take me to my room and then wait for surgery. As I was being pushed through the ward by a burly red-headed nurse, he grabbed the phone, held it out for me, and said, “You know who this is.” I got an earful from my mother, who was absolutely sure I got hit by the car to stress her out. Then he wheeled me past my room (“there’s your room”) and then to the operating room.

Over the next couple of days, I had many visitors. My friends took it upon themselves to run interference with my mom, who thought they were all very nice people. I was on a morphine drip and utterly hilarious.

I spent the next 8 weeks on mostly bedrest, and I didn’t know why they wouldn’t let me go back to my regular activities until I fell a couple times the first week. Then I spent 6 months on crutches, another surgery to put a bone graft and metal bar in, and three months using a cane. I limped for a good few years; now, I have bad arthritis in my knee from the long-ago injury.

It could have been worse. It could have been so much worse. It was probably worse than I thought it was, to be honest. But I survived and made my way through grad school on crutches. And now, other than having to be pat down every time I’m in an airport, I’m doing fine.

Years of Graduate School

Daily writing prompt

What sacrifices have you made in life?

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I have a PhD in Family and Consumption Economics from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. I received it in 1993, so it was a long time ago. It was probably my biggest sacrifice, spending 7 more years out of the workforce.

It didn’t feel like a sacrifice at all. I was self-supporting throughout grad school (although assistantship pay is hardly extravagant). I relished my time with fellow grad students, and I had time to sit on the Quad and watch people. I did have mood swings during this time and spent some of it depressed, but most of graduate school was idyllic.

To me, sacrifices never feel like sacrifices. They feel like life. In one moment, I am earning much less to make my way through graduate school. In another, I am taking time to help someone else with a class. A choice made, the consequences accepted. Just life.

Neither a Leader nor a Follower

Daily writing prompt

Are you a leader or a follower?

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I am not a leader. I am not a follower. I am the person who works the best and fastest on my own.

I have some leadership opportunities, chairing one committee in my department. I don’t feel I do a good job of it. People let me do it, but I feel like (American proverb here) a fish out of water when I do it.

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As a follower, I am impatient. Mercifully, my chair and assistant chair believe in short faculty meetings, so following is not

so painful. I do what I’m told, so I’m not a bad follower, I guess, but it’s not my natural state of being.

I really want to be in my own office, completing tasks from my personal checklist. When I have scheduled time, I’m a rockstar, checking things off my list. I prefer brainstorming on my own to sitting in a meeting. And when I brainstorm with others, I prefer they be an equal to either a superior or a follower.

Left to my own, I’m a loner, I guess. If I have to choose between leader and follower, I would be a follower, but it’s not my natural state. I’d rather work on my own, thank you.