A Confession.

Something has happened to me. I did not mean for this to happen. I did not choose this… it seems to have taken place below my line of vision, and I admit, I don’t know what to do with it. Something has intruded upon my life that was just beginning to feel stable again.

Against my better judgment and all expectation, a new faith is growing in me. My only explanation is that the seed must have been planted in my sleep for had I been awake I would never have allowed it. My breath was taken when I noticed the tiny green leaves pushing through the soil. I crouched close to the earth and stared, mouth agape. A sapling of trust. I did not make it, I did not build it, I did not toil or fight for it… and to my complete surprise the anger that would grab my hoe and rip it from the ground is no where to be found. I stand in silent, terrified joy. What does this mean?

I don’t know it’s future, but I have a shadowy vision of an ancient redwood; one whose roots reach deep, deep into the earth; whose leaves see all, catch the rain and take in all the sun has to offer, transforming it into life.

So, I know this is a bit awkward, but, hello Faith. I wasn’t expecting you, but you are welcome to stay.

So it begins... I'm going to therapy, double time.

I wrote this blog back in February and never published it for some reason. It does lack some polishing, but glancing back at it now, I thought it might be nice for all of you to know a little about my my "pre-therapy" mindset. Now someday when I am a famous therapist publishing her 10th book and working wonders, you can say "I remember when Dr. Savage almost threw up in supervision because she was so scared." Enjoy.

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After a little over a semester of classes I'm being thrown into the fire. I've already begun some clinical work, but next week I will probably see my very first, bonafide (get ready for it): client. This means that some unwitting individual will soon be sitting across from me in a small room, telling me their personal problems, and saying, in effect, "so what do I do Doc?"

This prospect is at times exhiliriating to me, but as the day for the dream to become a reality has neared it has become more often verging on terrifying, and lately, it has taken a turn to grievious.

I have begun meeting with a supervisor (who is there to make sure the other interns and I don't do any serious damage to these poor souls coming to us for help) and both of my sessions with her are shared with other interns who have already been working with clients for a while. This means that currently the vast majority of the our time is spent on them talking about their most difficult cases. Yesterday when we met the cases discussed were particularly horrific (details aside, childhood abuse was the centerpeice), and we actually watched a video of one client describing in a therapy session what they had been through. I'll grant that I was having a low day anyway, but my emotional reaction snuck up on me. One moment I was calmly discussing theory and treatment practicallities and the next I was on the verge of weeping and throwing up. I felt certain that were I in the room with that client I could have kept my emotions from taking over in their presence, but I wondered how on earth I could deal with it once I left. On top of an imperfect personal life, how can I ever expect myself to be able to deal with other people's darkness as well as my own?

Barely holding it together, before I left the session I asked my supervisor if she went to much therapy herself to deal with it all, expecting her to say something like "this was difficult today wasn't it?" But instead heard:

"No. You know... I go home everyday to a really supportive husband, and that basically keeps me from needing other help."

"Brilliant. So, does being single mean I'll always need professional help then?"

I didn't say that. This was in fact the last straw for me that day, so I left and I found myself an empty therapy room in the clinic to do a little self-of-the-therapist work (thank God they keep tissues in those rooms) before pulling myself together and heading home... where I told my best friend about my day and went to pieces all over again, after which, I felt much better.

Then, as though Lean on Me had begun playing in my head, I remembered that I have friends. Supportive friends who will help carry me through this... but on the other hand (I thought), "this" isn't a random activity, this is the job I'm signing up for. Like everyday for the rest of my life.

I've had many conversations with a friend of mine who just recently started off in social work. She tells me how rewarding it all is, but how draining. How she feels like if one thing goes wrong she can't cope.

The truly ironic thing in all of this is that I am actually required to go to 6hrs of therapy for my training, but I have yet to contact my therapist. I guess this is my cue.

This is how I feel today. And this is only one day, but, be it only a day, it matters.

Besides my school and clinical work I find myself spending much of my time grieving that I am still a passive cog in the machine that continues the suffering of the majority of the world's population. My life costs them, and I let it. It's so hard to change.

I'm not sure how this connects to anything I've just said, but if you have a few minutes listen to this song. Listen to every word.

Equally Skilled

Carrying Their Hearts: My Dissociative Identity Disorder

I promised myself that the next blog entry I wrote was going to be some funny, meaningless anecdote from my life to lighten the mood out here. Lucky for me I didn't make that promise public.

As I do many days, I woke up this morning feeling sad and anxious, weighed down. It reminded me of the nights I used to spend in Bangladesh, pacing back and forth on the roof, looking up at the mango tree and listening to the unceasing rickshaw bells, asking them for answers; hoping they'd somehow help me make sense of it all.

I've realized lately - since beginning to study the various psychological disorders in earnest - that I may have dissociative identity disorder (you may remember it's prior name: "multiple personality disorder"; think "Sybil"). Everyone tells you when you start learning this stuff that you will start to get paranoid feelings that you have all kinds of pathology, but I'm pretty sure this isn't a figment of my anxious imagination.

Listen to this, straight from our diagnostic manual: "The essential feature of Dissociate Identity Disorder is the presence of two or more distinct identities or personality states that recurrently take control of behavior" (DSM-IV-TR, p. 526). Granted I don't display the other criterion (i.e. being unable to remember spans of time where one personality has taken over), but for this "essential feature" I may fit the bill.

And here's why.

I will be going about my day as usual, with my mental list of things to do carrying me from one activity to the next, and suddenly, for a moment, I won't be me. I'll be the single mother who can't feed her kids; the child sold into sexual slavery; the disabled, disfigured man lying on the side of the road in Bangladesh; Rina.

Increasingly it seems I carry these eyes, ears, and hearts around with me as I travel through each day. I am in the middle of a seminar, or a movie, or conversation with a friend about where we should go to lunch and suddenly someone else will step in my skin. Most often it is Rina as I make my way down the side walk. I can feel her awe at the unbroken pavement, the huge homes (all of ours would be in her eyes), and immaculate landscaping.

I look through the various eyes of these brothers and sisters of mine as I rush from place to place and do all the things that seem so important to my everyday life, and as I do I feel certain that they would be overwhelmed by the senselessness of it. I feel their staggering disbelief as they try to get their minds to accept the simultaneous reality of their worlds and mine. I feel their confusion and helplessness. It's like they are fighting desperately to survive the earthquakes while we keep adding garages onto our sandcastles.

I listened to someone talk about putting things in God's hands in chapel last week, and as has become a normal dramatic practice of mine, I started to weep. You see, I was the child in slavery, hearing someone tell me I should just trust God. "What on earth could that possibly mean??" I wondered, "what should I trust God to do?" Then I heard the real voice of my friend ask me "are you ok?" And I knew that he was thinking of various things that may have happened to me that day that might cause me to be upset: maybe a family member was sick, maybe a customer had gotten angry with me at work, heck, maybe I just hadn't gotten to have coffee (certainly a traumatic event). And how could I explain to him: "Yes, I am fine, it's the people I carry who are not ok"?

Sometimes I get frustrated with this weight. Sometimes I get angry and just want to be rid of it at any cost. Sometimes I'll get advice from friends and family members, who love me and are worried, "Emily, you have to let it go."

But then I'll take a moment and step into the hearts of those I carry with me. I'll feel the weight there, their burden, and on my better days I'll think "Ok brothers and sisters, I'll walk this road with you, and when your crushing burdens are lifted, on that beautiful day, perhaps I'll ask for mine to be taken too." And, strangely enough, when I do this, I feel stronger.

Until that beautiful day, as I'll say again and again, my only hope is that this burden will be transformed into love, not in unceasing, "meaning well," passionate blogging, words, but in actions and truth.

P.S. For my friends simultaneously making their way in the mental health world, what do you think, do I fit in a clinical or non-clinical population?

Preaching to the Choir: Yet another treatise on love.

I haven't written in a while and the thoughts have been stewing, so brace yourselves, this is gonna be long. I bet you'll never guess what the topic of this sermon is :)

[Disclaimer: I'm having some trouble figuring out how to control the formatting here... so, don't be draw into wondering what my changes in font size or type might mean, it is all a chasing after the wind ;) ]

If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing...

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears...

These three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

1 Corinthians 13

The time has come. Time to speak once again - but more directly, perhaps? - about what is so mysterious and sacred, so wonderful and terrifying that it feels almost defiling to name it. And yet, what else is worth speaking of? I'll speak of love.

This morning I've been pondering those moments in my life when the only word I can find to describe the experience is "love."

Love is, I've come to believe, all that is real, all that is substantial.
Love is knowing deeply; love is beauty in motion, beauty in interaction; love is the reality of joy in pain; love is gut-wrenching goodness; love is being deadly, humiliatingly honest and finding after the torrent that the truth did not leave you alone. The Other is still standing there, still looking in your eyes, still touching your now admittedly defiled hands, your unclean lips.

Love is not always so grand and dramatic though. Not always a movie moment. Love, perhaps, is our ability to lay down defenses and connect with another. I remember many times in Bangladesh randomly meeting people who would walk with me for a block or two as I went about my day, and as vast as the separation of culture, language, and religion was between us, when we parted I'd find myself acutely aware of the elation of my spirit. And every so often I'd surprise myself with the thought: "so this is love." So different than what I'd imagined it to be... and at moments I could see, so much better.

I've struggled for a long while now, since the death of my childhood faith, in finding a working knowledge of what it means to follow God, and how - after I'm able to decide this - I can actually do such a thing, and communicate this with those around me. I've noticed the problem most glaringly in prayer. Living in the city that, ironically, declares itself the Church of Christ mecca, I am constantly bombarded by requests for prayer. Even casual acquaintances daily say things like "I'll keep you in my prayers" or, after talking about a problem, they'll say "I'd appreciate your prayers about that." It is an awkward moment for me. Because, the truth is, I can't pray for them, and I don't really want them to pray for me. Not because I don't care, I care immensely, but because it doesn't make sense to me anymore.

My cognitive dissonance will not allow me to pray for these things. I can't pray for my exams, or my friends who are struggling in relationships, or my cousin who is dying because I know that today and for countless days in the past multitudes are suffering constantly in ways neither myself nor anyone I know in this country have experienced. So I simply can't get my mind around petitioning God for some healing or happiness for my loved ones when he is clearly not providing it for those who have, since the day they were conceived, been exponentially worse off than we.The only thing I find myself able to say to anyone any more, the only thing I want from them, and the only thing that seems to matter, is: I love you. I can't ask God to calm your anxiety, or change your world, but I do love you, and I will choose to love you tomorrow, and the day after that. Tomorrow a nuclear bomb may hit our country, tomorrow your mother may die, tomorrow I may be diagnosed with AIDS, but I will still love. I can't help wondering if this could this be, in a way, what Jesus said to us.

So, I am tempted to be one of those people who goes around saying trite (though truthful) things like “stop whining about your food, children are starving in China” (I would probably instead specify South Asia, and get made fun of as I pronounce "B-ah-ngladesh"), but, as my inner therapist constantly reminds me, ignoring our own distress and suffering - however minuscule it may seem in comparison to others' - will not help us in the cause of love. We must acknowledge our own experience of life, we must be allowed to know who we are through our own trials and pain, or we could not know and love others.

Because of a romantically broken heart (there must be a better way to say that...) rather early in my teen years, for a long time I had a silly obsession with asking God why I was pretty if it was not for a man. Setting aside the possible immaturity or merit to be seen in this quandary (and especially my annoyance with gender socialization in the church), it mattered deeply to me for many years, then somewhere along the road was discarded and forgotten. Yesterday, however, as I stood at my bathroom sink for a moment, I caught my own eyes in the mirror, and the shadow of that question rose in my mind, but this time, without anger or grief. It rose quietly.

“Why am I beautiful?”

And, quietly, a reply came.

“Because, Emily, everyone is beautiful.”

Silence. Everyone is beautiful. Yes.

“What for though? For pain, for separation, for torture, for brokenness?”

“No. Everyone is beautiful for love.”

For love.

C.S. Lewis says that before he became a Christian one of his main arguments against the existence of a good God was the chaotic, evil state of the world. He had (as we all could) countless examples of the perpetual, senseless horror that takes place on earth, and concluded (as many do) that no loving/good/orderly God could be a part of this. Then somewhere along the way, Lewis wondered why, if there is no good God, he knew that the world was not good (i.e. If you've never seen a puzzle, how would you know that all the little bits of cardboard were meant to be placed together to make a picture?). And that was part of Lewis' new belief. He says something like this: "there is a deep picture of goodness and order in me, and I couldn't have learned this from the world, so it must be from a good God."

I've returned to Lewis' apology many times in my own struggle to understand and relate to God and the world. In the past couple of years, though, I've found its ability to comfort and sustain my faith waning. In the face of a deeper understanding of human suffering, my question has become less "how could a good God create this?" and more, "how could a good God let this continue?" And I hear the argument from others and from the voices of my early training: "in the end God will wipe every tear from their eyes..." The mentor I met with in January said to me "if God is going to put us through all of this, he damn well better have a good reason." And this mentor believes he does... but how can I trust this? How can I trust that some future event will make it all this horror right?How can I engender enough faith in God not to be paralyzed in my not knowing?

I remembered Jesus. Ah yes, Jesus is supposed to be my promise. God incarnate. But (cover your kids' eyes because this is a dozy), do I believe in Jesus? And I'm brought back to that annoying question of belief. What on earth is belief??? Sure I guess I “believe” in Jesus, but I also believe in Napoleon and the industrial revolution. What does that mean? What does it matter if a bit of history was written down and I choose to say “I guess that is probably true.” Not enough to build my life on.

Call me a raging post-modern, but for me, it has come down to experience. Though in my daily functioning I know I rely on all kinds of knowledge and “beliefs,” when I stop to think about the things I “know,” they are only what I experience. Actually experience in the present. (And, yes, for all you commitedly philosophical types, I recognize that I could be a butterfly dreaming I am a human, but I choose to disregard this level of abstraction. Call me shallow, but if I am a dreaming butterfly [by golly, this is beside the point, but wouldn't that be an interesting plot twist?], I'm going to try and make it a worthwhile dream.)

So, to try to tie a bow on all this randomness, here is my conclusion.

My present experience of love is the answer. The amazing continued existence of love is, I think, the only promise I'll ever get; it is my hope. Because love is, I have hope that the things I do matter. Because love is, I have hope that this God whom I cannot comprehend in his relationship to this tortured world, will make it right eventually. Because love is, I can have some faith that God represented himself in a man to show us who he is, namely, Love.

Everyone is beautiful not because we are all supposed to have spouses to adore us and be the receipiants of this gift, but because Love creates beauty, and because despite an unbelievable history of evil and destruction, somehow, love still is. Love has not been destroyed. Though I can not now say that I think love is winning if there is some kind of battle going on in this world, I cannot deny that it is, Love is, through storms of deafening hate, somehow it has never been lost. Love remains.

With this mustard seed of faith and hope, I will keep getting up each day, struggling for the only thing that matters, and perhaps the only thing that really is. The only hope and expectation that I'll hold for myself and every member of this broken world is that love was, love is, and love - so it seems - will ever be.

P.S. Further reflection on reading habits.

If I could only devise a way to dance while reading, a vast quantity of my daily frustration would dissipate.

Ideas anyone?

"The Other" – A reflection on reading habits.

I write in my books. A lot. Like, I'm pretty sure I take substantially longer than the average person to read anything because I am constantly stopping to mark in the books. I've justified this practice in the past with explanations like how it will be helpful when I am studying or possibly needing/wanting this information later, or how it helps me to remember/process what I am reading. This makes sense right? If you mark something, you will be able to find it later, you will be able to remember it. Sensible choice. But just now in my reading for class I boxed the name "Carl Rogers" in a text book and drew a heart next to it. That's right, a heart – like we all did (don't deny it) in middle school around the names of the people we had a crushes on. Now, I know who Carl Rogers is. The book did not say anything particularly enlightening about old Carl, and I can think of no reason that I should ever need to return to that point in my book and re-read it. The fact of the matter is that I just love him, I love Carl --- but the question is why does this compel me to create adolescent book graffiti?

This has been my reading-break reflection for the past few minutes. What is the meaning of my scribbling? Why do I feel the need to underline/note/create murals around my reading materials so (most people would say) excessively?? When looking through a book I was moderately engaged with you will find an overwhelming number of asterisks, boxes, "Amen!"s; "what the crap?!?"s; question marks and the like throughout.

Staring at the heart I have just written, which cannot possibly have an academic goal connected to it, I think I have come to understand on a deeper level why I continue this strange practice. It goes back to that personal particularity that has kept me blogging despite inner battling about it's value: my absurdly extroverted nature. I basically cannot spend a moment that is not relational. In theatre we call whomever it is that you are acting opposite your "other." Drama theory posits that on stage you always have an other, regardless of whether you are alone or with someone; speaking or silent, you are always relating on a metaphysical level. I'm not sure if this is true for everyone, but this definitely made sense of my life. I literally have conversations going on with "others" in my head constantly (I know, I know, there is probably a DSM category for people like me, but luckily I put myself firmly in the anti-diagnosis boat). It is not abnormal for me to be brushing my teeth, or washing my hands in a private or public bathroom and spontaneously start talking. Mind you, I am not talking to myself, as most might assume, I am talking to my other. In this vein, I am one of those annoying people who talks back to movies (sometimes in simple breath vocals, and small movements, but other times in more overt, sometimes loud, speech, "What are you doing?!? Stop! No!" I was made acutely aware of this recently, sitting with two male friends watching "Avatar," them completely still and silent, me writhing in my seat, alternately gasping and covering my mouth, and looking back and forth at them to see if they were seeing what I was seeing). Even though I conceptually acknowledge that I cannot effect the characters or the story line, my heart tells me that they are relating to me, and I must respond.

And there is the rub my friends. I write in my books because I have the real sense when reading that someone is communicating with me, and I need to talk back. I cannot simply sit by as a docile observer to words I am taking in. I see the world not in information, but in relationship.

So there is a little insight for you today into the madness of the Savage mind. I would say it is blessing to any roommate (and especially any possible, future husband-roommate) that I have learned to get many of my relational needs met on my own. I mean, just imagine if I actually had to get all of this extrovertedness out to someone... I'd probably blog a lot more.

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And now, for a couple of wonderful updates:

Graduate School Chapel – I decided to talk with the coordinator of our chapel services about my disappointment with the chapel for Haiti and wish that we could express grief and anger communally. After a good talk about it he opened up his computer and pulled up the schedule for the upcoming chapel. It was a special service for Holocaust Remembrance day, and next to the reading of Lamentations he had noted "Emily Savage." "I was just going to ask you if you'd be up for this reading? It's a bit dark though." "Yes. Yes yes yes." Isn't life beautiful sometimes?

Rina – I talked to Rina last week (after much anxious avoidance on my part) and found out that for the first time since I left Bangladesh she and her mother have jobs. I cannot express my relief and thankfulness. For a while longer at least, they will continue to be able to feed their children. We had a good conversation (with her reminding me once again that I needed to have children and move back to Bangladesh), but it ended in a hilarious attempt by her husband to give me their address. If you have ever worked a job where you had to get important information over the phone (think spelling names "no that's p as in Peter, not d"), perhaps you can imagine for a moment that you are trying to spell something over the phone, in a language that is not native to you, and that it MUST be exact. This practice in not recommended for the weak-in-patience.

There is a time...

Today I went to a chapel service that is put on for graduate students every Wednesday. I was especially glad to be going to it today as we were scheduled to have a time of mourning for Haiti and a collection taken. I breathed a sigh of relief when I read the email announcing the service. Finally, a time to mourn.

But no. I was wrong. I do not want to come down on the leaders of the service at all. The talk was good. They did not brush over the suffering, they did not skirt the issues, and they did not let us off the hook to respond in active love. I say to this, amen. But it was short, a nod to the suffering, and the songs and scriptures read were singularly at odds with what I had viewed as a time of sorrow and crying out to God against what was happening. I kept looking around as we sang on and on about how "wonderful God's creation" is and how "thankful we are for his unfailing love" feeling sure that someone else was noticing the disconnect. And they probably were, but see, we are used to disconnect. We are used to going on the same old way even when the reality staring us in the face calls for a different action. There is a time for grief and anger, but we just keep pretending the time hasn't changed.

When we got to the hymn "Great is Thy Faithfulness" I couldn't handle it anymore.

Great is thy faithfulness, Oh God my father, there is no shadow of turning with thee... all I have needed thy hand hath provided, Great is thy faithfulness Lord unto me.

What?!? This is the song we sing in light of the destruction of a city that was already destitute? This is what we sing to the deaths of 200,000 people? This is what we sing when violence is erupting everywhere in the streets and people have been laying in rubble helplessly waiting to be rescued?! Oh right, maybe they meant, all I the privileged have needed thy hand hath provided. All I the few and the far away, the protected, the separated. All I have needed has been provided.

It was all I could do not to stand on the pew and scream at the absurdity of the words coming out of our mouths. Instead I just left, and gave God my own words outside.

My God, my God why have you forsaken them?

They are worn our calling for help; their throats are parched their eyes fail looking for their God. Rescue them from the mire! Do not let them sink! Do not hide your face from them! Scorn has broken their hearts and has left them helpless. (psalm 69, adaptation)

O Lord, the God who says he saves, day and night they cry out to you. You have put them in the lowest pit; in the darkest depths. Their eyes are dim with grief. They spread out their hands to you. Do you show your wonders to the dead?! Is your love declared in the grave, your faithfulness in destruction?!? Why, O Lord, do you reject them and hide your face? They have suffered your terrors and are in despair. Your wrath has swept over them, your terrors have destroyed them. All day long it surrounds them. Darkness is their closest friend. (psalm 88, adaptation)

The mentor I met with recently jokingly mentioned that I seemed to have survivor's guilt. I do. I own my guilt for there is blood on my hands. Because friends, if we do not take the responsibility for the injustice of the world, who will?? Who will cry out for those who have no voice? And how will we do that if we do not own their pain as ours, and see our part in it? Yes, the guilt is mine, and it is all of ours, all who have two coats and keep them both (Luke 3:11).

I know friends, I know there is a time for praise in the midst of great suffering, but oftentimes I think this praise is not out of a heart that is facing the full reality of pain and has found the way to thank God anyway, but instead the heart that accepts just as much reality as it can handle with out being brought to its knees. So I ask, if just for a moment, consider holding off your praise and going on to the next thing on your to do list, and instead join the people of Haiti in their abandonment.

Isn't there a time for grief and anger? What time but now? Put on your sack clothe and mourn with me.