This quote in Chasing the Scream really struck me:
. . . the question we need to answer . . . is no longer: How do we stop addiction through threats and force, scare people away from drugs in the first place. It becomes: How do we start to rebuild a society where we don't feel so alone and afraid, and where we can form healthier bonds? How do we build a society where we look for happiness in one another rather than in consumption?
I think Johann Hari has hit upon the key spiritual question of our age. And it is a spiritual question. We cannot legislate belonging, or compassion. But we've seen how the drug war--and so many other issues in our society--have legalized contempt and cruelty.
Friday, July 3, 2015
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
And for my next stunt . . .
I've got some thought-provoking reading going on right now, including Chasing the Scream by Johann Hari and The Lucifer Effect by Philip Zimbardo. Though in many ways they're very different books, there are also some thematic similarities that I find intriguing.
First, Hari's book, which is subtitled 'The First and Last Days of the War on Drugs.' Reading this on the heels of Courtwright's Dark Paradise and Quinones's Dreamland, it takes a broader look at the battle to control drugs and drug use. And control is the right word: if there's one thing that's clear reading all these books, it's that eradication is an impossible dream. Given the abysmal record of prohibition in all its forms, the unconscionable cost in money and lives, and the way criminal organizations have co-opted (and grown obscenely rich from) illicit substances, maybe it's time to rethink our policies. Hari's book gets down to the human level in a way the other two books don't always manage, and some of the stories are heart-wrenching. Billie Holiday's struggle with addiction will stick with readers, I think, and the way she was persecuted (some say hounded to death) by Harry Anslinger and the Federal Bureau of Narcotics makes her one of the tragic figures of the century. It's especially stark when contrasted with the way Anslinger treated white addicts like Judy Garland. I'll leave it to the reader to draw conclusions about the way this racial bias has continued to play out over the decades that followed.
Zimbardo's book, subtitled Understanding How Good People Turn Evil starts with an in-depth account of the Stanford Prison Experiment from 1971, which the author ran, and which people are still discussing--or vilifying--decades later. What the experiment found was that the social situation and framework in which people find themselves has a profound effect on their behavior. It's painful reading, as the student participants in the project get sucked into their roles surprisingly quickly, and find themselves reacting in ways they--and their professor--wouldn't have imagined.
The link lies in the way we've tended to treat addiction as personal flaw, while constructing a social system which often guarantees the worst possible outcome for those who find themselves addicted. (Note: As Zimbardo is careful to point out, this does not absolve individuals of responsibility for their decisions and the consequences thereof, but it does ask us as members of society to consider how we can create institutions and social supports that make it harder for people to succumb, and easier to come back from their mistakes.) As it is, we've created a system in which many people--largely minorities already living on the edge--are permanently disenfranchised and denied the hope of education and living-wage jobs.
I've been thinking about social systems, in part because my own social safety net largely failed me when I needed it. And, thoroughly grounded in the idea that depression and emotional struggles are a Punishment From God for being sinful or flawed or inadequately interested in the needs of others, I wasted a lot of time not only feeling horrible, but trying to figure out what I'd done to deserve this misery so that maybe I could fix it. (Spoiler alert: As it turns out, sometimes a depression is just a depression. Sometimes the sad person is just a normal sort of flawed, not a monster deserving death.)
This is part of my journey, becoming more aware of the ways in which our society has failed so many people. I knew life was hard. But for too long, I avoided understanding how deeply unfair it is for too many people in this world. I don't know if anything I can do will make a difference, but I can't keep silent.
First, Hari's book, which is subtitled 'The First and Last Days of the War on Drugs.' Reading this on the heels of Courtwright's Dark Paradise and Quinones's Dreamland, it takes a broader look at the battle to control drugs and drug use. And control is the right word: if there's one thing that's clear reading all these books, it's that eradication is an impossible dream. Given the abysmal record of prohibition in all its forms, the unconscionable cost in money and lives, and the way criminal organizations have co-opted (and grown obscenely rich from) illicit substances, maybe it's time to rethink our policies. Hari's book gets down to the human level in a way the other two books don't always manage, and some of the stories are heart-wrenching. Billie Holiday's struggle with addiction will stick with readers, I think, and the way she was persecuted (some say hounded to death) by Harry Anslinger and the Federal Bureau of Narcotics makes her one of the tragic figures of the century. It's especially stark when contrasted with the way Anslinger treated white addicts like Judy Garland. I'll leave it to the reader to draw conclusions about the way this racial bias has continued to play out over the decades that followed.
Zimbardo's book, subtitled Understanding How Good People Turn Evil starts with an in-depth account of the Stanford Prison Experiment from 1971, which the author ran, and which people are still discussing--or vilifying--decades later. What the experiment found was that the social situation and framework in which people find themselves has a profound effect on their behavior. It's painful reading, as the student participants in the project get sucked into their roles surprisingly quickly, and find themselves reacting in ways they--and their professor--wouldn't have imagined.
The link lies in the way we've tended to treat addiction as personal flaw, while constructing a social system which often guarantees the worst possible outcome for those who find themselves addicted. (Note: As Zimbardo is careful to point out, this does not absolve individuals of responsibility for their decisions and the consequences thereof, but it does ask us as members of society to consider how we can create institutions and social supports that make it harder for people to succumb, and easier to come back from their mistakes.) As it is, we've created a system in which many people--largely minorities already living on the edge--are permanently disenfranchised and denied the hope of education and living-wage jobs.
I've been thinking about social systems, in part because my own social safety net largely failed me when I needed it. And, thoroughly grounded in the idea that depression and emotional struggles are a Punishment From God for being sinful or flawed or inadequately interested in the needs of others, I wasted a lot of time not only feeling horrible, but trying to figure out what I'd done to deserve this misery so that maybe I could fix it. (Spoiler alert: As it turns out, sometimes a depression is just a depression. Sometimes the sad person is just a normal sort of flawed, not a monster deserving death.)
This is part of my journey, becoming more aware of the ways in which our society has failed so many people. I knew life was hard. But for too long, I avoided understanding how deeply unfair it is for too many people in this world. I don't know if anything I can do will make a difference, but I can't keep silent.
Friday, June 26, 2015
Where do I go from here?
I'm sure it came as a shock to some people when I walked away from church a year ago. It will come as a shock to those I haven't bothered to tell, because I'm guessing they're the most likely to question my decision or try to talk me into going back. Or maybe they won't--the most surprising thing about this whole experience is how many of the people I trusted have been able to ignore what was--and is--going on with me.
My parents started attending the Mormon church when I was about four years old, and they were baptized when I was six. And that was not a bad thing; I remember enough of the Time Before Church that I can recognize things changed in a positive way. So it seemed natural for church, for belief to be a part of my life.
And if you know Mormons, or Mormon culture, then you know that church is a big part of our lives. Lots of meetings. Lots of responsibilities. It's the kind of situation that looks odd to outsiders, because its so different from the way church is usually perceived, but it worked for me.
It worked for me, until it didn't.
The decision to leave was a long time coming, though it may have seemed abrupt to all the people who managed to ignore what was going on with me. It started with my second pregnancy and the birth of my third child. He is a bright, cheerful, creative boy, but from the beginning he required a lot of attention due to some special needs. Combine that with a serious back injury that's still causing intermittent pain, not to mention a long history of depression, and you've got a recipe for disaster.
Bear in mind that this isn't about placing blame. I think the problems I encountered are in large part endemic to the culture of Mormonism rather than the fault of anyone in particular. (Including me. Forgiving myself for being imperfect and not knowing what to do is one of the hardest aspects of all this.) Not to mention that some of it is a function of my own personality. I am at heart an introvert. I need far less large-group interaction than is standard in the church, so having to attend three hours of meetings on Sunday plus stuff during the week, etc., etc., was often the equivalent of sandpaper on my nerves. Yet for a long time I kept up with it because it was the Right Thing to Do, and because I was in fact getting spiritual nourishment from the experience.
Then came that third child, and the stress and physical pain that never seemed to end, and I began to flounder. I kept up with my meetings, my callings, my friendships. I prayed. I read scriptures. Checked all the little boxes that were supposed to make me okay. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn't, but it worked enough that I could keep trying.
In some ways, getting the third child more settled in his life unsettled my own. What had been a survival situation for so long, just keeping my head and his above water, waiting for the next disaster, suddenly quieted. I found myself drifting in a quiet backwater on the river of life, and for the first time in a long time I lifted my head and looked around . . . and I didn't like what I saw.
Maybe if I hadn't gotten the Worst Calling Ever, I'd have been okay. But I grew up believing that when you're asked to do something by church leaders, it's the same as if the Lord asked, so you don't say no unless you've got a really compelling reason. (And I never felt like being basically, you know, crazy was an adequate reason. Being crazy is a personality flaw I have to try to overcome.) So I ended up in a situation way over my head, with goodhearted people who had no real clue what I was going through and some . . . organizational issues.
It was the spiritual equivalent of slamming my head in a car door repeatedly for a year. Then one day I was driving around doing errands and this weird feeling came over me. I had been stressed and unhappy for so long, and I didn't know what was going on. And then I realized . . .
I felt happy. It had been so long, I didn't know what a good mood felt like any more.
That was kind of terrifying. I mean, how did I get so far off track--while trying to do the right thing--that I didn't know what happiness felt like in an ordinary situation? So I decided to make some changes, and that Sunday I asked the people in authority to let me out of that responsibility, because I knew the situation wasn't going to get any better.
I don't know what I was expecting at that point, but I didn't think I'd be ignored for a year and a half after that. Maybe the people in charge thought I was just malingering. Maybe they had more urgent matters to deal with. But aside from occasionally asking me how I was in passing, no one said anything, and I felt like I'd been judged and found wanting. Even the usual watching-out-for-others systems didn't work in my case, so the monthly visiting teacher conversations that are supposed to happen just didn't, and I was so alone.
And yes, I probably should have asked for help, but I was already broken when I got to that point. I was praying--desperately--for some help, somewhere, and hoping someone would notice as I slid deeper and deeper into the Pit of Despair.
That went on for a long time. And all of a sudden it was like the people in charge just expected me to be well again, and go back to serving, and not have anything wrong with me. Still no discussion, of course.
Still no answer to my prayers.
And yet I kept going, sent a child out on a mission, prayed, read scriptures . . . All of that, with a diminishing sense of worth and a vanishing belief. I still cried in church, but not because I felt moved by the Spirit. No, I cried because I wanted to feel the way I used to, and just couldn't any more. I had constant nightmares about church people and situations. The depression grew worse and worse.
So one day, I was out for a walk, and just feeling I couldn't possibly sink any lower. I was so tired of fighting, and wanted to end it all rather than face the constant sense of worthlessness. At that moment, it occurred to me that if I did kill myself, all the people who'd ignored my struggles would stand around my grave (if they bothered to even show up), wring their hands, and say, "If only we'd known!" This, though I'd asked for help. This, though I'd prayed that the Lord would tell someone how much trouble I was in.
That was the moment when I became more angry than depressed. And anger saved me.
(I make a point of saying that because in Mormon belief, and Christianity in general, anger is of the devil. It's a sin. It's not a lifesaving tool. Except for me, it was. I think that was the starting point of the cognitive dissonance that took my feet out the door a few months later.)
To be honest, mostly I'm angry at God. I trusted Him. I believed when people told me He would watch out for me, and my obedience would make me happy. And yes, I'm mature enough and experienced enough to know that the rewards are not immediate. I did kind of hope that He didn't want me dead, though.
I see three possibilities, going forward. First, that there is no god. That's not an option I like; I am a believer by nature.
Second, God exists, but doesn't care if I'm happy or even alive, at least not enough to tell the people who are supposed to be in charge, 'Hey, someone's in trouble.' Or maybe he did, and the people in charge didn't listen, which I suspect is more likely. People are just like that. But in that case, I think it's okay to admit a situation isn't working for me, and that as it stands, my life is in danger if I stay. Like, actual literal danger, because this depression is something I've struggled with most of my life, and I've been honest about it for a long time, so if people don't listen, they're willfully choosing not to hear, and I can't take the risk any longer. I can't jeopardize my existence so that other people don't have to feel uncomfortable. I don't have to pretend to be okay because that's what everyone expects.
And then there's a third possibility, the one that brings me here, to this space, writing this blog. This is what I want to believe: That everything happens for a reason, including this situation, which seems like a disaster. I'd like to think that this is God's way of pushing me out of the nest, a nest where I'd been secure and complacent for too long. I took a lot of things at face value that I should have questioned. I made excuses for bad behavior and questionable decisions (other people's and to be completely honest, my own as well). Maybe all of this, the pain and confusion and disappointment, are a way to move forward to a more thoughtful and compassionate way of being.
At the moment, I'm still just cranky and disappointed. But I'm thinking a lot. And yes, still praying. Mostly just praying that I'll see the way ahead, because I don't want to go back.
My parents started attending the Mormon church when I was about four years old, and they were baptized when I was six. And that was not a bad thing; I remember enough of the Time Before Church that I can recognize things changed in a positive way. So it seemed natural for church, for belief to be a part of my life.
And if you know Mormons, or Mormon culture, then you know that church is a big part of our lives. Lots of meetings. Lots of responsibilities. It's the kind of situation that looks odd to outsiders, because its so different from the way church is usually perceived, but it worked for me.
It worked for me, until it didn't.
The decision to leave was a long time coming, though it may have seemed abrupt to all the people who managed to ignore what was going on with me. It started with my second pregnancy and the birth of my third child. He is a bright, cheerful, creative boy, but from the beginning he required a lot of attention due to some special needs. Combine that with a serious back injury that's still causing intermittent pain, not to mention a long history of depression, and you've got a recipe for disaster.
Bear in mind that this isn't about placing blame. I think the problems I encountered are in large part endemic to the culture of Mormonism rather than the fault of anyone in particular. (Including me. Forgiving myself for being imperfect and not knowing what to do is one of the hardest aspects of all this.) Not to mention that some of it is a function of my own personality. I am at heart an introvert. I need far less large-group interaction than is standard in the church, so having to attend three hours of meetings on Sunday plus stuff during the week, etc., etc., was often the equivalent of sandpaper on my nerves. Yet for a long time I kept up with it because it was the Right Thing to Do, and because I was in fact getting spiritual nourishment from the experience.
Then came that third child, and the stress and physical pain that never seemed to end, and I began to flounder. I kept up with my meetings, my callings, my friendships. I prayed. I read scriptures. Checked all the little boxes that were supposed to make me okay. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn't, but it worked enough that I could keep trying.
In some ways, getting the third child more settled in his life unsettled my own. What had been a survival situation for so long, just keeping my head and his above water, waiting for the next disaster, suddenly quieted. I found myself drifting in a quiet backwater on the river of life, and for the first time in a long time I lifted my head and looked around . . . and I didn't like what I saw.
Maybe if I hadn't gotten the Worst Calling Ever, I'd have been okay. But I grew up believing that when you're asked to do something by church leaders, it's the same as if the Lord asked, so you don't say no unless you've got a really compelling reason. (And I never felt like being basically, you know, crazy was an adequate reason. Being crazy is a personality flaw I have to try to overcome.) So I ended up in a situation way over my head, with goodhearted people who had no real clue what I was going through and some . . . organizational issues.
It was the spiritual equivalent of slamming my head in a car door repeatedly for a year. Then one day I was driving around doing errands and this weird feeling came over me. I had been stressed and unhappy for so long, and I didn't know what was going on. And then I realized . . .
I felt happy. It had been so long, I didn't know what a good mood felt like any more.
That was kind of terrifying. I mean, how did I get so far off track--while trying to do the right thing--that I didn't know what happiness felt like in an ordinary situation? So I decided to make some changes, and that Sunday I asked the people in authority to let me out of that responsibility, because I knew the situation wasn't going to get any better.
I don't know what I was expecting at that point, but I didn't think I'd be ignored for a year and a half after that. Maybe the people in charge thought I was just malingering. Maybe they had more urgent matters to deal with. But aside from occasionally asking me how I was in passing, no one said anything, and I felt like I'd been judged and found wanting. Even the usual watching-out-for-others systems didn't work in my case, so the monthly visiting teacher conversations that are supposed to happen just didn't, and I was so alone.
And yes, I probably should have asked for help, but I was already broken when I got to that point. I was praying--desperately--for some help, somewhere, and hoping someone would notice as I slid deeper and deeper into the Pit of Despair.
That went on for a long time. And all of a sudden it was like the people in charge just expected me to be well again, and go back to serving, and not have anything wrong with me. Still no discussion, of course.
Still no answer to my prayers.
And yet I kept going, sent a child out on a mission, prayed, read scriptures . . . All of that, with a diminishing sense of worth and a vanishing belief. I still cried in church, but not because I felt moved by the Spirit. No, I cried because I wanted to feel the way I used to, and just couldn't any more. I had constant nightmares about church people and situations. The depression grew worse and worse.
So one day, I was out for a walk, and just feeling I couldn't possibly sink any lower. I was so tired of fighting, and wanted to end it all rather than face the constant sense of worthlessness. At that moment, it occurred to me that if I did kill myself, all the people who'd ignored my struggles would stand around my grave (if they bothered to even show up), wring their hands, and say, "If only we'd known!" This, though I'd asked for help. This, though I'd prayed that the Lord would tell someone how much trouble I was in.
That was the moment when I became more angry than depressed. And anger saved me.
(I make a point of saying that because in Mormon belief, and Christianity in general, anger is of the devil. It's a sin. It's not a lifesaving tool. Except for me, it was. I think that was the starting point of the cognitive dissonance that took my feet out the door a few months later.)
To be honest, mostly I'm angry at God. I trusted Him. I believed when people told me He would watch out for me, and my obedience would make me happy. And yes, I'm mature enough and experienced enough to know that the rewards are not immediate. I did kind of hope that He didn't want me dead, though.
I see three possibilities, going forward. First, that there is no god. That's not an option I like; I am a believer by nature.
Second, God exists, but doesn't care if I'm happy or even alive, at least not enough to tell the people who are supposed to be in charge, 'Hey, someone's in trouble.' Or maybe he did, and the people in charge didn't listen, which I suspect is more likely. People are just like that. But in that case, I think it's okay to admit a situation isn't working for me, and that as it stands, my life is in danger if I stay. Like, actual literal danger, because this depression is something I've struggled with most of my life, and I've been honest about it for a long time, so if people don't listen, they're willfully choosing not to hear, and I can't take the risk any longer. I can't jeopardize my existence so that other people don't have to feel uncomfortable. I don't have to pretend to be okay because that's what everyone expects.
And then there's a third possibility, the one that brings me here, to this space, writing this blog. This is what I want to believe: That everything happens for a reason, including this situation, which seems like a disaster. I'd like to think that this is God's way of pushing me out of the nest, a nest where I'd been secure and complacent for too long. I took a lot of things at face value that I should have questioned. I made excuses for bad behavior and questionable decisions (other people's and to be completely honest, my own as well). Maybe all of this, the pain and confusion and disappointment, are a way to move forward to a more thoughtful and compassionate way of being.
At the moment, I'm still just cranky and disappointed. But I'm thinking a lot. And yes, still praying. Mostly just praying that I'll see the way ahead, because I don't want to go back.
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