The Fear of Missing Out – FOMO, Chronic Illness, and the Grit of Gratitude

By: JANA GRENE

Not long ago, I was having a conversation with my husband, and he used ‘FOMO’ in a sentence about a concert we were hoping to attend. He said something to the effect of, “I know having chronic illnesses gives you FOMO at times.”

“I’m sorry, gives me what now?” I said, completely unfamiliar with the term.

“Fear of missing out,” he replied. And shitfire I was not aware there was a formal acrostic for the phenomenon, but I’ve been having FOMO for years now. Because when you struggle with debilitating health issues, the only way to not live in FOMO-mode is to not make any plans at all. Nary a one. And it’s not that bleak yet. Yet.

We are going to see The Black Crowes tonight in concert, a surprise from said husband, because they are one of my favorites. But we have missed three out of five shows we’ve bought tickets so far this year, because while it’s not that bleak yet, it’s also not that great. I get sick frequently, and the pain and fatigue are out to get me, I tell you. Of all the conspiracies floating around right now, this one has the most solid evidence. My medical team can attest to it. I fight my own body harder than anything else, at present. (What I fight – like what you fight – is subject to change, right?)

Still, my husband bought the tickets because he is hopelessly bad at giving up on me, or the things we would like to do. He is also never disappointed in me when things don’t pan out. And that’s key, because disappointing people is definitely a huge issue of FOLPILD for me – Fear of Letting People I Love Down. Also, FOBAB – Fear of Being a Burden. FOMAC – Fear of Missing a Concert. The list is endless, really.

What do all of these things have in common? Fear.

Fear is the opposite of a lot of things, not just the opposite of faith. That’s too simplistic. It stands in the way of hope, makes letting go impossible. It blocks positive energy, causes despair, and chips away at our dreams. Fear itself is a very useful tool to keep us safe – as an impetus to head for higher ground when a hurricane, for instance. But as Western North Carolina grieves and toils in the aftermath of Helene, we are in collective awareness that even the highest ground can be devastated.

Fear is a warning device, but a shitty insurance policy. It doesn’t keep anything bad from actually happening. It just trains our systems to react to opening a dreaded email like we are being chased by a bear.

So, what the do we do? Live in the confines of fear? After all, it’s there for a reason. Whether we fear or not, we are going to miss out at times. Especially as a Chronic illness patient, for whom FOMO is a constant bedfellow.

And all fear is not the same. Missing out is a first-world problem, in a world full of devastation and disaster. I know that, and have experienced the hollow, dark fear of a terminal diagnosis. The constellation of deep worries that we have for our children. I get that fear, too, and that’s a whole different animal, but just as destructive.

If we are chronically ill, we are going to let people down when we make plans we cannot keep. We will try not to be a burden, but we must cultivate a circle of safe people who understand when we have to reschedule things. I am so fortunate in this regard. My friends understand that most of the plans I make are tentative. I am not flaky, but my health is.

Of course, I cannot tweak the entire tour schedule of The Black Crowes, so today, I rest. Resting is how train for events, like in the Olympics. Okay, its nothing like the Olympics. But it might as well be. People assume resting is fun. Because most people don’t get enough of it – they are forever buzzing around and getting things done (what is that like?) so resting is their side-gig. They do it as a luxury, whereas my body completely stops functioning if I don’t spend half of my damn life in bed. It’s not fun at all. It’s not always relaxing, because the fear of missing out is legit.

And the truth is that we do miss out. On a lot. But let me tell you about a side-effect of this phenomenon. I am abundantly thankful for the occasions I make a concert or party or get to run to the grocery store and run errands like a normalsauce person. Because I GET TO, you see. Oh the glee!

The sweet victory of making it to a concert. The appreciation for running boring errands. I brag to my husband about getting errands done like some women probably brag about their career milestones. Doing physical therapy at the pool, picking up a few things from Trader Joes, AND going to the bank?? Taking a walk AND getting a haircut? *Cue theme song from “Rocky.”*

Tonight, I will fight the urge to stand on my chair and scream “HEY. EVERYBODY! I. AM. NOT. MISSING. OUT RIGHT NOW!” (I will not do that, because I cannot even stand on solid ground without injuring myself, but inwardly, I will be yelling it.)

And that’s a part of me that punches FOMO in the throat. I would not be as filled with gratitude, if I didn’t have this particular set of challenges. I am not just happy when I don’t have to miss out, I am ECSTATIC.

How ecstatic, you ask? Tent Revival ecstatic. Golden-Retriever-with-her-head-out-the-window-of-a-moving-car ecstatic. And grateful? When I can experience activity in life, I am as grateful as a Norman Rockwellian family around a Thanksgiving table. As grateful as a mid-life white woman who missed her calling as a groupie, who gets to rock out to her favorite bands and yell “WOOOOOOO!” – even if she has to sit while doing it.

Blessed be, my friends/readers. (I’m grateful for each of you, too.)

October 9, 2024 0

Identity Heft – The Weight of Learning Who we are

By: JANA GREENE

When we are young, we grasp at labels in the striving to know who the heck we are. Our identity is in finding out identity. And we glom on to our role in each life stage until it describes us to a T; until it becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy. And when the wind changes, we are lost.

When I was a victim, I thought of myself as a victim. And the more trauma I experienced only convinced me that victimhood was my identity. Shitty things had happened to me, stacked-up evidence that I have every reason to be depressed and anxious. Who wouldn’t feel justified, coming out from under that abuse? I’m a victim here. That’s who I am.

Then, I became an alcoholic, and in recovery rooms they tell you “Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic,” which is no lie. So, I said, “Oh! That’s who I am. An alcoholic.” And while there was certainly no joy about that revelation, it was better than just being a victim, at least. I did the programs, worked the steps. Really dug into recovery, because I am an alcoholic, you see. That’s who I am.

Then I became a mother, and then EUREKA! I found my identity for real! I even had a new name – “Mom.” I was obsessed with being good at it, and so my whole identity became hinged on being their Mama. Then Mommy. Then Mom. Each one of their life stages determined who I was, by virtue of who they were growing up to be. Until they were teenagers, carving out their identities, I was starting to lose my own. Children grow up, and you are left wondering, Gee…who exactly am I, apart from a mother? I’m a mother. that’s who I am.

Eventually I became a fundamentalist Christian. I would tell people that their identities are found only in God. I told people who were full of self-hatred to strive to be “less of you, and more of God.” It’s another confirmation to a hurting person that they themselves are of such little importance, God demands they become even smaller. And if they are like me, they have been trying to be empty of themselves all their lives, not realizing that the God is within them. So, for most of my adult life, being a Christian was my identity. I was on the Greeting Team, for crying out loud – me, an introvert. Being a Christian is who I am.

My husband jokes that I only like to watch TV shows with “complex” characters. Characters who don’t respond how you expected, and perhaps have a dark side. When the bottom fell out of my faith and I went through a deconstruction, I realize you don’t have to die to yourself and your human desires and interests to please God. He doesn’t turn away from our humanity.

Today, I am still those things, but the influence they have over my primary identity is nullified. The way we see ourselves is not static but flowing. I’m a survivor, rather than a victim. I’m still an alcoholic, but the stigma behind it has morphed into acceptance. I’m still a mom but relate to my children as adults now. I am still a follower of Christ but have a different relationship to him than I ever had. A better one. We never stay the same and thank God for that.

And we will never fully understand our identities in this dimension, I suspect. But maybe it’s because we are BOTH / AND a conglomeration of selves. Maybe our identity doesn’t require a label, and neither does the Universe require one. We put that pressure on ourselves. What complex, beautiful creatures we are!

We are complex characters, y’all. However we identify ourselves, we don’t always respond how you’d expect. We have a dark side. We are attributes and character defects, all rolled into one.

And we can all identify as that.

October 5, 2024 0

Signs, Wonders, Chaos, Doom – and Hope (Still)

My goofy cat soaking up some vinyl prism rainbows through the window. Both of these things make me deliriously happy. I woke up hella depressed, in pain, and with a heavy heart. As so often happens, by the time I finish writing any given piece, I end up with some measure of comfort. It’s a weird phenomenon, but hey – what’s NOT weird these days? I wish you peace today, Dear Reader. Peace that passes understanding. And I pray you find evidence of God today in someone’s kindness.

By: JANA GREENE

I asked myself, “Where the Hell is God right now?” Because seriously WTF is happening? War and loss and disaster, oh my! I was feeling this way when I woke up this morning and sat down to write. Maybe that’ll help? God likes to slap me around with my own words at times…in a non-violent manner, of course, and with lots of love.

When you are having a depressive episode, the realization that a whole new day stretches before you is met with dread. Another one? Another whole day, chock full of pain in my body and pain in the world? Gee. Thanks.

Today we might have a new war. A new leukemia symptom. A new dislocation or migraine. A new issue with one of our kids. A new thing to grieve for, or about.

We occupy a doom-inducing, batshit crazy habitat full of awful unfolding of events in our world. Another day that we are supposed to be glad in rejoice! I do my best to please the Lord, but when he seems to be on sabbatical, it’s rough. Like having an emergency only your boss can fix, but he’s on vacation, left the office in complete disarray, and yelled, “SCREW THIS, I’M OUT!” on the way out. *SLAMS DOOR* Because that’s what I would do for sure.

For thousands of families that, this new day will bring heartache. They are looking for missing loved ones in a thick Carolina mudslide. It is a day that will either bring unresolved searching or crushing confirmation of loss. Again.

For so many around the world, a new day means missile sirens and the obliteration of their homes and possibly families. There is no holiness in war machines. Nothing sacred about violence. And so, for them, the new day brings devastation.

What the Hell is God doing right now? Where are you, God? It’s a mess down here!

But then I heard from one of my dearest friends, who live a couple of hours from the Blueridge portion of the Appalachians. This soft-souled woman and her kind and beautiful adult daughter had made a trip to pick up and foster a motley crew of terrified, traumatized cats and dogs. They brought them home, timid and scared, and are giving them a soft place to land and an environment that will envelop them in love (and probably spoil them, to be honest.) And I said, Oh. There you are, God. In the hands of people who care for the animals.

But that’s people, you say. And I say, how else would he make himself known but by people, made in his image to help and show love.

And then my husband held me for five whole minutes before leaving for work this morning (it would have been whole hours, if I’d have asked him.) He asked me what I needed, because he is so kind to bring me coffee or water when my body is creaky and sore. “Just hold me,” I said. In his embrace, I felt the presence of a loving deity within him. I know he is worried about me and my health and is frustrated that he cannot fix my pain. But in a way, he did, he does, in long, healing hugs. No words, just love so undiluted, I could not deny that God was loving me through my husband.

And as I was asking this very valid question, “Where are you, God?” I had a visit from Ollie, my 26-pound, longhaired black cat. I couldn’t get out of bed. Just couldn’t, too pained. Too sad. Ollie is so affectionate, and as the first tears of the day rolled down my cheeks, he pressed into me, nudging his head on my wet face. I told him good morning, and that I was sad, and he seemed to say, “I know, Mom. That’s what the extra smooshies are for.” Then his tabby brother Neo had his turn, coming to cuddle and say good morning. Purring and content, he let me bury my face in his fur. Yes, I decided. God is in the unconditional love of a pet. Absolutely. And you can never convince me otherwise.

Where are you, God? I was still asking. But as I was doom-scrolling through TikTok, the internet powers-that-be decided to add rescue videos to my algorithm, and dozens of clips of heroes took over my screen. It was like the Universe said, “Well she’s not going to get off of social media, so I’ll send her some digital hope.” And it was a little injection of hope. People being helpmates.

As if the heavenlies broke open, and I saw men and women standing amongst the worst devastation you can imagine, shell-shocked but intent on helping. They are administering first aid. They are in helicopters, eagle-eyed for any sign of life amongst the destruction, ready to drop a rope and climb into the muck themselves. Thousands of people in Appalachia have lost everything they have, but there are scores of volunteers gathering supplies, stepping up to do the administrative work to get them to the people in need. Good people, who carry that particle of God broken off into all of us, are fundraising and praying all hours of the day and night. Ah, God. There you are.

I am reminded of a story told by Mr. Fred Rogers – who carried and exercised his God particle more than most of us – from childhood. He was especially afraid of certain things -a very sensitive and thoughtful boy. When he would see scary things on the television news, his mother would say to him, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” His whole life -especially in times of great disaster – he remembered his mother’s words. ” I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers – so many caring people in this world,” he continued.

Look for the helpers.

I still say WTF IS HAPPENING. Because hey, what the f*ck IS happening? But if you ask me – and you didn’t – I have a theory about why traumatic events are amping up all over the world. While my monkey-mind and lizard-brain are having a pow-wow about how we are DOOOOOMED, my Highest Self is aware that God is actually pressing into us right now. But not in religiosity. And not in a booming voice breaking open the heavens, or in The Big Zapping Up to heaven called “the rapture.”

He is pressing into us when we press into each other. He is comforting us with smooshies from big, fat, affectionate kitties, and rooms full of rainbows that get a little help from plastic vinyl stickers. He is reminding us that he’s still here by holding us for minutes (or hours) in the arms of a loved one. He rescues and fosters terrified doggies and gave them food, warmth, and love. He searches in the landslides for his creation, recovers the lost and returns them to their families. He grieves with the grieving. People forget the shortest sentence in the Bible – Jesus wept. His DNA is in our tears. He looks at the devastation and decides that he can become the hands and feet of volunteers. Made in his image, we carry the literal God.

And we carry him into our hurting world, whether we do it in his name or not. It is the good we carry. When I am hurting, worried, despondent – his voice isn’t booming. No hand comes through the clouds with the announcement BE HEALED MY CHILD, FOR I DECREE IT THUS! I HAVE COME TO COLLECT MY CHOSEN FEW! That’s movie stuff. That’s fundamentalist stuff. Evangelical teaching. There is no chosen few. ALL are made in his image. And anyway, that’s not how any of this works.

This is the “rapture;” his spirit is already present. We are in the thick of it, as we get ever closer to sharing God-consciousness in whole. Until then, chaos – that we ourselves create. It seems to run unchecked, until he comes for us with a compassionate whisper:

Please don’t lose hope. Look for the signs and wonders; they are as plentiful as the harbingers of doom; you just have to look in the right places. Rest in me when the pain comes. Don’t hold back tears, I am collecting them and will exchange them for joy. Keep loving my children, even though they can be brats. Keep loving my children, even though they are picking up arms. Love those who curse you. Throw grace around like confetti. Don’t bemoan your fate – it might be the one thing that gives another hope. Look for that hope in EACH new day. And do what you can for helpless people in hopeless situations, whether it be a personal hell or great disaster.

Look for the helpers. BE the helper.

I am still here. And I love you.

(Here….have some more rainbows…)

October 3, 2024 2

Quicksand, Lava, Dodgeball, and Modern Politics

By: JANA GREENE

I hate all the ugliness; we are seeing regarding politics right now. Is it just me, or does it seem like a whole preschool is running the world? Presidential candidates that can’t wait their turn to talk? Grown men calling names. It reminds me of the childhood games we used to play.

For instance, we Gen-ex’ers were warned about quicksand an inordinate amount, considering not one of us have ever seen quicksand in the wild.

What to do if you get stuck in quicksand was peer-reviewed, 3rd grade cannon. Because somebody’s uncle’s cousin got stuck in it for real for real and knew just what to do. All you need is a mule and a rope, and the ability to NOT panic (which disqualifies me immediately,) and who doesn’t have those lying around? Living in this political climate is fighting quicksand. We are all trying to stay still, so as not to upset the sucky mud. But got damn, it sure feels like we are going under. After getting the equivalent of a Batchelor’s Degree on the subject, one could rest easy, knowing as long as your mule was surefooted, you would be okay, except for the fact that…

THE FLOOR IS LAVA. I had one particular friend in second grade who claimed to have seen a real volcano in Baltimore (Land of Volcanos) and wanted to teach us how to escape certain vaporization using her mother’s white sofa. My friend (who said don’t worry, her mom wouldn’t mind) gave a quick and formal lecture before throwing every single cushion on the floor so that it would resemble the rock face of the volcano. To escape the liquid fire, we must all be so careful not to fall on the floor, er, lava. We were training in earnest before my friend’s mother came in, notices five barefoot little girls jumping across her good furniture, and did her best impression of Pele, Hawaiian Goddess of Fire. We sacrificed ourselves to the goddess by wading into the lava to fix her sacred volcano. But that brings us to the most dangerous, politic-resembling childhood game of all:

Dodgeball, baby. The premise of dodgeball, for you who were born after the 70’s, early 80’s, was to bodily injure your opponent by throwing a hard, red rubber ball at your thigh until it makes a BOINK! noise that reverberates thorough a tri-county area and knocks you clean off your feet. This is actually the closest I’ve ever come to being an athlete. Nobody in my whole school knew who I was, UNTIL dodgeball, and then I was a favorite literal target. Politicians are pretty much playing Dystopian Earth Dodgeball, which is when you don’t even need a physical ball to win. BOINK! from sea to shining sea, until nobody is standing, and everyone hates each other.

So, in conclusion, my opinion is that we are all in quicksand, and it’s sucking us down – lowest common denominator-style. Bit by bit, second by second, until we are at the end of the rope, up to our eyeballs in utter bullshit, unable to have a voice. And if ever the floor has ever been lava, it’s now. As far as the eye can see, Pele is still spewing. We teeter and totter on our little rocks, afraid falling in would amount to our demise, all while The Man makes it impossible to stand. To my spirit, the last several years has felt like I’m in a State Championship Dodgeball Tournament. Chaos. Lines being formed – not to include us, but to destroy us, one BOINK at a time. My “dodging” game is a mess, but the balls keep coming. THEY JUST KEEP COMING.

God bless us all, what a mess. People with the mental and emotional maturation of children are begging for our votes. Children teaching children, again, just like 3rd Grade.

We can do better. And we must.

September 24, 2024 0

It Rains Diamonds on Jupiter

Photo by Aleksandar Pasaric on Pexels.com

By: JANA GREENE

I heard the other day that it rains diamonds on Jupiter. It is believed that in the upper atmosphere, lightning strikes methane, turning it into carbon. As the pressure increases, it turns into graphite, and after falling another 4,000 miles or so, the pressure is so great, the graphite turns into diamonds. So, falls from their sky something so valuable, and stinky methane gas started the whole shebang.

But I doubt the Jupitarians appreciate it much – if Jupiter has sentient life. At least, if they are like us.

Well, shit,” I imagine them saying. “Eighty percent chance of showers. Better bring an umbrella. Rains going to leave dents on the spaceship! Might flood the streets. Damn diamonds.“

It makes me wonder how earthly beings find value in things. What if water is as much as a miracle as diamonds, and we just don’t see it? What if – over a cup of alien coffee – they say, “I heard it rains WATER on EARTH! Can you imagine?”

What if dandelions aren’t merely weeds? What if there is value in the Spanish moss that drips off of our trees here in the South? What if even the grass under our bare feet is adding to our human experience? Wiggle your bare toes in the grass fresh with morning dew and tell me there is no God.

I’m convinced this life is, as author Marianne Williamson says, a course in miracles. This season of life as a 55-year-old Earthling has me leaning into nature. And as a result, finding a more tangible God.

Spit a plain rock in half and find a geode. Forage for life in the woods and study mushrooms. Stargaze for the sake of stargazing.

Or stand in a forest and realize that every green thing you see is busy making air for you to breathe. Air! Thank God for the work they do. Maybe even thank the trees, as a nod of appreciation. Whie you’re embracing your mid-life crazy, hug a tree, like a proper hippie. Hold it and remember every cell in its brawny trunk and its wiry branches are alive.

Sit by the sea and consider the life within it. The tiny minnows and the monsters of the deep, animals we cannot yet imagine. The balance is delicate for a place so vast, full of yummy fishes and stunning coral. Like everything else, crafted by a creative force, no mistakes made.

And the heavens? Oh, the HEAVENS! More impressive than Jupiter – with its teasing rains of diamonds. The images from the James Webb Telescope confirm to my doubting heart that there is intelligence in its design. Butterfly Nebulas, supermassive Black Holes, endless galaxies made plain to us. I imagine surfing the universe, and some day, I know I will. I’ll be one with the Great Spirit, made stardust again.

Even the crunch of dead leaves underfoot is a reminder that we all have one precious life to live. And just like the leaves, we will become earth again.

So, it may rain diamonds on Jupiter, but we have miracles here too. I wonder if God ever turns to an angel and says, “I don’t know how much more proof they need?“

As we are all taking this Course in Miracles, held down by gravity and the aggravations of being human, let’s not forget to consider the part nature plays in our wellbeing. Every monumental mountain and every winding river hold proof of your own divinity. It is not separate from us.

All of it as precious as the diamonds that fall on Jupiter.

Jupitarians got nothin’ on us.

Hug a tree. And blessed be.

September 20, 2024 2

The Storms We Don’t See Coming

Photo by Daffa Rayhan Zein on Pexels.com

By: JANA GREENE

We live at the coast, and because we do, we keep an eye on the weather forecast for hurricanes. This time of year, the powers-that-be always call for a “record hurricane season.” Every year. Which has led to trust issues, because LIARS. “This is the big one,” they might as well say. “DOOM. Doom and apox on ye household, because this year will be one storm after the *&^%$ other. PREPARE.” So, I live in a place that is forecast to be in peril every June through November.

Panic, I do well. Preparation, not so much. But the storm that hit us yesterday was not supposed to require either. I heard a weatherman refer to the storm hovering just off the coast as a “blob.” The blob sat there a while, and I forgot it existed at all. It didn’t have an eyewall. It didn’t have a name, for crying out loud. The educated meteorologist said it’s a blob. So, carry on, people.

Only this time, it may as well have had an eyewall, because it came onshore like its name was Brutus or something. Yesterday morning, my husband left for work as usual, a little rain and wind whipping about. But all day long, it built, sounding like Armageddon outside. The house shook in the howling wind, and rain poured in buckets – great watery walls falling sideways.

At one point, I would have sworn a tree narrowly missed out house, so loud were the cracks. I looked into our back yard, and it was flooded in half a foot of water. I saw pictures of the beach – only 10 minutes away – and much of it was underwater. Fish swimming about in the streets. People’s cars awash in water up to the rear-view mirrors. People stranded. And nobody was prepared.

It’s a little reminiscent of growing up in a faith that taught me that we are all in danger of a celestial event that will vaporize us instantly, leaving only our shoes and clothes behind for our heathen friends to find. “You’ll be caught up in the sky, in one moment!” was the refrain. And that was supposed to make us feel better, more stable. Nobody knew when the heck that was coming either.

“It’s just a blob,” we all thought about yesterday’s storm, before it made landfall. Just a messy little stormfront that’s going to roll in and out. Ba da bing, ba da boom!

But that’s not how any of this works.

“It’s just a blob,” they say, as if denying it a name diffuses its strength.

“It’s just a high white cell count,” they say, before they find out its leukemia.

“It’s just a downturn in the economy,” they say, before families lose everything.

“It’s just a season,” they say, about any of a million different scenarios. And they’re right, of course. Everything is a season.

Now, I like to look for the Aesop-style lesson in all trials, because I believe every single one is allowed to vex us so that we can learn. I’m always looking for the lesson in things, even in completely random bullshittery.

So, when the Big Bad Wolf starts a’blowin’, I can theoretically be one step ahead of him. I can ask to say, “Excuse me Sir, but I know you’re not randomly trying to blow my house down. What might you be trying to teach me?” But he can’t hear me, over his blowing, while he is, in fact, trying to blow my house down.

The destructive things in our lives aren’t trying to hear us. They don’t give a rat’s fat ass if we learn an existential lesson or get hit by a falling tree. It’s up to us to us to say, from under the fallen tree, in a crushed and muffled voice, “AHA! I get it! EUREKA!”

We try to batten down our hatches, but hatches are janky things banging about in the wind. “Blobs” are approaching from every direction. I wish Jesus would appear in the sky and beam me up, but only sheets of wild rain appear, coming down sideways with force. They tell us to prepare for things that will never happen, and not to worry about the things that take us out. At the end of the day, meteorologists are just making their best guess, and preachers are too.

There is no preparing. There is watching storms gather strength. There is ultimately no “doom,” because doom suggests finality. And it doesn’t get the last word over our divinity, not ever.

I guess that maybe that’s my lesson from the Blob that rolled onshore. Don’t trust the sources who are supposed to know things. Trust yourself to have the strength to get through their worst-case scenarios. Strength to roll with it, whatever “it” is.

EUREKA.

September 17, 2024 2

Rage-Cleaning and Altar Calls (My CLL Journey)

By: JANA GREENE

Well, it’s been two months since The Diagnosis darkened my door.

The Diagnosis is capitalized, in case you’re wondering, because it’s a proper noun. A name. An entity. An alternative to the “C” word, cancer. Just now, I am still grieving the loss of one of my dearest friends to cancer. People I love very much are fighting it right this minute.

In the last ten months, it has come to call in ways far too intimate for my liking. And I guess I’m mad about it. Because yesterday, I went to therapy. I needed it. I always need it.

The session went well, and I even boasted that I have accepted it now, as if accepting something like that is a one-time deal. Like a harvest moon in eclipse. Or getting “saved” at church.

I should have known better, given my spiritual history. Because once was not enough saving for me at church, and I’d go up to the altar every time there was a call. Week after week, I would try to resolve that tiny piece of doubting, stuck in my soul like a piece of spinach you can’t get out of your teeth after lunch. I was a junkie for getting saved, even though they kept telling me it was a one-time event, no necessary to repeat at every tent revival.

And I suppose there is one tiny piece of me still that vacillates between Ascended Zen Master (as if!), Grandmother Willow-level wisdom (again, ha!), weeping Victorian mourner (I am faint with the swooning!), and crazed badger.

Because I rage-cleaned my shower yesterday, after an already full day of getting things done, after a day that my body implored me to wrap it up already. I decided that I could scrub the entire shower, even though I nearly dislocated my shoulder by putting on my seat belt earlier. Wise Grandmother Willow I am not. And this after telling my therapist (and believing it,) that I’m handling The Diagnosis well now, it’s old hat. Just another chronic condition to manage. That old chestnut! It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. Anger is in the rear-view mirror, I guess! Bye, Felicia! Fast forward a couple of hours; I am home alone with my feelings.

Could a cancer patient do THIS?? *scrub* *scrub* *scrub* for a solid hour. The answer is yes, she can. But she really shouldn’t. At some point, I started crying without realizing it. I was literally awash in water, soap, tears, and snot. Out, damn spot!

The question is: Could a cancer patient do rest? With multiple chronic conditions and zero Zen Master skills? Can she listen to her body without shutting it down for being too high maintenance?

Can she, without constantly cracking a joke about it, let anger have its say about this? Anger, my least favorite of all emotions; the one I suck at expressing the most? Can I accept that it’s a little like getting saved – you think you are, but what about this sin or that that I may have committed? I’d better make sure. And I reckon The Diagnosis deserves the same courtesy of expression that I believed would keep me from burning for all eternity. Oh, you thought you were saved? Better make sure.

Oh, you thought you were done being angry? BETTER MAKE SURE. Better scream into a pillow again. Better listen to some gangsta rap to calm down. Better pray, step up to the altar – that place in myself where God has taken up residence. I don’t have to go far to encounter him.

Better not deny those feelings, because they have every right to be here. The Diagnosis invited them. Maybe I have to entertain them in order to usher them out? I don’t know. I’ve never done any of this before, and like most things my neurosis tries to sell me, I feel like I’m doing it wrong.

But at least my shower is squeaky clean.

Blessed be, friends. Thanks for following my journey.

September 13, 2024 0

Skewer the Stigma – an Alcoholic Speaks

I wrote this piece originally in 2014, shaken by the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman. I am reposting to this blog in the hopes it may speak to another generation of alcoholics and addicts. I will celebrate 24 years alcohol-free in January, but I am not cocky about it. Because I understand completely that it is only accrued One Day at a Time. I feel like maybe the world needs reminding: Recovery is WORTH IT.

By: JANA GREENE

He had enjoyed 23 years of clean time, previous to his relapse. Phillip Seymour Hoffman.

In the announcement of his recent death from a drug overdose several years ago, CNN refered to Hoffman as “everyman,” and indeed, he was extraordinarily talented while still remaining personable. I know in my head that people with two decades of sobriety “fall off the wagon,” but it is always jarring to my heart when I hear about those occasions. Addictions will not be taken for granted.

There seems to be a slight shock that Hoffman, who suffered the same disease as Amy Winehouse, died from the same disease. His spin was not that of a train wreck, but of an accomplished and revered performer.

The article goes on to describe Hoffman as an actor so versatile that he “could be anybody.” I’m not sure the author of the piece really appreciates how true his statement is.

We are everyman …. everywoman. We alcoholics and addicts. We are legion.

Hoffman is Winehouse,

Who is the twenty-year old kid who died in the bathroom of a fast-food joint with a needle in his arm,

Who is the elderly gentleman in the nursing home, stealing pills from a roommate,

Who is the wealthy businessman drinking in the wee hours of the morning to get going,

Who is a soccer mom who cannot stop at three glasses of chardonnay,

Who is me.

If the silence of those ripped from the landscape of the entertainment world is deafening; the gaping voids left by loved ones lost to addictions are life-swallowing sinkholes.

We alcoholics and addicts….

We are not weak. The strongest people I’ve ever met have been recovering alcoholics.

We are born with super dopamine-seeking brains, susceptible to a hijacking of our brain chemistry. We know that our choices can keep our disease at bay, but we usually have to learn that the hard way.

We don’t want to make excuses for the train wrecks we pilot; we just want you to know they are not by design.

We are sensitive and are often creative forces to be reckoned with.

We contribute to the landscape of the world. We make music and poetry and art. We make business deals, and partnerships. And we value relationships more than you can imagine.

We love deeply, intrinsically…..sometimes so deeply that our souls cannot seem to bear it sober.

We punch time clocks and live ordinary lives. And truth be told, it isn’t always the pain that makes us want to drink and use, but fear of the ordinary.

We love our children fiercely. Yes, we would change “For the sake of the children” if only we could.

We have heart. We grieve so for hurting people. We often lack the instincts to handle that grief without self-destructing.

We really don’t want to self-destruct at all, but we don’t always know how to keep it from happening until the process has begun.

We crave the ability to handle life on life’s terms “normally,” like you do.

We don’t mean to embarrass you.

We don’t want to inflict the pain on others that our brain chemistry urges us to. Addiction is as a plaque in the arteries of the spirit, a disorder of the brain. Like any mental illness, nobody wants to have it.

A good portion of any recovery program worth its salt is accountability. We want to make amends with you (and if we don’t want to, don’t despair…. we are working on it.)

We are brought to our knees in a desperation that normally wired brains cannot fathom. And we can get better – if we stay on our knees.

We need each other for survival. We sit in meetings in drab church basements drinking lukewarm coffee with others like us who are cut from the same colorful brilliant, thread-bare, sturdy cloth – because we want to go on living and contributing to the world, just like you.

We need God most of all. He is the Power Greater than Ourselves that can restore us to sanity.

We are “everyman” and “everywoman.”

And we get sober. We even stay sober, with work. With the understanding that our disease will not be taken for granted.

But we need you to understand some things:

You can support people who are trying to win – and daily WINNING – the footrace with tragedy.

You can try not to shame them. They feel guilty enough.

You can start here to educate yourself on the realities of alcoholism and drug addiction.

You can know that you are NOT ALONE – if you are everyman or everywoman, too.

You can ask someone who struggles with addiction – past or present – to church. Our spirits, above all else, need to be nourished.

You can ask a recovering friend to go to the movies with you, or out to dinner, or for a walk on the beach. Our minds and bodies need to be nourished, too.

You can ask questions.

You can pray for us.

You can just not give up on us.

You can know this, mothers and fathers. Your child’s addiction is NOT YOUR FAULT. You did not cause it.

You can be tender to us in recovery, just as you would anyone in treatment for a disease.

By simply talking about it, you help strip away the stigma. Because the only thing worse than battling a disease is battling a disease that many people don’t believe exists. A disease that – if treatment is not embraced as a way of life – can be fatal.

For everyman.

September 4, 2024 0

Calling Out the “Gospel of Get Over It” (or, Giving the Inner Child her Say)

By: JANA GREENE

Can we talk honestly about denial in the name of religion?

For most of my marriage, I have unintentionally masked. I told my husband everything, but not everything. Not intentionally by sin of omission, but because I couldn’t – I had stuffed it so far up my own ass for survival’s sake, I had built up a memory meltdown. Let’s just move forward. But you can’t move forward until you switch the gearshift from reverse. Otherwise, it’s just idling.

And it worked, for many years. If I was upset, I’d stuff it. Or banished it in the name of JESUS. Traumatic memory would surface, but I would rebut it with but you’re happy NOW. And to be honest, if some of it hadn’t happened to me, I wouldn’t believe it. It’s a got-damn wonder I am not locked away somewhere to protect me from myself, much less sober.

One of the reasons I am estranged from members of my family of origin is that they know. They know, they remember, and so long as there is distance, they don’t have to make amends. I have accepted that they can’t. I only write about the least violent incidents. I polish it up pretty nicely. I am not saying all that I could say, I promise you that. My intention is not to make anyone uncomfortable, but if it does, maybe it should. I am writing this transparently because I know so many, many souls are walking wounded here, being told that their trauma has been Houdini-ed in the name of Jesus, but still feeling bereft.

But I will admit I remain damaged, and that is okay. It all took a toll. How silly to expect growing up in an environment of daily screaming, physical violence – and indeed the worst thing that can be done to a little girl – is expected to be taped over by some of the laughs and good times, like an unfortunate VHS performance. That’s what a lot of people won’t tell you about growing up in an abusive home. There were good times too. I suppose they are supposed to override the bad? But the bad was bad, and it’s stuck in my gray matter, petrifying until solid, since childhood. I was steeped in it.

I dealt with it by Denial by Religion and Busyness. I engrossed myself in ALLTHETHINGS, all the distractions, the past 20 years. Raising three teenagers. Battling a chronic, as-of-then undiagnosed illness. Pretending to give a rat’s ass about my “career” – ANY “career.” Launching two city-wide recovery programs. Getting Recovery Coach Certification.

Need a greeter at the church? OKAY! Need a prayer person to pray with people crushed by their own abuse and pain? I’m ON IT. Fuck my own damage, let me weave sincere and elaborate prayers for the hurting. God is good. Amen?

I was getting up early every day to have coffee with Jesus and Joyce Meyer. Just feels like the devil is stompin’ me when I miss Joyce! I would say (and sincerely mean it.) Later, be the best wife, because you have the best husband. Your marriage is proof that miracles still happen. Don’t fuck it up with your trauma and neediness! Be the best friend, mother, warrior, Bible-reader. Smile, even though the physical pain is searing. Smile, even though you have unresolved trauma like some people have freckles. It’s all in your head anyway, you’re crazy. (It’s all in your head may be the gaslightiest self-gaslight of them all.)

I mentored the crap out of anybody with a heart-wound in those years. And for that, I am not sorry. Everyone broke my heart. Everybody got a little piece of me. Every ounce of trauma was healed in the NAME OF JESUS, AMEN?! God gave me permission to stuff it, what with all the Christian counseling I’d gotten that taught me to “pray it out!” It’s been CAST OUT, as far as the EAST from the WEST! God’s ways are not our ways, brethren.

In other words, GET OVER IT.

So, the trauma sat. Because whether by flaw of character or complete ignorance, I couldn’t seem to get over it. It took residence in my body, every tissue marked by it.

In all of us lives a whole preschool of children. Not in a multiple personality way, but layered like a cake of a hundred of layers. As many layers as went into our development, as many memories went into the batter at that time. We live in the frosting – the Present – but we sit upon years of joys and sorrows, expectations and traumas. Without it, there is no reason for the frosting. But frosting is no good all on its own.

My inner 4-year old’s pain hasn’t been cast out – ironically, because she had been cast out all her little life. Just try telling your 4-year-old that memories aren’t ghosts, and POOF! they are all gone because words were said over her, named and claimed. That’s not fair to her.

Joyce Mayer’s loud, booming voice frightens her. The Lord comforts her, but not in a magical instant as advertised. She used to hide in her toybox, when things got loud at home. The lid to the box slowly lifting with a great creak, and a hand of assistance is offered. It isn’t a “one and done” experience, though – that lifting. Every day, she hides in her toybox to some degree, and every day, the lid is lifted, the sun pours in, and a hand is offered. So, I, in my 4-year-old wisdom, take the hand again and again, and sometimes, that is what grace looks like – what miracles look like. We want out of the toybox altogether, but we do it by taking the hand every day, even when things are scary.

Getting the chance to nurture her with the help of The Greatest Therapist of All Time (PERIOT!) is an honor and privilege. I hope to hear out all the past versions of Me, with a little more compassion now. And I am writing raw for the first time, instead of just idling.

Blessed be, friends.

(Part 2 to come…)

August 30, 2024 0

But Think of the EXPOSURE! (Starting a new blog; giving The Hustle the boot)

By: JANA GREENE

This isn’t the funniest season of my life, that’s for sure. So my writing hasn’t been the comedy-filled yukk-fest I’d hoped it would be. It’s been absolute clown shoes for a while now, but not in a mirth-making way.

When I decided to start this blog, instead of totally rehabbing my old blog, I did it for reasons that might seem obscure to some. The truth is that I wanted to write more humor; humor about everyday life that perhaps the 2014 version of myself might find in poor taste. I’m kind of into poor taste right now, to be honest.

I wanted to write about being a follower of Christ from here, not from there. I have been “there” most of my entire life, but in this new place, there is curiosity. Questioning. Observing. Laughing. And most of all the thing I’d tried to write about for twenty years but didn’t fully grasp: Grace.

Especially grace toward myself, can I get an AMEN?

“Wouldn’t it be easier to switch up thebeggarsbakery.com, where you have nearly 2,000 followers?” said my husband, who is right-brained and makes actual sense. It can be frustrating to explain total nonsense to a sensical person, because they have logic on their side, and all I have is a handful of glitter and some unrealistic expectations.

“I have new things to say,” said I.

“I know. You’ve just worked so hard to gain your following.”

“And I won’t ‘build my career?” I say. We laugh, because I am not career-driven. I have no competitive nature, absolutely no “drive” or “hustle.” No calling higher than sharing my mind and welcoming the sharings of others’. It’s a crappy career path, but a fulfilling endeavor.

When I was a kid, longing to be a proper writer, I believed I would make a living by writing, which is totes hilar, as my kids used to say. My 10th grade Journalism teacher, Ms. Flowers, wrote in my yearbook, “See you on the Johnny Carson Show one day!”

What an amazing compliment! I hugged the words of that prophesy close to my chest, choking the life into it. I carried it everywhere I went and still do.

Now I know that reference is lost on several generations, but if you are Gen X, that is prime adulation. That’s the pièce de résistance of success. Only the most amazing writers were interviewed by Johnny Carson. Stephen King! Danielle Steel! JUDY BLUME!

As compliment like that from a Journalism teacher? That’s like saying, ‘You’ll win the writing Olympics, Kid!’

Spoiler alert: I did not win the Writing Olympics, because that’s not a thing.

When in my 20’s, I wrote for a small, local paper, crafting community news pieces for 5 cents per word. Do you know how many 5-cent words you must write to put your kid through dance class as a single mom? Or even spring for a few Happy Meals? Many. SO many words.

I then wrote community news for the newspaper in my little city. I was paid the stately sum of $12.50 an hour. This – the pinnacle of my earning – ensured that I made exactly enough every month to contribute one-third of the mortgage payment each month.”

But hold up, y’all. Because THEN, a major magazine (it was 2016, magazines were still a thing; stay with me here) happened across a Beggar’s Bakery blog post I’d written about addiction, and asked if they could pick it up for their issue next month?”

HOLY SHITBALLS, BATMAN! Yes of COURSE you can! Send over the contract! Hurry up before you change your mind, In Recovery Magazine!

The contract was for zero dollars, ya’ll.

But think of the exposure! That’s what they told me. The EXPOSURE!

Now, exposure means you’ll be compensated for your talent, just not today. It means, we see you, Boo….but maybe the next publisher will see you and pay you! But probably not, to be honest, you’ll be a pauper if you try to survive on writing. The odds aren’t really in your favor. But thanks for the free work!

I self-published a couple of little books after that, which ended up costing me hundreds of dollars and making me none. I poured my soul into the first book, my little evangelical soul. I gave countless copies away.

I spoke on recovery in front of large groups of people, which I hated. I know they said the Lord wants me to “stretch” and “grow,” and that public speaking was another way to share the gospel, but I did it with bile rising in my throat and a hankering for a Xanax to get through speaking on recovery.

I now know that God “growing” me by torture is not his bag. But when giving my testimony, I could never wing it. I carefully wrote out every word and read it with all the passion of a kid reading a term paper about state capitals. Not because I wasn’t passionate about it, but because I’m better at bleeding my words than reading my words. Please look away, people. The vulnerability is making me so naked up here.

But see, I’m a prolific writer, if not a successful one. Doesn’t that sound impressive? PROLIFIC. But “prolific” really just means that I write A LOT. Obsessive-compulsively, some might say. Stephen King is a prolific writer. But so is the guy off his meds driven to write a hundred-page manifesto because he is on a mission. “Driven” can mean lots of things!

To me, it means that if I don’t find a home for my thoughts outside of my brain, they’ll stage a coup, and I will be prolifically in a fetal position forever and ever, amen. Since I could hold a crayon, the page has done nicely. It rolls out like a red carpet, welcomes my words, and rehomes the scary ones.

So anyway, thanks for reading my work. Because it affords me connection – with you guys and with myself – and with whatever sanity I have left. Life got heavier with the diagnosis of Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia in June. I haven’t really yukk-yukked it up in my blog posts lately. But don’t worry, I majored in Writing for Free, but I minored in Gallows Humor. So, I’ll get there.

In a way, pain and cancer and struggle and anxiety are all surmountable, because a kind teacher told my 16-year-old self that she’d be on Johnny Carson one day. Ms. Flowers would want me to write honest and raw. Prolifically. Imagine that. Kind words have power.

In conclusion, life has been humbling. Would you agree? Humbling and not at all what the travel guide promised. But still full of surprises, blessings, and BS.

I hope your dreams land you at the pinnacle of your happiness, hustle be damned. There are more ways than one to “make a living.”

Blessed be friends.

August 29, 2024 0

Don’t Blink, Mama – It Goes by Fast

By: JANA GREENE

So you’ve joined the club of Motherhood,

You have a sweet baby at last.

Your body still groaning from birthing your child,

Don’t blink mama, it goes too fast.

When you wake for midnight feeds,

Bleary-eyed yourself,

Savor the world where only you two

Are the world, there’s nobody else.

To every coo and cry and smile

You quickly become attuned.

Memorize those dimpled hands,

They’ll be holding a crayon too soon.

Before you have the time to think

Your baby’s a ‘terrible two.’

Hold tight, Mama, this too shall pass,

The trials always do.

Tantrums in the grocery store,

And before you can blink,

The Tooth Fairy is coming to call

It goes by faster than you think.

Milestones come rapid-fire,

Kindergarten’s here,

Drop her off at school and then

Go home and shed a tear.

The early years go by so fast

You scarcely have time to know

That your baby isn’t a baby now,

Who told you how fast she would grow?

Before you know it, she’s a tween

“Who IS this child?” you’ll say.

Buckle up, Mama, you’ll get through,

Tomorrow’s another day.

The next thing you know, she’s a teenager,

Full of angst and woe,

It will harken the days of the “terrible twos,”

Take heart, she has time to grow.

The early days of dimpled hands

And nursing by moonlight,

Those memories will see you through,

When parenting feels like a fight.

Oh to watch her find herself,

The pride in who she’s become!

Members of the Motherhood Club,

You’ve officially come undone.

The secret that nobody says

But I’ve found is very true,

Is that your baby is her very own person,

And not a extension of you.

You’ve nurtured, taught, and guided,

And now it’s her own turn,

To figure out this thing called life,

On her own (and very different) terms.

Now you’re a veteran parent,

Battle-scarred and rife

With sweet assurance that she still needs you

In her grown-up life.

Dynamics change, my friend, you see,

The stages never last,

But one day you’ll call your child ‘friend,’

Don’t blink, Mama. It goes so fast.

August 26, 2024 0

Here’s The Thing

By: JANA GREENE

A couple of months ago, when I was young and full of hope, I mentioned that I was going to try to write a little something here every day. Yesterday, I did not, because I used most of my energy decorating for my daughter’s family birthday party. I really felt bad about myself for not writing. Not because it’s writing – but because it is a thing I fizzled out on.

I fizzle out on a lot of things, but it turns out that today – after blowing up a scadzillion balloons – all my “hot air” has not all been relegated to party festivities. So even though I didn’t write yesterday, here is today’s post.

I am very good at two endeavors: Starting things and losing interest in things. Now you’d think a substantial bit of time would have to be passed between those two, but not for me. I can lose interest almost instantly. Not people, mind you. People I love for life. But just about everything else? MEH.

I won’t half-ass the starting of things, of course. I go in whole hog, as we say here in the South. For example, when I took up yoga, I swore I would make it a consistent practice. Two weeks later, I subluxed a hip trying to do a downward dog and had to quit. And I can’t really blame the injury, I was already getting bored.

I have done this with crafts, business ideas, dieting, religion. Unrealistically saying to The Thing, “you better fix my whole damn life.” And out of ignorance or denial – I’m not sure which – I will low-key believe that ridiculous shit.

The problem is that I come at The Thing with both barrels blazing, shooting until I’m out of ammo, click click click that trigger anyway, until I collapse on the floor and tell myself, you can’t even shoot right. Lather, rinse, repeat with every hobby, jobby, or political lobby, until it holds absolutely no interest to me.

The Thing will be the antidote to life. The Thing is going to be so fulfilling, I will forget that I’m neurotic and flaky and stand triumphant for once on the monument to my completed task! The Thing is going to save/help/make me worth the air I breathe.

Holy shit. I am expecting The Thing to dole out my worthiness. That’s too big a job for yoga. That’s too big a job for me. It’s too big a job for anyone but God.

Perhaps, for example, The Thing is not writing; it’s the joy and pain expressed in the writing. It’s the purging, sharing, heartache and laughter.

The Kingdom of God lives within us. We cannot find it anywhere else. We cannot summon it. We cannot find it IN anything else. It can’t be imported, exported, structured, organized, or unfulfilled. It exists in energy so divine; the glorified hustle has to take a seat.

Perhaps “going inward” is the only consistent practice we require to find The Thing. And if the venue of my spirit is good enough to house God, I guess it’s good enough for me…wild and unfocused as it may be!

Blessed be, friends.

August 23, 2024 0

A Depression Nap Makes All Things New (and other things you might have forgotten)

By: JANA GREENE

Whoever needs to hear this today…

There is no consequence to not tweezing your brows even though you can see two errant hairs close up when you look in a magnified mirror.

Your family will not fall apart if you have leftovers three days in a row.

If you wash whites and colors together, nobody has to know. Nobody. Will. Know.

A three-hour trash TV marathon is good therapy.

A nice, well-timed depression nap can make all things new.

Your kids can eat an all-beige diet for all their preschool years and be fine (Flintstone Chewable’s cover a multitude of nutritional sins.)

Listening to really good, really loud music is CHURCH.

Staring off into space for extended periods of time is not a waste of it.

Holding hands is not just for children.

Don’t forget to lollygag and dilly-dally on the regular.

Store-bought is fine, if you can’t make your own serotonin and dopamine.

Paper plates are a mom’s best friend.

Animals are kind of superior to (a lot of) humans.

Remember that “no” is a complete sentence.

Cut ties with people who make you feel less-than important. Or LESS THAN, period.

Buy the concert tickets. You’ll almost never be sorry.

Not a single soul on this planet is better than you. Straighten your crown. You deserve to be wearing it.

Straighten your sister’s crown too, and remind her she’s a queen.

Hit the meeting. (If you know, you know.)

Be sloppily thankful for blessings, and ardently prayerful for troubles.

Shave your legs. Or don’t. No one cares.

Tomorrow is a fine day to start what you put off starting today.

Write the words, paint the picture, sing loud and badly, laugh until you pee yourself a little. And then laugh again.

And remember you are hurtling through space in a big, blue marble through an infinite, ever-expanding universe, and you yourself are made out of stardust and moxie for the express purpose of learning to love and be loved.

So love already.

That’s the main thing.

Blessed be.

August 19, 2024 0

Pilgrimage to Self (a little poetry jam)

I kind of love this image that WordPress so generously offered me. Never mind I would break both ankles (plus probably fall off of the dang mountain) if I tried hiking this. It also occurred to me that every journey we take in life is perilous, and every hike takes us somewhere. Might be the Garden of Eden. Might be the Donner Party encampment. Wheeeee! *insert inappropriate laughter here *

By: JANA GREENE

I stumble along on

a path untread,

afraid to follow

the drops I’ve bled

on roads before,

a pilgrimage known,

with no blood trail

to follow,

I do it alone.

I’m taking a new way,

not following tears,

I’ve been on that journey,

been steered

by those fears.

So familiar is the

that way of despair,

But I think I’d rather

try a path to self-care.

So now I walk on a path

I don’t know,

all my fears and tears

in tow.

Where will it lead me?

How will I grow?

I grab my walking stick

and go,

on this path

I have not trodden,

sure of foot

on rough terrain,

still questioning

the road ahead,

still asking God

for help again,

resolute

in striking out,

feeling stronger

than my fear,

I peek ahead

and look about,

and think

I just might like it here.

August 19, 2024 0

Summer of the Constant Rumble

By: JANA GREENE

It has easily been the longest summer in my entire life. Punctuated by triggers and glimmers and rolling thunder, it rains almost every afternoon. The day will be sunshiny (albeit, hot!) and from a great distance, you will hear the thunder.

At first, you wonder if the noise was a motorcycle or a garbage truck in the neighborhood over. But if you listen closely, there is the thunder cadence – a low vibration awakened, that you feel in your chest before your ears can confirm its source. And then the building growl roiling over the clouds: Yep, that’s thunder. Again. Here we go.

Nobody wants thunder at the beach. Thunder is a rude affront to the vacationers. It means get out of the pool, pack up your sand buckets. Might as well eat lunch out; the beach requires flexibility. But everyone has the same idea, so every restaurant is crowded and has an annoying wait. The kids are whiny, there’s sand in unmentionable places, you just want your ass in a beach chair, your kids in the pool and out of your hair, and BY DAMN you’re going to enjoy this experience in spite of the thunder and rain. All of this started with a little thunder.

When I received the diagnosis of Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia on June 13, when the summer was still fat with promise and completely benign. A lot of people freshly diagnosed with cancer describe the new diagnosis as a kind of hurried chaos. “For a while, it was a blur,” is a common sentiment.

But for me, it has not been a blur. It has been a sloth racing a snail and losing. It has been much pacing through my house, wandering aimlessly. It has been too much time on my hands, angry outbursts, crying seshes, and doomscrolling. I am wishing time away, and then chastising myself for wishing time away.

Because I could have 20 years with this cancer, although that’s the exception. I could also have five. Talking openly about the possibilities is therapeutic for me but makes everyone else uncomfortable. I’m not trying to make anyone else uncomfortable, but I’m trying to accept that we all have an expiration date, and if nothing else gets me first, this cancer will. That’s not fatalistic. That’s realistic. Cancer is not the only chronic health issue I deal with, but it’s a doozy.

Nobody wants thunder at the beach. But every day it comes – the realization- a rude affront to all the plans I’ve made for my life. The doctor’s visits mean crowded rooms where people wait, annoyed. I really just want my ass in a beach chair. Summertime means a season of heat and rain, that’s just the nature of the season.

And it occurs to me today that its exactly what depression feels like. I’ll be swimming with my floaties on under clear skies, when I will feel the rumble in my chest. At first, its mostly vibration, but by the time it’s all said and done, there are torrential tears and terrifying cracks of doom. They show up every day, like clockwork, suffocating me with humidity, impossible to ignore.

So, I write. And that helps. I talk to people I love and to the GTOAT (Greatest Therapist of All Time,) and that helps too. I listen to music loud enough to drown out the claps of thunder, and throw paint on a canvas, or fitfully meditate. The practice doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be practiced. But Jesus help me.

Please help me with the episodic depression that pops my floaties and sucks me under as soon as I hear thunder. Expect it to visit at least once a day. I can hide like a frightened animal in a storm or do a little rain dance; that’s entirely up to me – triggers, glimmers, and rolling thunder – all. Help me to accept that it’s just the nature of the season, and to keep my joy, all while realizing yep, that’s thunder again. Here we go…

Amen.

August 13, 2024 2

Letter to an Old Friend

By: JANA GREENE

Dear Old Friend,

If we were close once, I still think about you. I want you to know I think about you with reverence, no matter what life threw at us to sever our tie. The things you told me – profound and trivial – still come to my mind as random thoughts are apt to do, and my face breaks out in a little state of happy. Please forgive me if I’ve hurt you in any way. I was only learning, as you were.

If we bore and raised our babies together, we were blessed. We did the “Mom Circuit’ together – lazy days of trips to Gymboree, the park, McDonald’s ball pits, endless breastfeeding sessions and diaper changes, co-rejoicing with one another over the milestones our babies reached, because they were our milestones too. That gave me an identity; it gave us an identity, together.

Perhaps we were friends as teenagers, furiously cutting out pictures in old magazines and making collages of our “futures.” We would turn page after page of handsome men we’d marry, fancy cars we’d drive, and families we would raise perfectly. We made vision boards before there were vision boards, and many a glue stick lost its life in our hands in the name of naiveite.

If we made friends as young adults, you were dear to me at a chaotic time. I pulled back from you because I was ashamed of my alcoholism. If you were with me when I came out the other side (24 years ago)? Your friendship is priceless. Not all of the people I love stuck around in my recovery.

If over the years, we laughed until we peed, I feel a poignant pang in my soul when I remember our laughter, even still. (Bonus points for shooting beverages out of our noses.) Yes, if we laughed together, you are tethered to my heart eternally.

Friend, just so you know – nothing that cemented our relationship ceased to exist just because time marched away from us. The prayers we held hands and petitioned to God over? Nothing went to waste.

God didn’t follow our instructions in the least, of course. Disregarded most of our magazine plans and perfect-mommy dreams. Nothing turned out like we thought it would (thank God, but also dammit) No matter. All the weaving became who we are: The smiles, the jokes, the heartache, the lessons we painfully teach each other and ourselves. The music we share, the memes we post.

All of it.

As as we reached middle age, friendships took on new importance. No longer were they relationships to be sandwiched in between the chaos of parenting and busy marriages, but tantamount to every aspect of our lives, our very selves. Friends become family at this stage. We finally know who we are, and that helps us bring our best selves into our fold. And when we’re our worst? You help me stay grounded. It’s so obvious now that we are – cliché notwithstanding – on a journey for real. As the kids say, for real for real. Nobody warns you that in mid-life, you get weepy and sentimental.

Maybe life got away from us, but I remember our bond. I wish you all the best, Old Friend.

Your friend, Jana

August 5, 2024 0

Menu for Dreams (a little poetry jam)

By: JANA GREENE

I wish there was a menu for dreams,

so I could order

the Puppies and Kittens Special,

and not the heartache of dreaming of old

people, places, and things.

I would choose to dream

of a trip to the mountains,

just as an appetizer,

and dream of all the blues

in the Blue Ridge,

instead of dreaming

I’m lost somewhere,

and alone.

I would choose the

Soaring in the Sky entree,

and dream of flying high

over the earth,

and above all the chaos

And for a side dish,

that dream where I’m a mermaid,

breathing underwater,

instead of the nightmare

where I can’t breathe at all.

For dessert I shall choose the

Dreaming of Heaven,

the sweetest of all dreams.

It will come to the table smartly

dressed in a ganache of peace,

just how I like it,

and I would not

miss the dreams of rejection

one bit.

Yes, I wish there was

a menu for dreams,

for I would choose

a different path

for the astral projection

we call sleep.

Until then,

I’ll wish myself sweet dreams

and wait.

Because some dreams

come true eventually.

August 5, 2024 0

When it’s Simply a Hell of a Day (My CLL Journey)

By: JANA GREENE

In the interest of transparency, today sucks a little. I share when I have good days and get gussied up – admittedly those are fewer and further apart. And I share when I’m struggling because I don’t want to pretend I have my shit together for social media. That benefits no one. I don’t. And I won’t. Life is messy (and also great and awful, in turn. So who can give up yet?) But today the fatigue is crushing me, literally feels like a smothering blanket I can’t get out from under. And my pain level is crazytown. People get tired of hearing about my pain, I’m certain. But I’m tired of feeling it. So I spent some time meditating. And some time worshipping. And crying. And that’s the truth. That’s me, pulling myself up by my bootstraps. Leukemia sucks. Ehlers Danlos sucks. I’m tired of physical weakness making me feel less strong as a whole person. It’s just a hell of a day.

August 4, 2024 2

Soothing the Savage Baby Within (My CLL Journey)

By: JANA GREENE

I had horrible night sweats last night. Nothing like waking up pained and feeling like you wet the whole bed (I did not, just sweat.) So, I woke up to change my PJs and my sheets and couldn’t manage to go back to sleep. That was the 2-4 a.m. hustle, even before the sun was up.

It reminded me of getting up with my babies when they were little. I would change their diapers and onesies and change their sheets if they had leaked a little. I would calm them with kind, soft words, and cradle them to my breasts for a little feeding. Whatever discomfort they had was soothed. Whatever tiny human need they had was met. Thirst, hunger, general fussiness – all of it within my ability to “fix.”

Then I remember endless nights when they had colic, and I was sleep-deprived and unable to make them feel better instantly. And on those nights, walking the floor, jiggling a fussy baby, I sometimes cried too, right along with them. Little did I know I would cry right along with them all their lives, when colic was replaced by the struggles of growing up.

I didn’t consider that they would develop needs I was helpless to aid in the future, and I certainly didn’t think about my own needs; the ones I would also be unable to manage. I just lived right there in the moment. I’ve been trying to get back to that mindset ever since.

It makes me want to cry now that I cannot soothe myself on mornings like this. I can’t fix leukemia.

I can change my sheets and tell myself kind, soft words, and cradle myself in a hug, even as I am drenched with sweat. I cannot seem to get enough rest, even though I may still have ten or twenty years – CLL is “the leukemia you want to have, if you have to have leukemia.”

But here’s the thing…I do not want to have it at all, please and thank you. It’s kind of the shitty icing on a shitty cake, as I was already battling a myriad of chronic conditions. I cannot imagine what things will be like as this thing progresses over the years. Ten to twenty years of endless night sweats and crippling fatigue? Gee. Thanks, I guess? I’m such a grateful person, in general. So, this journey has got me in all of my feels. Can gratitude and frustration exist at the same time? Lord yes, friend.

In the meantime, I will try to keep my PJs dry and my attitude from tanking, because on days like this, I just want to fahgettaboutit. But I cannot just fahgettaboutit, because I have people who love me, dammit. They still depend on me for less sophomoric troubles. And I have such a wonderful circle of support; people who soothe me like a colicky baby when I want to give up. They know they can’t “fix” it, and I appreciate their trying anyway.

I know this piece would leave one to believe I’m a bitcher and a moaner. But see, I’m also a fighter, even as I cannot feel rested, and I’m flummoxed by the unknown. So, like a one-year-old learning to walk, I put one unsteady foot in front of the other, garnering self-praise when I teeter without falling, and crying when I do fall.

And in this 2-4 a.m. hustle, I will soothe myself and accept the soothing from others, and hopefully grow in the interim, just like a child, y’all. Because just like our children did under our watch, we are all still growing up. And we all live right in the moment, whether we like it or not.

Blessed be friends.

July 30, 2024 0

Political Lies and Fraying Ties – a little poetry jam

Listen, friends. I feel passionately too. But I am writing this as a simple observer, stepping back and noticing what is happening. And what’s happening is so ugly. Blessed be, and remember that you are a light worker in a dark world. Open doors for people, compliment a stranger, be sloppy generous with the love you put out in the universe, and I will too. And hopefully we can make a difference as we flounder through this dystopian nightmare. Amen?

By: JANA GREENE

It’s interesting to me

that we gain one another

piecemeal,

one kind word at a time,

one kind deed after another,

until we call each other

“friend.”

Yet we are willing to

lose each other in whole,

all at once,

over politics,

over religion,

the two things

we were told would

bring us together,

really just cause

division and loss,

and I think we will

all regret that

one day.

July 24, 2024 0