Why I Hate Facebook Memes

I have a confession: I haven’t always hated Facebook memes. In fact, I have been an inveterate Facebook meme sharer, mostly cats and inspirational quotes. And I have enjoyed the memes of others. I have learned new things. I have seen opposing political and cultural views that made me stop and think, even if for a moment to consider my position. I have learned which of my friends share my views and which do not. Largely, memes have been a positive vehicle.

Then I saw a Facebook friend, who I have also hung out with in real life, write a status update about disliking memes and encouraging her friends to start and have conversations. I didn’t dislike memes, but I liked her appeal. I began commenting on as many of her posts and the posts of all my friends where possible instead of simply clicking on ‘Like’. I wanted to contribute to the conversation with my friends, and I wanted the reverse to happen as well.

And then it began to happen. I began to notice just how many times, instead of sharing a Status Update, my friends posted picture memes without adding a single word. I noticed people sharing articles with opposing views that I disliked seeing, usually because they were racist, bigoted, or religious (although sharing a religious meme did not automatically earn my disapproval or cause me to hide a page).

I noticed when a single person posted eight times in a row, all memes, all without comment. And I really noticed that my entire News Feed seemed to comprise of memes, links, to articles, and happy pictures of celebrations. I don’t mind happy celebrations or pictures. However, I do mind an entire News Feed of pictures in various forms.

Suddenly, I found myself both angry and bored. I started hiding a lot of pages that my friends with extreme and opposing views share. I started skimming and skimming and skimming. I wanted to get to the ones where the posts of my friends who talk about something real actually share it. They really are too few and far between.

I don’t really care if you share your anti-welfare views or your anti-gun views, but put it in your own words for once. I want to hear what YOU think. I don’t want to hear what conservative groups think. I don’t care about them. I care about you. I want to talk to you. I want to learn from you. But if pictures with other people’s words on them are all you are going to share, then I’m going to hide them. Because, at that point, we’re all just talking at each other instead of with each other.

I’d rather talk with you. What do you prefer?

I have been putting in a concerted effort to reduce the number of memes that I share around. I want to try and keep a more conversational flavor in Facebook, but it’s quite hard to resist from sharing those kitten and puppy memes from flying around. I mean, who doesn’t like a cute kitten or puppy? I ask you!

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Illness, Alienation, and PTSD – Part 2

Read Part I.

One morning when my mother was fixing my braids for school, she left me with one done to run downstairs and swap the laundry. I don’t remember the pain, but I recall being bent over with my hands on the floor. She says she heard me calling her, and she came back up to find me like that. I was taken to the ER and admitted to have my appendix removed, which burst on the operating table. But for the fact that I was in surgery, I would have died.

When you have an appendectomy or an intestinal blockage, the treatment includes having a nasal-gastrointestinal (NG) tube through your nose and into your stomach. The NG tube is a life-saving piece of medical equipment. It alleviates vomiting, reduces the pressure from digestion, and allows your insides to heal. To make it go down easier, you drink water until the tube is fully inserted.  The tube is connected to a machine that siphons off anything in your stomatch and intestines.

During one of these stays, the nurse took out the tube only to have to put it back in a day or two days later because they realized (somehow) that they had taken it out too soon. I mildly protested, but then I stopped. I knew it had to go back in if they said it did, and I knew that struggling would only make it worse so I didn’t. Instead, I drank the water.

When a child gets sick in modern times, the childrens’ ward is bright and cheery. Family and strangers alike come by wards to cheer children up. There is art work around. Professionals understand that it’s important to make a child feel as comfortable as possible in this strange and frightening environment. You can even sleep overnight with them, I hear. When I was in the hospital in 1979, there was none of that.

The room I was in was like a regular adult’s hospital room with three beds, TVs, and one large window. The walls were white as were the sheets. My parents were only allowed to be there during regular visiting hours. Between the two stays over a three week period, I was without family from 8pm to 8am, for the most part. As an adult, I understand you can’t have family there all the time, but that was what I wanted when I was eight.

I would call my mother at 5:30am every morning to find out what time she would come to visit me. The NG tube is uncomfortable and, like many things about a hospital stay, makes a good night’s sleep impossible. I slept little. I napped. I waited until I knew my parents were up anyway to call, just to hear my mom’s voice. Knowing she would be there at 8am or 10a or even 1pm broke up my seemingly neverending day and gave me some hope. I had a visit to look forward to.

I remember my mother often saying to me, “I wish there was something I could do”, with a kind of panic in her voice. All that did was instill and increase my own sense of panic at my situation. I felt that, if my parents were helpless, I was even moreso. I hated hearing it. I heard the helplessness and the pity in her voice at a time when I yearned for encouragement and hope instead. Somehow, my parents’ helplessness impacted my psyche more than the skill of the doctors’ abilities and skills to fix me, to save me.

After about a week, I went home. I was soon back because I had developed peritonitis from the infection that leaked into my body when the appendix burst. Back to the hospital for another surgery I went. Back with another NG tube. Back alone or mostly alone in a hospital room for an additional week at least.

In addition to the thin horiztonal appendectomy scar, I acquired a long, vertical scar extending from at least two inches above my belly button to my pelvic bone area. They braced my scar with four clamps held by a thicker kind of cord. Their removal didn’t hurt, but it felt very odd. I remember the scars between red and irritated after the stitches and clamps came out. Whereas I had loved two piece bathing suits, I refused to wear one for meany, many years.

After I got back to school, all I wanted was for my life to return to normal. If you act fine, people will think you are fine unless you tell them otherwise. I already liked school, and it was an easy and convenient way for me to distract myself from whatever I had been through and the feelings about illness that lingered. Studying and school helped me ignore whatever feelings I needed to acknowledge. Back then, it never occurred to anyone to have me talk to a therapist. It’s just not a thing that was done or talked about publicly. If I could go back and whisper an idea in my mother’s ear, it would be that one. I really could have used it at that time to help me deal with what I experienced. Just because I didn’t talk about it did not mean I wasn’t affected by it, even as the years went by.

By the time my appendicitis happened, I was already well-versed in being thought of and thinking of myself as “the sick child.”  Even when I was in good health, my mother would tell me not to push myself. This continues to this day. On a regular basis, I was told to stop, don’t pursh forward, stay home. For years, her admonitions would enrage me because what I heard was discouragement, over and over again, when all I have ever wanted is to be reassured by her, that everything was going to be OK, that I would be pull through. Instead, I learned to fear things that were both on the inside and on the outside.

I needed a lot of time and a lot of therapy to understand that her losses traumatized her. But, also, I think she houses some kind of internal belief that we have control over the bad things that happen to us. From my experience, that’s not always the case. I used to fight with her to get me to do even ordinary things, like going to the school dances. Now I wonder how much of it was her fear of what would happen to me when I wasn’t around her to call the ambulance.

As I grew up, I internalized this sense of struggling to prove that I can do it, make it, live it. One time, a professor asked me in mid-class, “What are you trying to prove?” I was confused by her answer then. It was only years later that I begun to make sense of it.

~~ End of Part 2~~

Continue to Illness, Alienation, and PTSD – Part 3.

Illness, Alienation, and PTSD – Part 1

This is a difficult topic for me. I don’t even know if I can do it justice. However, given recent events, I feel a need to discuss this. Friends and even family might not understand how significantly illness has impacted my life.

The impact of illness on my life began before I was born. A couple of years prio, 4-month old brother died unexpectedly from an undiagnosed enlarged heart. As you can imagine, my family was heartbroken and traumatized. When I had a febrile seizure at 11 months old, it felt like hell. They had to put me on ice – literally – to bring down the fever until I could get to the hospital. The febrile seizures recurred regularly, and I was put on phenobarbitol to control them until I was 12. The barbituates caused chronic constipation, and the number one result of chronic constipation is appendicitis.  I’ll talk more about this shortly.

Falling sick with colds and fevers and going to the doctors’ office were a significant part of my childhood, frequently disrupting plans. I remember my mother often seeming frantic. Any hint of anything other than perfect health, even a sneeze, was accompanied by her asking me in a worried tone, “I hope you’re not getting sick.” I dreaded and hated it when she asked me that question.

I began to touch my own forehead to check for fevers when I wasn’t feeling well. Her anxieties became my anxieties. I began to keep how I was really feeling to myself as long as possible because I could not stand to hear that panic in her voice. I learned how to pretend I was fine so I wouldn’t have to hear the fear and the pity in her voice.

In second grade, my appendix burst on an operating table. While they saved me, I developed peritonitis that required a second surgery. I was out of school for three weeks. I missed out on playing the part of Cinderella’s wicked stepmother, a part I much relished. Three years prior, I missed out on being Betsy Ross in our town’s bicentennial parade because of fever. By that time, I decided that it wasn’t worth it to put too much effort into going after my heart’s desires because I could fall ill at any time. I couldn’t stand the pain of the disappointment, so I decided regret was preferable to disappointment.

When I came back to class, I was given hand-made cards from my classmates, some of which I still have and are not in the best condition. I remember sitting at my desk again, surrounded by my classmates, who left tons of crayons on my desk so that I could participate. I was overwhelmed by the outpouring of support and love my classmates showed me.

At the same time, I felt like an alien from another galaxy with experiences that no one I knew, not family nor friends nor classmates, what I had been through and how scared and helpless I felt. These experiences cast a shadow of separation between me from other people. It influenced what I thought I could and wanted to do, how close I felt to others, and what I was willing to share. Even good experiences could not ease the hole that I felt inside; the one that said I was different, that I had suffered pain and loneliness, and that there was nothing no one in the world could do to change that.

~~ End of Part I~~

Continue with Illness, Alienation, and PTSD – Part 2.

Currently Reading: Daybook by Ann Truitt

Ann Truitt (1921-2004) was a major American artist in the mid-20th century. Although I recently learned about her, I cannot remember how I came across this artist. When I discovered that she wrote Daybook as a journal of her own discovery process as an artist, I knew I had to read it.

Ann was a minimalist sculptor, writer, and mother. Her writings share her feelings about whatever she was going through at the time: her time at Yaddo, an artists colony in Saratoga Springs, NY; her financial struggles before and after her divorce; her childhood; and how she came to be who she was as an artist.

Instead of feeling a huge gap between me and this artist, I feel close to her. Her journey is my journey. Where she has gone, I can go but in my own direction. Where she was, I have passed there. Here is one quote where I know what she means (italics mine):

I begin seriously to contemplate taking a routine job of some sort but am loathe to do so. Not out of laziness but because I fear the kind of sickening failure implicit in betrayal of self, the spending of my energy drop by drop instead of into the waves that lift my work into existence.

For most of my life, I lived an existence of sickening self betrayal. I know that hard knot in the stomach put there by an internal screaming that tells you, both at once, that you cannot fail at this thing called life  and at the same time screams that you must cannot open yourself and follow your hearts desires. I know the shallow panic of a closing throat and the internal silent hysterics that are whipped up from the prohibition that no one can know how I really feel. I ate the pressures of self submission into conformity until touched by another’s stressful requests, which then exploded all over the two of us. I was left shaking in shame; they were left confused and afraid.

Ann Truitt’s Daybook is the journey of herself and the journey of artists everywhere. I am not sculptor, but I see and feel the life she crafted as she made her way forward through and into her art. I can craft that for myself, maybe not in color blocks, but in words, in story, and in the sharing of the self. I share my Self in the hopes that someone else can see their tracks in mine, their hopes in mine, and their dreams in mine.

Would You?

Crashing waves on Singing Beach, Manchester, MA

If you could strip away your face
to  show your vulnerable soul,
would you?

If you could sing out the pain I see
revealing all the shame that gleams,
would you?

If you could close your umbrella
against my cleansing rain of hope and forgiveness,
would you?

If you could raise your fist in cheers
when worldly pessimism washes you out,
would you?

If you could walk along the beaches’ rim
as oceans thrash apart your dreaming’s shells,
would you?

If I could kiss your mariner’s cheek with my sandy lips
and bring the men of old to dock in the port of your heart,
would you?

Would you let me share the voyages of my own heart
while you row the oars of patient listening?

Would you share with me your pirate songs
while I hoist the sails onward towards the waving skies?

Would you let your loving be dashed upon my internal moat
even as wraiths arose to swallow you whole?

I hope that you would
Like I hope for spring’s first blush of green
returning to fulfill its eternal promise

© 2014

2 Ways Volunteering Changed My Life

For two years, I volunteered with a friend at the MSPCA-Angell Animal Care and Adoption Center in Jamaica Plain, MA. Our official title was Cat Cuddler and Condo Cleaner. I would still be volunteering there if I had not decided to move home to NY in September 2013 to be closer to and help out my elderly parents. Volunteering was such a personally fulfilling decision that I thought I would share and encourage you to do the same.

Life Changer #1:  I nurtured relationships with those who shared my values

The best relationship that I cultivated during this period by far was the relationship I had with my friend Alicia, who had suggested we volunteer together. Every week, Alicia would drive to my house and pick me up. We would volunteer for 2-3 hours, and then she would drive me home. We started looking for places to have brunch together, and, after a few weeks, ate and Veggie Galaxy, a vegan/vegetarian diner which quickly became the only place we went to lunch.

We listened to each other, offered each other support, and made each other laugh. We shared a love of kitties, a love of our husbands and our families, and of volunteering. When she became pregnant with her daughter Claudia, I did all the cleaning and the litter for nine months so she could still volunteer. We seemed to have similar outlooks, philosophies, concerns, and ethics. I stayed with her for five days after Claudia was born to help them out. Now that I am in NY, we Skype so that I can get to know my niece and keep in touch with two of my best friends. From one close coworker, I’ve added another best friend and one niece to those I deeply care about.

Life Changer #2: I gave love, care, and medicine to countless homeless animals, which helped me, too

Caring for animals is a topic dear to my heart. Even so, I can only adopt so many. I live with three cats in a small space: Hunter, who is 17.5 years old; Gwendolyn, 2 yrs 3 mo; and Norman, 2 yrs 8 mo. Because so many animals need help to go from crisis to their forever home, I felt like I could do my part by volunteering. The more often I went and the more animals I helped, the happier I became. I was living out my values in ways that benefitted the animals first and myself second. Or maybe at the same time. It doesn’t really matter. I was able to give and receive joy and affection that lasted well beyond the few hours I was there.

No matter what your values are, I am sure there is an organization that could use your help. Don’t wait! Do it now. Your life will change for the better.