Culture Induced Panic and Anxiety

Emma, Abbey and Sophie
on the Mississippi

In Memphis, we've been having severe thunderstorms the past several days. Our dog, Abbey, an Irish Setter, suffers from severe anxiety attacks whenever she hears a rumble. It can be a train, a truck passing by, or a jet overhead. But when she hears thunder and sees lightning, she goes into full-blown panic mode. Her heart races, her breathing speeds, her eyes dart back and forth and she paces the floor looking for somewhere to hide. She cannot even bark. Her emotions are almost frozen with fear. Last night as loud thunderclaps roared, this beautiful red-haired 60 lb. dog jumped up on the bed and landed on my head. Nothing like waking at 3:00am to a mouthful of dog fur. No amount of soothing will calm her down. The bathroom is her "safe place" - she puts her head behind the toilet and stays there until the storm is over or when she can see sunlight.

I cannot imagine what happened to her in her past that causes this reaction. We got Abbey when she was four years old, a rescue dog. She had been kept in a cage for four years. That would be enough to cause panic in me.

With people, sometimes it's the same reaction (well, maybe not to the extent of hiding behind the toilet) to a circumstance or environment. We are compelled to protect ourselves. Fear and anxiety are basic instincts, and without fear we would do even more of the foolish things we humans do. Statistics report that one out of every 75 people will experience anxiety or panic attacks at some point in their life. There was a point in my own life, a period of about three or four years, when I experienced panic attacks. Now it's the sweaty palms reaction. Happens every time I am scheduled to preach, or speak before a group.

I am a writer of fiction and non-fiction. I've submitted several novel manuscripts to countless agents and small presses, and one of the novels even made the first cut of 1000 in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Contest this year. Several of my essays have been published, and a story has been a finalist in a contest.  I have no problem reading my work in my writing critique group, but the truth is, I would need serious courage to read before an audience if asked.

I remember the first time one of my stories was read aloud to the entire class. It was in the ninth grade in a very warm Hawkins Junior High classroom that smelled of sweat, chalk dust and old books. The English teacher read my story, out loud, putting in little check marks with her red pencil as she went along. To the snickers of my classmates, I sank down lower and lower in my desk with each tic of that red pencil. I vowed never to write anything again. I continued to write in my journals, but that was for myself only - I let no other eyes read my words.

Ten years later, with three children and an abusive husband, writing in my journals was how I survived. I wrote poetry, short stories and brief descriptions of events. My husband at the time thought I was writing about him, and after I filed for divorce he snatched up all 30 journals and dumped them in the Barnett Reservoir. He never read them. I know this because the writings were not about him. They were about survival. We do what we have to do.

In the liturgy of the Easter Vigil, it is the role of the Deacon to sing the Exultet. I was expected to learn this and sing it at the Easter Vigil three years ago. Now, those of you who know what this is, and if you're a musician, you know that this is a difficult piece for anyone, even those who can read music. It is especially so for a novice who cannot read a note of music and has a voice like a frog. With sweaty palms and a quickened heart, I did it. And I've done it three times since.  With gratitude to Geoff Ward, the organist and choirmaster at St. John's, who has extreme patience with this non-musician, my fear was calmed.

What is it about our culture that instills fear in us, and causes so much anxiety? People can be mean-spirited, and one criticism can shut off a voice that could change the world. There is  much criticism of certain writers, celebrities, our president, of congress, of religious leaders, and of folks who are just trying to make a difference in the world. Politicians are the worst about trying to hurt each other with calculated and timed attacks on character. What would happen if we really thought about what we are saying before we say it? Who are we really trying to hurt by saying hurtful things? We are the ones who are hurt most - the 'sayers'. There is a line that we should not cross.  But we do come close.

If we searched down into our soul, we should all be asking some questions of ourselves. Are we trying to right a wrong? Or pull the other person down? Or is our ego merely trying to elevate ourselves? And how important is it that this supposed criticism get out into the world? Will it change public opinion? Will it make the world better? I know, there are folks who will say they are just telling the truth, and are compelled to do it no matter if someone gets hurt.  I do not disagree with that goal. I believe certain behaviors need to be criticized.  But that is my truth, and my truth is not everyone's truth. Added to that, each person sees a person or event from their own perspective, interpreted through their own past experiences. One person's truth can be another person's skewed and unproven innuendo.  Something seen on a website somewhere. Or in a news report, or magazine, or in horror or horrors - an email message. 

A story about Aunt Neill in 1938 

Family Circle magazine.

I've been reading lately about the world of creative non-fiction, when memoir-writers create fictionalized accounts of their life experiences. Two examples are Alice Munro's The View From Castle Rock, and Jeannette Walls's Half-Broke Horses. The authors have the command of language and detail that makes these stories almost mythological. Walls writes that she considers her book less of a novel and more of an “oral history, a retelling of stories handed down by my family through the years." 


I have a project that I've been working on for years involving my great aunt, Neill James.  I began to write about her life, but at some point a voice took over and began to write about the effect of her life upon my own - about how her courage gave me courage, and about how her experiences opened a world of travel to me.  When I realized that this project was moving towards a memoir-type work, I let a family member know.  That family member's reaction was, "I didn't think this was going to be about you, I thought it was going to be about Neill. I don't think people want to read about you."  

Aunt Neill in her
Reindeer Herder costume.

With a little anxiety, I will persevere, but I won't be hiding behind the toilet - I'll tell my truths out in the open.  It's a story worth telling - even if it's for my own reading.  It is a story of transformation.  And it will be my truth, sweaty palms and all. 

What Happens When We Pray for Strangers?

This past Thursday evening was a Holy Thing.  As I sat with Susan Cushman listening to River Jordan read from her new book, Praying for Strangers: An Adventure of the Human Spirit, there was an effortless spirit of peace that surrounded the event. This spirit I can only identify as the Great Creator, the controller of the Universe. 

River Jordan, Susan Cushman,
& Emma Connolly

When a fiction writer plots a story, she or he must have some idea of where the story is going.  I admit, I have written many stories that almost wrote themselves and I had no idea where they were headed when I set pen to page.  But most of the time we have an idea, then it may (or may not) bloom into something.  When an idea hits us out of the blue, and we answer the call, and that idea begins to be attractive to publishers . . . well, then it's out of our hands. Such was the case with River Jordan.  I will not repeat what planted the seeds of inspiration for Jordan to write this book, and at dinner with her later that evening I learned more.  You can visit her site and then read this book to gather your own seeds.  Take my word for it . . . this idea can change your life in some way, just as Jordan says her life was changed.

I am basically an extreme introvert, although as I get older I have lost some of my shyness. It is an effort for me to speak to a stranger.  I do speak to grocery clerks when they say something like, "Hello, how are you?", I answer them and ask about their day. Most of the time they seem surprised.  But that is about as far as I usually go. I rarely speak to folks in line at the grocery store or post office, and almost never in a restaurant. When I began to read this book, something sparked inside me that I needed to make a better effort.  How much I enjoy someone speaking to me, and asking about MY life! And everyone needs to know that someone cares, someone loves them. Could I possibly do this? Would it make a difference in my life by being bold? I made no decision on whether or not to try reaching out to pray for a stranger.  I didn't have to.

I went to Target the next evening.  As usual, the clerk asked how I was and I responded and asked her how her day had gone.  On her name tag was "Erika"* in big letters. She yawned, it's been a long day.  When do you get off, I asked. One more hour, she said. This is my second job - I go to my first job at 8am to noon, then come here.  Oh my, I said - what is your first job?  Taking pictures of newborns at the hospital.  Oh, that seems like a wonderful job to have, I said.  Yes, most of the time. But today it was different.

She told me that that morning she was sent to photograph a newborn with a cleft palate, and the parents were apprehensive.  It's always the parents' choice to have a photo made. They told her the baby would soon have surgery to have the facial feature repaired and they could not decide if they wanted a 'before' picture, until Erika explained that she could do a shot from the side so that it was not face-on like most newborn photos, and she could do several and the parents could decide if they wanted to keep them or not.   They decided to do it, so Erika angled the camera so that the infants facial feature could be seen but it was not the center of the photo.  When the parents looked at the digital image, they began to weep and Erika did too. The parents thanked her and said they hadn't realized how truly beautiful their baby was until they saw the photos. She left them weeping and holding their beautiful baby.

I looked at Erika and said I want to pray for you and that infant and parents that their hearts will be uplifted.  Erika's eyes were glistening, as were mine, as I left the store for home.

The next day I had a dental appointment first thing in the morning.  As I held the nitrous oxide to my nose and tried to breathe normally, the dental assistants were talking and waiting for me to get comfortable so the dentist could begin the procedure. One young lady said to the other, "Let me tell you about this dream I had last night . . .", and she told her co-worker about this wonderful archetypal dream.  Being under the influence of laughing gas, I had no inhibitions of being shy.  I grabbed the nosepiece and pulled it away.  "I do dreamwork, come to the Dream Group tomorrow evening!"  She grabbed my arm, "Get outta here!" and was very excited to learn there was a safe and welcoming place to tell her dreams.  As soon as the procedure was finished and the nitrous oxide wore off, she was standing beside me with a pen and paper asking for my name and phone number and the address of the Dream Group meeting place.  She was very concerned about her dreams, and I have prayed daily for her dream life since that day.

On day three, my husband and I took his mother to watch the sunset over the river and have dinner out on Mud Island. We had a lovely table outside. As we ate and chatted, we noticed a young couple sit on the other side of the aisle from us. The young man had a tattoo the full length of his leg, and it appeared the girl was carrying an infant in a snuggly.  They sat down and looked exhausted.  I could hear their conversation and the words sounded French.  The music was playing softly a tune that my husband and I both recognized, but we couldn't remember the artist.  I guessed the Beatles, and he guessed other artists but none were correct. The young man leaned toward our table, held up his iphone and said, "Excuse me, I know it is rude to interrupt another's conversation, but I was wondering the same thing and it's David Bowie."  We all laughed and I asked if they were visiting Memphis.  They were from Montreal, and they both worked for the circus - Cirque du Soleil, which is based in Montreal. The baby was two months old, and was born in Texas where they had been working for four months.  They were on their way back home to Montreal until the late Summer, when they would begin traveling all over again. We had a fascinating conversation about life in the "circus".  As we were leaving I asked the baby's name.  "Eva," the mother answered.  I offered to say prayers for Eva* and her parents, and they thanked me and we left.

I don't know if I would have spoken out to any of these people before reading Praying for Strangers.  I can certainly say that Jordan has inspired me, and my life has been uplifted by the fact that I spoke to these strangers.  The amazing fact is that I have not gone looking for these strangers - they just appeared. I look forward to meeting other strangers who may cross my path.

Read this book. Pray for Strangers. Pass it on.

* These names and places are pseudonyms to protect the privacy of these "strangers".

R.I.P. Sophie

  

Sophie when she was diagnosed, about March 1, 2011

Sophie ready for her final journey this morning.

Our pets become family members in so many ways. We can’t leave home for any length of time without having someone look after them. We clean up puke off the good rug when they eat something they shouldn’t. We put up with their smelly beds when they’ve taken a quick swim in the mud hole because they hate baths. And we understand fully that every day is the best day of their lives. Especially when going for a walk.  Every walk is the best walk.  Every meal is the last meal they will ever eat so they scarf it down too fast and gag and cough part of it back up, in whole pieces no less.

Then we feel the warmth of their bodies as they struggle to get as near to us as they can, and we feel frustrated because we are trying to work, or write, and a nose is creeping onto the keyboard and pressing phantom keys into unwanted words. Anger never creeps in, just mild frustration.  And even that glides away when those eyes, those pleading eyes, look up to us for a hand to rub behind the ears, or a pat on a full belly, or a paw held up for a pawshake.

When put behind the pet gate in the sunroom, they sit and whine because they want to be where we are. They fully believe, and accurately, they are part of us, part of the human family. When we moved to Memphis four years ago, Sophie was our only dog. She was lonely.  So we began to foster dogs and the first two we took in we could not give up, so we somehow would up with three rescue dogs.  And today we are one less.

The vet told us about three weeks ago that Sophie, our 12 year old boxer, had lymphoma.  She had had skin cancer several times, and it too had come back. The vet said she was in the last stage and would live perhaps another month.  She was given prednisone for several days and came into a “second spring” of life for those few days. She ate everything in site, wagged her nub tail wildly, and ran through the high grass at Shelby Farms, splashing in the ponds, mud up to her eyeballs. Her last hurrah.

Then the past few days we knew she was failing. She began to avoid eating.  She coughed constantly until she gagged.  And her last day on earth was particularly painful for her. She coughed until her eyes bulged out and her face filled with fluid and I called the vet.  It’s time, she said.  So we scheduled the final journey for 8:00am Thursday morning.  

Robert and I recalled the first time we met Sophie. Our first boxer, Greta, had died of a heart attack and soon afterward we found Sophie. We rescued her from a puppy mill in south Mississippi.  She was less than a year old, and had been mistreated and did not trust anyone.  She learned to trust us, slowly, and of course had a distinct aloof personality.  And today we were asking her to trust us one more time.

All three dogs at Shelby Farms March 18

Sophie with our grandson Oliver on March 18.

At Shelby Farms on March 18, 2011.

Sophie went willingly. Her eyes revealed she was afraid, at first, and I began to backslide on the decision.  But after the past 24 hours, we knew we were doing the right thing.  Her tail still wagged in love for us. She trusted us. We put her on the lab table at the vet’s. Dr. Jo was kind and loving and said goodbye to our “baby girl” along with us.  Sophie went willingly onto the high table. I took off her collar and Robert pocketed it. I held onto her and felt her cough and shiver as Dr. Jo injected the anesthetic into her front leg. Immediately, Sophie relaxed, and rested down onto the surface. Robert reached around and put her back legs together so she would be comfortable. 

We rubbed her and massaged her behind her ears.  She was more fully relaxed than we had ever seen her.  She is a boxer, after all, and wagged and twisted her entire body every time we came near. She wagged into the excited jelly-bean quiver every time we walked in the door at home.  But not this time. She lay there looking straight ahead at the wall, and took a deep breath. I nodded to Dr. Jo, who had the syringe ready and waiting. She gently injected the euthanasia drug. Within one minute Sophie’s heart stopped beating.  She was at peace at last. No more pain, no more coughing, no more suffering. Forever running through the grass at Shelby Farms, and forever wagging and twisting her tailless body in jelly bean shape, glad to see her friends, running together toward the sun. 

The Invisible Woman

On the SheWrites Blog, Kamy Wicoff writes about The Invisible Woman.  This post triggered a memory from childhood, and the Invisible Man. When I was a little kid, around 1958 or '59, my brothers and I loved to watch the TV series The Invisible Man based loosely on the 1933 novel by H.G. Wells. The main character walked around with this mummy-like wrapping on his head, hands, and any visible appendage, and sunglasses so we could not stare into his empty eyes. You see, he was invisible underneath all the wrappings and clothing. Some scientific experiment gone awry, I believe.  This man was powerful, a force to be reckoned with.  We never once thought about his not having a brain or a heart. Fodder for nightmares in children. But we felt drawn to watch it anyway.

There was never a series about The Invisible Woman. Perhaps because women are too easily invisible in our culture, and that has been an accepted stance, until Betty Friedan's Feminine Mystique stirred the crock pot with her silver spoon. Yes, there has been improvement, but not enough, especially in the publishing industry. From what I have found, 60% of published books and stories are by men and only 40% by women. Historically I imagine that is a great improvement. But is this acceptible?  Wicoff's post is about women, and how they/we become invisible.  Wicoff says, "What happens when women don't tell their own stories?  Their stories are told for them -- or more often, about them -- and the narratives that result are partial at best, and demeaning, damaging or downright dangerous at worst." 

I think about the women in my life, and how they may have been invisible. I read somewhere that  when psychotherapist Maureen Murdock asked Joseph Campbell (author of The Hero With a Thousand Faces and The Power of Myth) about the heroine's journey he told her that women don't have such a journey, since "the woman is there." I have never felt there, although I have some ideas on where there might be.  Murdock went on to write her own book, The Heroine's Journey.  This calls me to question, who is telling the stories of the heroines in my life?  I've got some thinking (and writing) to do about this . . . More later on The Invisible Woman!

Novels, Body Hair and Taking Chances

I know folks are gearing up for Sunday’s Super Bowl. I'm no sports fan, except that I always root for the underdog. 

After a month of painful (only because of deadline stress) rewrites and edits, I decided to throw my new novel into the pot for the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Contest, and got tremendous help from some past winners in the CreateSpace (Amazon’s contest management site) on sifting down my pitch to a very tight few sentences. There are community pages there with offers to assist in steps along the way. Several authors and editors helped me with my preview and samples. I am amazed at how generous they were with their time. My final version was saved to the site just 30 seconds prior to the deadline (they lock all entries at the 5000 entry point).  After reading so much about “you have one in 100,000 chance of getting your novel published” (or one in a million, or whatever), I thought 1 in 5000 was much better odds.  And even if you become a quarter finalist you receive a book offer.    Some folks say, yeah but it's only for ebook deals. And I'm such a diehard hardback fan. We’ll see how it goes.

I also wanted to remind you of the AWP call for submissions – I’m sending off a ms this weekend, here’s their site: AWP. Richard Bausch encouraged me to send one of my manuscripts to them last year, and I did so. But nothing. I’ll try again this year – deadline is Feb. 28th. Hope is a thing with feathers . . .

And, Susan Cushman suggested I try small presses like Algonquin so I did get a ms off to them yesterday as well.

Writing is a full time job. I’m plotting how to retire early and still survive. So far I can’t figure out how to succeed. ;-)

Some have likened to working on a story to the feeling that the words have hold on every hair of your body. Sometimes when I've completed a piece I feel as if I've had all my body hair removed. Or given birth. And then I sleep. The following is from the blog Novel Matters: 
I’ve worked on a step-by-step list of how to write a novel. Perhaps you might find it useful.

Step 1:
Please choose one of the following options:
a) Give birth multiple times. (You may also choose to give birth to multiples. Triplets work well)
OR
b) Have all of your body hair waxed off in one afternoon. (It is preferable that you have this preformed by a person who does not speak your language) Repeat weekly for one year.
(This step ensures you have vast experience with pain, AND attempting to reason with characters who are indifferent to your needs.)
Step 2:
Commit acts of Random Bizarre Behavior (RBBs) in public places. Record people’s reactions to your behavior in a purple notebook.
Examples of possible RBBs:
- Enter a crowded elevator and begin singing The Battle Hymn of the Republic at the top of your lungs. Be sure to flail your arms around, especially during the chorus. Interrupt yourself often by asking others in the elevator to give you more room.
- Enter a busy shopping mall. Shake hands with everyone you see and thank them for their excellent customer service.
- Approach a female stranger. Address this stranger as “Aunt Bea”. Demand to see pictures of the new baby.
- If you are approached by a police officer: calmly and patiently explain that you voted for ‘the other guy’. If this fails, claim you are Canadian and don’t know better (this only works if you are in the US).
(This step exposes you to the full range of natural, spontaneous human reactions and emotions needed to create believable characters.)
Step 3:
Invent a perpetual motion machine. Give it a catchy name. Then, hide it in a closet for at least one year. After the appropriate amount of time has past, take the machine out of the closet, tinker with it until it moves at double the speed.
(This step ensures you are able to do the impossible – at least twice.)
Step 4:
Knock on a stranger’s door. Tell the stranger you are the love child they gave up for adoption. Mention you are unemployed. Repeat this several times until you are numb to all rejection.
(This step ensures – well, you know what it ensures.)
Step 5:
Take all of these experiences and divide them into chapters. Give it a plot and a catchy name. If possible, include vampires.

It’s possible to be on more than one step at the same time. So, which step are you on? Do share!

Fear of Being Found Out: I Am An Imposter!

Pat Schneider is one of my heroes. She is a writer, poet, teacher, and wise woman. I found her book, Writing Alone and With Others, in 2004 when I was facilitating a writing group in a women's shelter in Jackson, MS.  I read the entire thing in two days.  It was exactly what I had been looking for. Even though I compiled writing prompts and had a loose structure for the group, she gave a name and structure to the method I was already using.

“Fear is close to the center of the first stories we will want to tell….Fear has a good reason for being; understanding it can make all the difference.” (Page 3)

In her book, Schneider quotes a piece by Sister Milagros Sanchez titled If I Succeed:
“If I succeed, my work will be public; I will be public. My work will be viewed by people…who will pry deeper, as if what I have revealed is not enough. They will demand more, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to deliver. They will find out what a big fake I am; I, myself, will find out that I am not THAT deep, THAT profound.” (Pages 15–16)

I have other fears as well.  That people may find that I'm not THAT good a writer.

Or even more fear that they will find that I am.

Have you ever seen something, witnessed an event or an action or a news photo that stirs up your emotions so profoundly that you have a visceral reaction to it? And you wrote about it?  Well I have. And it won a prize in the Memphis Magazine Fiction Contest last year. I entered two pieces and I really didn't think that story was the best one of the two.  But someone did. And paid me money for it.

What I saw that affected me deeply was a story in the New York Times and the photo that you see here. In the photo in the Times, two people are carrying an old beat up and patched mattress and all you can see are their legs.  In the background is a 1950's version American car sans engine, and people are watching from the balconies of run-down tenements. Envy in their eyes. I was so touched by that photo that I ran to my keyboard and wrote a story about a young couple carrying their marriage bed through the streets.

The story focused entirely on the young couple's yearning, the envy of their friends, and their fear of being found out.

Have you ever witnessed, heard, or read something that stirred your emotions to the point that you had to do something? And you wrote about it?

Where I'm From

The Jacoby Store in Louisiana,
where my father grew up.

A model of my fathers old red truck.

Walthall Elementary School, Hattiesburg
(I alway likened it to the Alamo)
,

I’m from Mamaw Bass and Papa James,
the piney woods and Gore Springs,
butter beans and blackeyed peas,
Mason jars and bumble bees.

I’m from Aunt Emma, Alvin, Helen and Jacoby,
Walthall School and the Seale-Lily.
I’m from wire clotheslines and wooden washboards,
Swings on porches and torn screen doors.

I’m from tree houses in sweet gum trees,

The Beverly Drive-in Theater
burned this past year.

the sweet aroma of burning leaves,
shrimp gumbo and the Atchafalaya River,
from Cajun music and a guitar picker.

I’m from Edwards Street and the Dairy Dream,
red eye gravy and turnip greens,
rabbits in cages and more chicken please,
hot water poured over Luzianne tea.

I’m from Hattiesburg and a wooden boat
Antoine, Pierre and a billy goat,
playing under the house, the Beverly Drive-In Theater,
From diabetes and congestive heart failure.

I’m from cane poles and mule skinners,
all you can eat buffets and catfish dinners
buttermilk cornbread, coffee and chicory,
barbequed ribs smoked with hickory.

I’m from South Carolina and Louisiana,
Anjou pears and the Bouie River,
a big old house with an old red roof,
and ceilings that were never waterproof.

I’m from a faded red truck with a running board,
from wanting things we couldn’t afford,
from a fig tree and a hand-me-down,
Hattiesburg, Laurel and the Mississippi Sound.

I'm from Lake Shelby and Kamper Park,
kids catching fireflies after dark,
from the Golden Rule and love thy neighbor,
and burning crosses and Vernon Dahmer.

From sit-ins and a cow-pulled wagon,
Woodstock and a Beretta hand gun,
fig trees, rabbits and home-grown tomatoes,
catsup poured over French fried potatoes.

I’m from fried corn and cracklin bread,
the Sunday paper in Mama’s bed,
Moonshine and hurricane Camille,
From don’t let mama behind the wheel.

I’m from a petticoat and an undershirt,
digging to China and playing in the dirt,
from the (cedar) Christmas Tree that Daddy'd provide
To playing I Spy, and a country ride.

I’m from space heaters and fire halls,
wooden steps and popcorn balls,
old wooden radios with glass tubes,
and clumsy metal trays for ice cubes.

I’m from Bayou Lafourche and the Natchez Trace,
from roller skates and playing chase,
from a Catholic, a Methodist and a Baptist,
from a bigot, a blowhard, and an absurdist.

I’m all these things inside of me,
as exciting and embarrassing as they may be.
Using this formula as a rule of thumb,
Now, can you tell me, where are you from?