A Box Big Enough for the Truth

Karen Prive

18 Jul, 2022

The summer I was seven I joined our town’s Mighty Mite baseball league. I knew the basics of fielding and had practiced batting. During our first practice drill we played catch. I whipped that ball at the unsuspecting boy across from me, who twisted his body away to protect himself.

The coach ran over. “Who taught you to throw like that?”

I shrugged. “My mom.”

Evidently that wasn’t the answer he expected, but it was the truth. Mom and I played catch. She taught me about how my arm muscles worked, and how to have a good grip on the ball. We also played Hit the Bat, a 2-player version of baseball in the gulley in our yard. One player would pitch, and the other would bat. If you hit the ball, you had to lay down your bat and then run the bases. The pitcher fielded the ball and then rolled it to the bat. If the ball hit the bat while you were between bases, you were out, and you then switched roles.

My father and I occasionally went fishing, but it was my mother who served as my usual outdoor playmate and coach. Baseball (then softball), tobogganing, badminton, bike riding, and basketball – just a few of the things we did together. We even went skateboarding.

So yes, Mom taught me to throw a ball. The coach didn’t believe me. Women didn’t play baseball, right? I was branded a liar and spent some time on the bench. Not much time, though. I had that arm, and while most Mighty Mites couldn’t hit into the outfield, I was put out in left field just in case. I made a few plays too. The coach’s son played shortstop (don’t they always), and one time a kid hit a pop-up to shallow left field. The shortstop was back peddling and fell, but I had run in and easily caught the ball. The coach’s son was angry in spite of the out; he didn’t want to be shown up by a girl.

People who know me today are surprised that I have so many good memories that involve my mom. After all, there was so much violence, drunkenness and other poor behaviors. But isn’t there always?

Even in the most awful families there are times of love; even in the most loving families the human adults sometimes fall short. My human psyche is most comfortable when things fit neatly in a simply labeled box – in other words, I’m most often uncomfortable.

Healing from what happened to me in childhood has been a very difficult process, because I frequently try to stuff things in boxes that aren’t big enough to handle the whole truth. Parts of that truth hang over the edges and no amount of forcing them is going to work.

Tomorrow is Mom’s birthday – she would have been 76 years old. She passed away nearly two decades ago, not long after she cheered her beloved Tampa Bay Buccaneers to a Super Bowl win, with her family gathered around her for the most meaningful football party ever. Mom and I made peace before she died, and I was with her to hear her last words. I miss her.

For more about my the healing my mom and I experienced, check out my poem, “Done” at https://karenprive.com/done/

The Other Part of the Answer

Karen Prive

11 Jul, 2022

Depression and PTSD have been my constant companions since I was a small child. I first attempted suicide when I was six years old. I turned to drugs and alcohol in seventh grade; by my late teens I was sleeping in a railyard. I got clean and sober at age 18, but sobriety didn’t erase my mental illness, and I ended up back on the streets by age 20. I finally sought psychiatric help, started medication, found a job, and got off the streets. I have been on psych meds ever since, and in counseling as well.

I eventually got the nerve to go back to school, and then found a career in research administration at an Ivy League college. I specialized in financial management of international clinical trials. I provided training to other grant specialists, including two in Africa. Before the depression started getting worse, I was working an average of sixty hours a week, commuting two hours a day, and was serving in four major volunteer positions, having appointments to three government agencies and as an officer with a non-profit. I was driven to achieve, and did.

Then I crashed. Regardless of the successes in my life, I was still full of shame. I never enjoyed my achievements; rather, I believed if I just did all the right things going forward, I might be able to make up for being so rotten inside. I didn’t feel any less rotten. When I did manage to think about my life, I could only see my failures and regrets. The contrast between what I thought and felt about myself, and what others seemed to think, only worsened the turmoil inside. My depression worsened to the point where I stopped eating, stopped sleeping, and felt dead inside. There was no hope.

I was hospitalized, then hospitalized again and again. I had a total of 33 treatments of ECT – shock therapy – which helped but came with significant cognitive consequences. It was time to scale back.

I resigned from all three government appointments. I could not go back to the career I enjoyed, even if cognitive issues related to my ECT were resolved. The hours I had been devoting to work had left no time for self-care or reflection, and as things had gotten worse inside, I had tried to fix it by looking good on the outside. It didn’t work. Maybe I needed to be gentle with myself.

As a kid I didn’t dream of being a research administrator when I grew up; I dreamed of being a writer. As a teen and a young adult, I sold several stories and poems to various publications. Later, as I focused on a “real” career, my writing fell by the wayside – in spite of the fact that I knew my real purpose in life is to pen my memoir. It was time to write, not work. Well, and practice self-care. I got involved with a Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) group and stepped up work in therapy.

I wrote several chapters of my book as well as many essays. The non-profit where I’d been an officer had a part-time job available that was a good match. Then in late 2020 I took an officer position with another non-profit, and was doing some other volunteer work as well.

By the fall of 2021 I was feeling depressed and overwhelmed again, and my writing was starting to lag. I dragged through the winter, eventually developing yet another plan to end my life. This year in April I entered yet another hospital and was given yet more medication.

I’m giving up on the idea that more medication is the whole answer. It is important, but just part of what I need. I just outlined my pattern of living beyond my functional capacity. I am not great at self-care, and instead substitute community-care. Volunteer service is good – even essential – but not in the absence of feeding one’s own soul.

When I left the hospital this time, I looked at the pattern. I didn’t like what I saw. I resigned from my volunteer positions. I am focusing more on social connection – spending time with the people I love, and doing things I enjoy. More often, I am listening to music, petting my dog , and sitting in the sunshine.

And yes, I have been working on the memoir.

Aloneness, Loneliness and Love

Karen Prive

4 Jul, 2022

To this day, I remember the aloneness of recess in first and second grade. Loneliness is not the right word – loneliness indicates a yearning for connection. What I was aware of feeling was different – I was alone, and confused at why these kids wanted to play with each other. I often stood with my back against the brick wall of the school, watching my classmates play kickball or tag, and trying to figure out why. When the whistle would blow indicating it was time to head back inside, I felt relief. The work of the classroom was so much more comfortable.

My mother loved me but it was complicated. She loved alcohol more. She tried so hard to love both of us. There were times of great joy – tobogganing down the back hill together, encouraging my love of words, even teaching me to read music with the sheet music to Christmas carols. But there were absences and terrors too. After a certain point at night, for example, she was consistently unresponsive – usually she’d make it to bed, but not necessarily. My father worked the graveyard shift, so if something happened at night, it was my responsibility to make sure my brother and I were safe. Then I really was lonely – I craved my mother’s presence.

There’s a spirit inside us that leans toward love like a flower to the sun, a built-in mechanism that pushes us toward connection.
~Mary Gauthier, Saved By a Song

My first grade teacher, Mrs. Ferraro, loved me in a way I leaned right into. First grade was particularly hard because I barely spoke, although I could read and write and do basic math. I may have been gifted, but I was “special” too – selectively mute, I’d nearly given up on speech. When I did try to talk, I stuttered and had a lisp. The school was ahead of its time, and I was given speech therapy.

Mrs. Ferraro gave me a lot of one-on-one time, and would quietly praise my work. Oh, how I remember the gentle weight of her hand on my shoulder! I fell in love with school, in spite of the recess turmoil. In the classroom I was loved, and by third grade my yearning for connection expanded to include my classmates. We could play tag on the jungle gym (a structure I flew around like a bona fide monkey) or four-square with the playground ball. I began to connect.

I think that connection grows more connection. Love grows more love. It’s not a perfect correlation, but what my teacher did for me was a gift. I strayed – there was a time where I felt love but did not live it, giving into my own demons instead. But today I try very hard to pass on what Mrs. Ferraro gave to me – gentle, unconditional love.

Wrapped in the Loyal Arms of the Universe

Karen Prive

27 Jun, 2022

“For the mountains may depart and the hills disappear, but even then I will remain loyal to you. My covenant of blessing will never be broken,” says the LORD, who has mercy on you. ~ Isaiah 54:10

My relationship with a Higher Being is tricky. When I was very little we went to church, where I learned two things – that God was is charge of everything, and that each of us was put on this earth for something important that only we could do. We stopped going to church when I was six years old, and from then on my father tried to raise us as atheists. Problem was, I already believed.

How can believing in God be a problem? My beliefs were distorted. I looked at the violence in my home and the abuse I was suffering, and could only conclude if THAT was part of God’s grand plan, He must hate my guts. I was convinced that I was so vile at my core that God thought I deserved this treatment.

I first attempted suicide at that age, and later as a teenager tried several more times. I did not see my survival as God’s grace – rather, as God’s wrath. He wanted me to suffer even more. Or maybe I just didn’t achieve my divine mission quite yet. If I could figure out what I was put on earth to do, I could complete the task and then He would let me pass on. I didn’t believe in heaven, but knew I was living in hell. I would do my part to make the world a better place.

When I was eighteen I landed in rehab and was introduced to 12-step fellowships. Step 2 reads, “Came to believe that a Power greater than us could restore us to sanity,” and Step 3 reads, “Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God, as we understood Him.” Here, I balked. How could I turn my life over to the care of a god I was sure hated my guts?

I spent the next decade wrestling with the God thing. Mostly, I relied on the recovery groups themselves as a higher power – a group of people practicing certain principles who were able to stay clean and sober. I tried to follow in their footsteps – but hesitantly. I stayed clean and sober too. Still, the question of God came up repeatedly. How could it not?

Trying to live a good life, I volunteered at the same adolescent treatment center I had gone to, bringing in other young adults to put on meetings. One night, several inches of snow had piled up while we were in the facility. I cautiously headed down the mountain, believing my all wheel drive vehicle would keep us all safe. Down in the valley, I noticed a set of headlights heading right for us. I braked, but there was ice under the snow, and I could not stop. I panicked, scared most for my passengers. Time slowed to a crawl – and it was obvious we were going to collide with the plow truck.

It was then that I felt arms around me, and was overcome with a peace beyond words. I knew – KNEW! – that no matter how bad this was – even if I died – that God loved me and would take care of me.

I was seriously injured, but my passengers were ok. Now I had the sudden understanding of what a loving god could be. I met that God – or an angel – that Isaiah 54:10 talks about. He – or she – wrapped me up in their loving arms.

I don’t always believe. My inner child is still on the fence, and often falls into the despairing belief that God hates her guts. Then I remember the arms, and the peace. God does love me.

Baggage: A Poem for Fathers Day

Karen Prive

19 Jun, 2022

Who gets in a fistfight at Disney World?

That would be my father –

Striking another tourist

For daring to step in his vicinity

—

My tears fall not because it happened

In the land of magic and wonder

But because it was

Just another day in our lives

—

From infancy I would scream in his presence

Living in reptilian fear

When older I taunted him

Forcing the inevitable on my timeline

—

I survived, as did my mother and my brother

And even that beaten down Disney tourist.

I still carried the damaged suitcase with me

Clinging to it as though it carried my life

—

Upon my birth Dad had put down the bottle

To avoid being the drunken brute his father had been

Turned out inebriation was overrated

As the cause of family violence

—

Yet he perused garage sales for toys he could afford

Skateboards, a pogo stick, skis and boots.

He taught me to ride a bike, to fish, to shoot

With hesitant reflection I admit he cared

—

For half a century I’ve carried my resentment

And failed to see that I was not the only burdened one

Before him my grandfather threw fists

And before him generations did the same

—

I wasn’t seeking forgiveness when

It came softly knocking at my door

Explaining that my baggage does not define me

Whispering “Just as his baggage did not define him”

—

It is not exactly forgiveness that found me – perhaps it is like forgiveness has a younger and less evolved sibling. This is another poem that practically wrote itself. These days I understand that my father’s violence was not about me but about his inner demons – and as I have my own demons, the knowledge softened my heart to some degree.

No More Running Away from Myself

Karen Prive

13 Jun, 2022

“The degree to which a person can grow is in direct proportion to the amount of truth they can accept about themselves without running away.”

Sometimes an awakening involves rainbows and glitter and unicorns. Sometimes it’s more like a kick in the gut. When I was hospitalized again in April I had one of those kick in the gut experiences, and I didn’t like it.

One of the counselors asked me whether I was still thinking about suicide, and I shared that of course I was. I always do. I think about suicide to some degree every day, and have since I was a little girl. Most the time the thoughts are manageable, but sometimes – like that month – it goes from just ideation to planning and behaviors. I had crossed the line.

This counselor challenged me to stop thinking of the crisis as the problem, and to consider the thought pattern an addiction.

I bristled. I’ve overcome real addiction, to alcohol and pills, and am in long-term recovery. But as she continued, I felt the thud of my stomach dropping. She suggested that my suicidal thoughts are how I deal with emotions I find difficult (which is nearly all of them) – that I react to feelings by thinking about dying. She also pointed out that while I may be sober 32 years, that apparently my addiction to suicidal ideation predated my problems with alcohol and drugs. I was six years old when I first attempted suicide.

I didn’t like the idea of an addiction to thoughts of suicide, but then I started journaling. I took an inventory of my history with suicidal thinking and behaviors, and the results left me in tears. Not only do I avoid my feelings with these thoughts, but when I compared it to my drinking history the motivations were much the same. When I started drinking it was mostly about managing my anger. When I think about suicide, it’s often to avoid feeling sad.

Sad. Ugh.

So I’m addressing this long-time pattern. I’m still not sure addiction is the right word, but I’m not sure what else to call it. Focusing on alcohol was not the solution to my alcoholism. Rather, it was finding some kind of Higher Power (for me, eventually, the love of the Universe). Focusing on suicide is not the answer either. I suspect it’s trusting that the Universe can help heal my grief. Right now that’s feeling like a tall order, but I’m moving toward willingness.

I’ve been running from my grief for my entire life. “I’ll give you something to cry about,” my father would growl, and he sure did. I learned that crying was dangerous – even life-threatening. But if I want to grow, it’s time to stop running, and stop contemplating death. It’s time to cry.

No More Whimpering: Let's Shed Some Tears!

Karen Prive

6 Jun, 2022

“You poor abused child.”

My father would utter these words after he beat me, and I was feeling sorry for myself. Mind you, sometimes I was feeling sorry for myself with broken bones. I would not cry – crying brought even more damage in my house – but I might cheat a little whimper.

I was confused by his words. By then I was old enough to understand that supposedly there was this perfect world where these kinds of things didn’t happen. Were my classmates being beaten worse than me? Was that abuse?

The confusion snowballed. I was baffled by my emotions – how could I hate my father if he loved me? How could I feel sorry for myself if I deserved what was happening? How could my mother not intervene? There were so many questions.

I couldn’t put these words into context until after I was in therapy. The state sent me to a therapist when I was 16, after I turned in my uncle for sexual abuse.

In once session, Karen K (my therapist) asked me about the bruise on my face. “Oh, Dad and I had a fight,” I said, nonchalantly. She asked what happened and I proceeded to describe our brawl. She proceeded to call the state. Enraged, I told her it was not a big deal – no broken bones, no getting completely knocked out.

“Has he done that before?”

“Of course!” I yelled, which threw her into a fury. I ended up in foster care for a little while over that.

As angry and confused as I was, I started to understand that I really was an abused child. I had a right to be angry, and I spent a long time being in that angry place.

What I have spent very little time allowing myself to feel, is the sadness. Growing up that way was devastating to my psyche. There is so much grief it feels unbearable.

My current job is to hold that sadness, for little bits of time. I have spent time trying to touch it, and pulled back as though touching fire. I numb out – not with alcohol or drugs, but with natural chemicals my PTSD can create in my brain.

The news of late has given me a back door into the grief. I’ve cried. I have CRIED! That’s not something I often do. But once those tears start falling, I have been able to turn and see that “poor abused child” who also lives in my psyche. I’ve been able to shed a few tears with her, too.

I’ve know that tears are not the enemy, but rather a friend – in theory, that is. Over the last few days the idea is settling just the barest bit into my heart. A single tear feels like a geyser of expression.

Maybe it is ok to cry.

The Poppy Princess Remembers: More than A Convertible

Karen Prive

30 May, 2022

I was Rutland’s Poppy Princess on Memorial Day 1977.

Actually, the American Legion had chosen a young girl who competed for the position, but on the day of the parade she was ill and couldn’t participate. I was plucked from the post’s float and graduated to riding in the Poppy Princess convertible. Confused, I pointed out that I didn’t earn the honor, but I was guided in how to wave and smile throughout the parade route.

Thus, for a little while, I was the Poppy Princess.

Why do we think of poppies to represent the service members lost in battle? In 1915 Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, M.D. wrote the poem In Flanders Fields, while serving on the front lines in World War I. He spoke of the poppies growing amongst the white crosses on the battlefields, and the red flower came to represent the blood shed during war.

Memorial Day is all about honoring the brave men and women who made the ultimate sacrifice in serving our country – and the Gold Star families they left behind.

I would argue that we have neglected a significant contingent. It is estimated we lose 22 veterans every day to suicide – nearly one every hour. These souls brought the battle back with them and their deaths have everything to do with their service. The number is staggering. Their deaths go nearly unrecognized, and their families are often forgotten.

Today, with your hamburgers and fireworks, take time to remember the fallen – whether they fell from physical wounds or later to the agony of living with the terror they had experienced. Remember their families.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row.
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

~ John McCrae, 1915

One Whole Year! How Did That Happen?

Karen Prive

24 May, 2022

In May of last year I published the post, “Hope Is Real and It Lives Here,” and with that, Invincible Hope was born. Yet how did the idea of a blog ever come to be?

I knew in kindergarten I wanted to be a writer when I grew up, after I rewrote “The Three Little Pigs,” to have the wolf feast on bacon, as it should be. My third grade teacher had me reading my stories to the younger grades. When I was given a typewriter for my birthday, I started selling stories to my classmates. I professionally sold my first story while still in high school, and in college I directed a student-run creative-writing program.

In recent years my writing has centered on my healing journey, including my pet project – a memoir about healing after turning in a family member for sexual abuse. This book a labor of love, and of passion. I am convinced that this story will change the lives of those who feel their trauma story is insurmountable.

Yet much of my writing is much shorter in nature, most commonly narrative essays and poetry. If my mission is to inspire hope and change lives, is there a way I can do that now?

I was taking an online course with Romy Marlo Ellis and The Uncommon Woman, that challenged me to explore how I could pursue my mission now. Classmates suggested a blog. I shrugged and said I didn’t know how – and Romy reminded me that’s what Google is for. So I spent a few days learning about blogs and websites, and set out to design something that reflected my spirit. Invincible Hope was born!

My blog is not perfect, but it makes my heart happy to be living from my mission today.

To reread Hope is Real and It Lives Here, go here.

To reread Itsy Bitsy Spider and a New Take on Bacon, go here.

To learn more about The Uncommon Woman, visit her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/theuncommonwoman

13 Reasons Why Not and a New Graduate

Karen Prive

21 May, 2022

I just recently got back from vacation. Ed and I traveled to Georgia for our granddaughter’s graduation from Truett McConnell University. Victoria earned her bachelor’s degree in exercise science while playing soccer (go Lady Bears!), and she plans to continue for her doctorate in physical therapy.

Ed and I have a whole gaggle of grandkids, and it would be impossible to pick favorites. Still, Victoria and I have a very special relationship in spite of the physical distance between us. We have found ways to stay in touch in meaningful ways, although often it is just through Facebook Messenger.

Victoria is a reader, and when she was a kid we would read together. No, I wasn’t there to have her sit in my lap while I read bedtime stories, but we took turns picking books to read, and had our own private book club – sharing our thoughts with each other. I’ll be honest – when she picked the Harry Potter series I muttered under by breath. Then I proceeded to read straight through all the books with unexpected pleasure.

She and I have more than just a love for reading in common – we also both live with mental illness, and choose to speak out about our experiences. When she was in high school, she worked on a school project called “13 Reasons Why Not” – in which thirteen students, teachers and administrators from the school recorded videos about how they coped with suicidal urges, and published them on YouTube. You can watch Victoria’s video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-4d8_7fya9s

Am I proud Grammy? You betcha! I’m proud of all my grandkids – but I’m also proud to have mental health advocacy work in common with this granddaughter.

Speaking of mental health advocacy – there are still tickets available for This Is My Brave – 2022 New Hampshire, on May 25. There will be 9 performers sharing their experiences of living with and thriving with mental health issues. If you’re able to come to Concord NH, consider coming to the in-person show – and make sure to connect with Ed and I after! If livestreaming is more your speed, those tickets are available too.

To buy tickets for This Is My Brave – 2022 New Hampshire go to: https://ccanh.com/show/riverbend-this-is-my-brave/

This Is My Brave - New Hampshire 2022

Karen Prive

8 May, 2022

In 2019, I participated in the cast of the initial This Is My Brave – New Hampshire, sharing my poem about my mental illness, Homecoming, in front of a live audience (I’ve also shared this poem on Invincible Hope, which you can read here). The production was so successful that Riverbend (the sponsoring producer) committed to making the experience an annual venture. In 2020 the New Hampshire edition of This Is My Brave was nearly sidelined by COVID, but the producers found a way to record the production, and my husband participated in that cast, sharing an essay about what it’s like to be the caregiver for someone with mental illness. There was a 2021 show as well – again shown virtually – and for the 2022 show Ed and I have been cast together, sharing a love story about dealing with my mental illness together in our marriage.

May is National Mental Health Awareness Month, and the 2022 production of This Is My Brave – New Hampshire will be held on May 25, 2022 in Concord, NH. We’d love the in-person support (tickets are limited and selling fast), but livestream tickets are also available. And tickets are just $15, available here!

Ed and I would love your support, as would our fellow castmates.

The mission of This Is My Brave is to empower individuals to put their names and faces on their true stories of recovery from mental illness and addiction. The vision of This Is My Brave is to on day live in a world where we don’t have to call it “brave” to talk openly about mental illness. We’ll simply call it talking.

Thankfully I'm Not on the Front Page

Karen Prive

6 May, 2022

Some of you may have noticed my absence. Some of you may not. That’s OK.

In early April I agreed to seek inpatient treatment because my suicidal thoughts had become very detailed and I was having a hard time maintaining safety. I spent about 48 hours in the emergency room and then another eight days on a mental health unit. A major medication change helped alleviate the suicidal thoughts, but I’m still struggling with severe depression.

I do not remember a time where I didn’t consider suicide. I first attempted when I was six years old. Yet for most of my life I hid these thoughts. I didn’t tell them to my parents or my therapist or my friends. I was deeply ashamed and thought it was something I had to deal with alone.

Naomi Judd’s death put suicide on the front page. It also hit me hard, knowing how close I’d recently come to being the same kind of statistic. I would not have been a big news story, but the impact of such a loss is great. I am loved by too many people to count.

I’m not afraid to talk about suicide today. Maybe we should talk about it more.

If you or a loved one is at risk of suicide, and you are in New Hampshire, call or text the Rapid Response Access Point at 1-833-710-6477. In other parts of the US, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-272-8255.