I Have Become UN-comfortably numb

Increasing, I feel numb about the news.

Senator Lindsay Graham introduced a bill to ban abortion nationwide, so women in the red states won’t have the option to travel to a blue state instead.  When the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, I was outraged: roiling innards and breathing fire.  This? After everything that’s been revealed about tRump’s evil doings, Putin’s invasion of Ukraine, mass shootings and the ongoing covid spread, I just shrugged when I read about Graham.  What else would anyone expect from Rethuglicans anyway?  Just one more thing.

I have news exhaustion. 

I was boiling during the four miserable years tRump was POTUS.  When President Joe Biden won the election and took office in January 2021, I hoped for relief of the agita I’d been experiencing since tRump took office.  I felt hope in spite of the fact that tRump and his cronies were spreading The Big Lie.  Blissfully unaware of the plotting going on, TB and I were celebrating his birthday.  After lunch we sat down to watch a program, which was quickly interrupted by coverage of the coup attempt.  I felt shock and anger.  TB and I agreed we never would have imagined such a traumatic thing.  Still, President Biden would bring hope of reconciliation and progress.

It didn’t happen that way.  Suddenly, crisis after crisis began piling on.  Putin invaded Ukraine and suddenly the oil industry prices rose and rose.  The excuse was the war.  The reality, I believe, is that Big Oil could bring in enormous prices during the crisis by jacking up the prices.  Food prices skyrocketed.  President Biden was making great strides in trying to get Democrats and Rethuglicans together to pass critical bills.

Voters only seemed to care that they were cash strapped and insecure about how they would afford gas, medicine and food.

To my surprise, major media began negative bashing of President Biden.  He’d gotten some bipartisan support to be able to pass an infrastructure bill desperately needed.  The mass media focused on any negative little thing.  President Biden’s approval rating tanked.

It was depressing and discouraging.

What else?

We withdrew rather abruptly from Afghanistan.  Thousands of Afghanis had to be evacuated to save their lives.  They found refuge in the US and other countries.  Age old racism reared its ugly head: while white Ukrainian refugees were approved of, many were very vocal about their anti-Afghani feelings. 

Covid continued to be an issue.  Most Americans were just plain sick of it.  These days, I rarely see anyone else wearing a mask.  I still do because I’m immunocompromised.  I just had a third booster along with a flu shot.  The fact that covid still lingers and I could get it from anyone anywhere is distressing.  I put it into a shelf in my brain’s dresser drawer but every now and then, that draw just opens itself on its own.

And what’s going on with Mother Earth?  We’ve been abusing her and now she’s majorly pissed off.  There have been stories of flash floods in Louisiana, Missouri and Kentucky.  The western states all seem to be on fire.  Around the world, there have also been major disasters because of climate change.  Yes, Congress finally managed to get a major piece of legislation passed to start addressing climate change and trying to reverse the near irreversible.  The credit should go to President Biden, who’s been all about trying to work with Repubs on the most recent bills.  He has been successful at that.  Mass media has pretty much ignored his achievements.

That is so frustrating.  Does mass media want a dictatorship or theocracy?  They sure seem to want it, even though it means muzzling.  In Florida, Gov. Death Santis wants copies of everything journalists take down in notes from whatever it is he’s doing.  All the notes and recordings have to be “reviewed”.  Chilling.

Queen Elizabeth died.  I did feel something at the news.  I’d liked and respected her from afar so I felt sad she was no longer in the world, but I told myself how much she’d accomplished in her life.  Besides, now she was reunited with her beloved husband, Prince Phillip.

Every day, there is another awful update having to do with TFG and his evil doings.  The FBI search of his house, more investigations into his fund-raising shenanigans, more details of a very major coup plot amongst 45, legislators in Congress, violent white supremacy groups, and the wife of a Supreme Court justice.  The House Special Committee on 1/6/21 is about to reconvene.  Some of the hearings revealed some pretty horrifying information. 

And the questions floating around all the time is this:  will TFG ever face justice for any of this?  If yes, WHEN?  If no, what are the consequences of these treasonous people getting off scott-free?

Urban Dictionary defines news fatigue this way:

“Becoming tired of the constant negativity or political propaganda in the news. …”  Oh yeah to the hell! “People with news fatigue might decide to stop all news consumption for the purpose of being more at peace and improving their mental health and mood and may then find themselves happier and with more energy to do the things they enjoy.” 

I used to read and keep up with more news sources than I do now.  I used to read “Daily Sound and Fury” religiously.  It became too overwhelming, especially the shouting.  I mean, portions of an article would be in all caps with ginormous fonts.  It gave me a headache.  I began to just skim the titles of the articles and now find I don’t click on any for more information.  I’m at the point I don’t want to open the newsletter email at all.  The same is true with CNN and NBC bulletins.

I’d been following Huff-Post and Crooked Media but am beginning to feel very fatigued looking at those stories too. 

This isn’t like me.  Was I burning out?

I happened on this article from the New York Times.  Yep, I have a couple of the symptoms of news fatigue/worry burn-out: I’m avoiding most of the news and when I do read one of the newsletters I still look at, I feel numb at the headlines.  I think to myself: welp, here we go again.  Nothing’s going to change.  My thoughts are leading me down the road to another symptom: feeling powerless.

Another: some stories provoke an angrier reaction than I normally would feel.  That anger is rooted in fear.  I am powerless; no one is going to do anything about the issue.  It’s all supposed to become the “new normal” and that really pisses me off.  Retreating into numbness helps still the boiling internal waters but it’s also dysfunctional.  I learned from 12 step meetings that numbing myself or dissociating would keep me in a state of powerlessness.  It served me well enough growing up in a dysfunctional household but was totally unhelpful when I became an adult.

So what to do?

At this point, the best thing I could do for myself is unplug for a while.  It would be so hard to do that.  I stay in touch with friends and family online, usually on Facebook.  If I could avoid bringing the news there and blocking news sources from reaching me there, I could have a much more positive interaction there.  It would mean stopping Twitter too.  Can I do that?  I don’t know.

Another thing I need to do is stop checking the news before I go to bed.  I read before I go to sleep and I would get a lot more of that done if I turned my phone and laptop off in the evening.

I should find other happier activities: go for a walk, color, do more reading, watch classic TV shows.  Phone banking has been a very positive activity for me.  I don’t feel powerless when I phone bank.  I’m doing my part to help save democracy.

Here is one more I’ve already put into practice: subscribe to good news only media.  It is so true that reading about small town heroes, animal antics, and bits of trivia are uplifting and can make me smile or laugh.

I’m going to give these suggestions a try because I don’t want to burn out completely, especially not before a crucial election.

Giving Pink Floyd a shout out because my title comes from their song, “Comfortably Numb.”

 

Reflections on 9/11/2001

2001 was a difficult, traumatic year.  My first husband, Rich, had been diagnosed with congestive heart failure, cardiomyopathy, and Marfan Syndrome in 1987.  He’d been doing well until we relocated from Maryland back to New York.  I noticed his fatigue, increasing pain from a bad ankle, and weakness.  I suspect he had undiagnosed sleep apnea and often would fall asleep within minutes of sitting down to watch television. 

In the spring, he fainted at work and was taken by ambulance to the emergency room at the nearest hospital.  He’d gone into atrial fibrillation.  To bring his heart beat back to a normal rhythm, they gave him a little anesthesia and used the paddles.  He told me later that the anesthesia hadn’t worked well and he felt the electrical shocks each time the paddles were used.  “I never want to go through that again,” he told me.

He was released after a week in the cardiac unit. Rich, the kids and I enjoyed a lovely trip to Fire Island on Easter Sunday. 

Less than a month later, he told me quietly, “It’s happening again.”  He meant the A-fib.  He was scheduled to see an electro-cardiologist the following day.  We called the cardiologist who’d been following him.  The doctor didn’t feel the a-fib was anything to worry about.  He suggested we bring it up with the new electro-cardiologist the following day.  Meanwhile, he advised Rich to take a little more of his digoxin.

Rich was still scared.  I sat watching TV with him but, around midnight, he said I should just go up to bed.  I was battling a nasty sinus infection and he wanted me to get some rest.  Reluctantly, I agreed.

Some time in the night, he died. 

Shock and grief are hard work.  We needed help dealing with it all so I got us involved with bereavement classes.  I joined widownet.org.   It was a struggle to go on but there was no other choice.

I was working as a freelance interpreter for the Deaf and had secured placement with a vocational training school for disabled adults.  There were always Deaf clients there and I had been there a year already.  During my down time, I was allowed to surf the internet and work on creative writing stories.

On the morning of September 11, though, I couldn’t access the internet to check the news.  The teachers all noticed problems with the internet and just assumed a server was down somewhere.  The clients were unaware; they were all working on individual projects.  The Deaf clients were all working independently so I worked on my story a little.  I’d check back to see if I could get the website I used for news.

At about 9, the internet was back.  I checked the news and, to my horror, saw images of a plane crashing into the north tower of the World Trade Center.  At that time, reporters thought it was an accident; that the pilot somehow had gotten confused about where he was going.  But this wasn’t a little plane, it was a 747.  It was a clear, beautiful morning.

And as I watched the live video, I saw a second plane coming close.  I couldn’t believe my eyes as it crashed into the south tower.  This was no accident.  I looked around and saw that the teachers were all aware of what happened.  They were clustered together and I went over to join them.  We knew we were being attacked.  The lead teacher said we weren’t going to inform and alarm the clients.  We would continue to act as if it was a normal day as long as possible.

I grew up developing the skill to hide my feelings.  I felt numb and sick, realizing that the attacks were acts of war.  I didn’t give that away as I continued to interpret and, during down time, check the news.  The Pentagon was attacked.  I heard that a fourth plane seemed to be headed to Washington DC as well, possibly toward the Capitol or White House.

I learned that the lead teacher’s husband was in one of the towers.  Her poise was remarkable.  She was frequently on the phone, trying to get news of her husband, but she was also focused on the task at hand.

When both towers collapsed, I thought: for the first time, I’m glad Rich isn’t here to see this.  But, at the same time, I missed him dreadfully as I wondered what was going to happen next.  A few of the clients were tapped gently on the shoulder and asked to come into the principal’s office.  I knew that it meant they had family members in the towers because they didn’t come back.  Fortunately, the Deaf clients didn’t have any relatives in the centers.

Before I returned from lunch, I found a phone (yes, one of those Ma Bell dial-up things) and called my kids’ schools just to check on them.  I was assured they were all fine and there’d been no announcements.  When I saw the kids later, they told me many classmates were suddenly pulled and didn’t return.

By the time the training day was over, I’d learned the brave passengers of Flight 93 (the fourth plane) had overpowered the hijackers and brought the plane down in an empty field in Pennsylvania.  They were all heroes. I still remember hearing the voice clip of Todd Beamer just before the passengers stormed the hijackers: “Let’s roll.”

When I got home, I could see much more of the devastation from the attacks.  Most horrifying of all was the sound of bodies hitting the ground as trapped, desperate people jumped from the towers to avoid being burned alive.  The hijackers made sure they got on planes that were fully fueled to inflict as much damage as they could.

They did.  Thousands died that day, and the whole country was in shock.  I was numb all over again, as I had been for weeks after Rich’s death.  When I did feel an emotion, it wasn’t fear or despair.  It was anger.  My hope was bolstered by the stories of heroism by the Flight 93 passengers, people in the towers who helped others get out, and most especially by the first responders.  President Bush said: “Make no mistake: The United States will hunt down and punish those responsible for these cowardly acts.” 

Never was I prouder to be an American.  We bonded across the country.  We played “Proud To Be An American” by Lee Greenwood.  It took 10 years and wars, but Osama bin Laden (leader of al-Qaeda, responsible for the attacks) was finally located and killed by a squad of specialist soldiers.

I am sad we don’t have that sense of unity anymore.

A lot of informative links about 9/11:

This Day In History

Prager University’s video for those born after 2001

Dan Rather/Elliot Kirschner’s 9/11 21 Years Later

A positive from all of this is from an article in my Nice Newsletter.  Pay It Forward 9/11

 

 

Another Eye Blink

Fifty years ago today, I was about to begin my senior year of high school.  I was looking forward to it.  I was now entitled to special privileges as an incoming senior: taking classes I wanted instead of those required; the ability to wear a tee shirt and jeans to school instead of pant suits; and the right to sit at the back of the bus and sing out:

“We are the seniors, the mighty, mighty seniors!

Everywhere we go, people ought to know

Who we are, so we tell them

We are the seniors, the mighty mighty seniors…” and the song would go round and round as long as we pleased.

September 4, 1972 was Labor Day.  My tradition was to spend it watching the Muscular Dystrophy Telethon with Jerry Lewis.  I’d begun watching it a couple of years back, and I always was moved by the stories by MDA sufferers and by any progress made in the medical field.  I donated what I could afford.  Each year, when Jerry Lewis sang “You’ll Never Walk Alone” at the conclusion of the telethon, I would cry too.

I’d been enjoying the Summer Olympics up until the next day, September 5th.  Terrorists belonging to a group called Black September invaded the apartments of the Israeli wrestling team.  Two Israelis were killed outright, others escaped, and nine were taken hostage.  It was horrifying not only because an act of terrorism had struck the Olympics but because they were in Munich, Germany.  Germany had been trying very hard to discard the Nazi stigmatism and to make amends.

As soon as Jim McKay, then the journalistic face of the Olympics, announced what had happened, I was glued to the TV set.  It was such a shock for such an awful thing to happen at the Olympics, an occasion when political differences were set aside for athletes from around the world to peacefully compete in sports.  I’m sure this was an instance where “the whole world is watching” but I only had eyes and ears for Jim McKay.  In between his reports, the games went on.  It was sort of surreal, continuing the competitions when there was so much danger right there.

The crisis went on into this day, 1972.  I don’t remember the time of day or night, but I was watching when Jim McKay came on the air, his face pale with shock.  In a stunned voice, he announced that the fleeing terrorists, with their 9 hostages, had been confronted at the airport by police.  All the Israeli athletes were killed in the firefight and so were all the terrorists.  It was absolutely horrifying.  I felt sick to my stomach and turned the TV off.

My senior year began on a melancholy, grieving start.  As is true with youth, though,  I was 17, and by the end of the week, I was having fun having lunch in the senior lounge with my best friends.  Most of the year was pretty awesome.  My teachers, all but a couple, were totally amazing.  The two exceptions were the teachers for U.S. History and English.  The English teacher was originally a kindergarten teacher and from that position, suddenly found herself at the high school level.  She treated us (I felt) like the kindergarteners she’d taught.  I acted out in her class, arguing with her over every little thing.

She sent me to the principal’s office.  Everyone loved Mr. Fortunato.  There wasn’t a mean bone in his body, and he was as rumpled and cuddly looking as Pooh Bear.  We’d talk; he’d send me back to class.  After the third time, we explored why I couldn’t behave in Mrs. Burke's class.  I told him I felt my intelligence was being diminished; I was bored and tired of being treated like a dumb little kid.  He then saved the rest of the year by moving me to a class taught by my 11^th grade teacher, Ms. McManus.  I’d loved my junior year with her, learning all I could from lessons on transcendentalism and other interesting topics related to English.  I was never bored.  Being in her class again was so refreshing.

The history teacher was just a loss.  I think she was burned out and had no real interest in teaching.  I was totally bored out of my mind; all we did was read a dry textbook.  I’d been learning the SOSDD for the last few years.  Did history never progress beyond the Revolution?  I began skipping her class to either take the bus downtown to the library or to visit my Drama teacher, Mrs. Cooper.  Mrs. Cooper was supportive and encouraging of my abilities and I developed a lot of self-confidence working with her.

One day I happened to look into the hallway as I sat in Mrs. Cooper's class.  The history teacher passed by and our eyes locked.  Oh no, caught!  Sure enough, the teacher turned me in and I was back with Mr. Fortunato.  I readily admitted cutting her class to go visit Drama a second time during the school day.  He asked me not to do it again and I said I wouldn’t but … well, little did I know until a little later in the year that he and Mrs. Cooper had a thing going.  One time he came into her classroom for a chit-chat while I was there, cutting history again.  He acted like he didn’t see me.  I was always grateful for that.

In December, one of our maintenance crew apparently lost his mind.  I heard he was frequently the target of student bullies.  I’m not sure why they made fun of him.  Anyway, they were at it again, tormenting him in the cafeteria just before the first period bell was going to ring.  He drew out a machete and chased his tormenters out the door and onto the outside quadrangle.  I guess he panicked and then ran from the cafeteria and up the stairs.  There he confronted a security guard and stabbed her with his knife.  He ran from there, down the hall toward his office.  On the way, he grabbed a hostage, a sophomore.

His office was right around the corner from my psychology classroom.  His back wall backed up to ours.  He and his hostage were screaming.  There was pandemonium.  I’ve written about this before and am sure I will write about it again this December because it’s become so imprinted on my brain.  I’ll just say this for now:  it didn’t end well for the maintenance man.  I’m not sure what traumatic memories the sophomore was left with.  She’d be 65 this year.

After December, the rest of the school year went very well.  It’s fortunate I was in Psychology when “the incident” happened.  Years before non-war related PTSD was ever considered, our teacher understood what trauma could do to a kid.  She kept us calm throughout the incident.  When we came back to school the following Monday, she had us write down everything we could remember from that Friday the 13^th.  She advised us to write it out as often as we needed and to talk about it and not keep it like a secret.  That ended up being the best advice, one repeated to me by therapists I've seen over the years.

The rest of the year was pretty awesome.  I was still making pretty good money as a babysitter for several families, buying my own albums and books to read.  My favorite artist continued to be Neil Diamond but I was also rocking to Elton John, Dr. Hook, Three Dog Night, The Moody Blues, Chicago, The Temptations, the Carpenters, Gladys Knight & the Pips, Stevie Wonder, Jim Croce, Diana Ross, Helen Reddy, Paul Simon, The Edgar Winter Group (Frankenstein), Roberta Flack, and Aretha Franklin.  I realize Paul McCartney, the Stones, Jackson 5, Osmonds, David Cassidy and others aren’t on the list.  I liked them but not as favorites.  I had too many favorites to begin with anyway.  My bedroom walls were completely covered with posters from teen magazines.

As seniors, the school year ended two weeks ahead of our younger classmates’.  As a junior, I remembered the celebration of departing seniors from the school parking lot.  Now it was my turn, except I was riding a bus instead of driving a car.  It was such a feeling of freedom although I was sad about leaving my favorite teachers. 

Graduation was very special.  I had gone to an all-girls high school and we had such a big class, we graduated from Baltimore’s Civic Center.  We all wore white formals instead of graduation gowns and, to be honest, that just felt ever so much more special.

I went to the school’s one-year reunion and met up with my best friends and Mr. Fortunato.  We gathered together at the student union of Johns Hopkins University.  Our school’s 1924 class were gathering in another banquet room, and I remember being awed.  Fifty years!  Imagine that!  How incredibly old these graduates were, and how amazing it was for them to celebrate together after all those years.

Well.  I’m expecting to hear from the person in charge of our 50^th Anniversary celebration.  That’s next year.  Fifty years.  Wow!