Zen by Email

            I discovered the wondrous effects of meditation about 4 or 5 years ago … or was it 8? Time has little meaning here. About a year ago, I was compelled by a few good books I read to practice meditation everyday. With modern finesse that surprised even me, I diligently searched the internet for a local Zen temple in which to meditate. One stuck out, and when I called, the abbot answered right away. “Sure,” he said. “We’re sitting zazen tonight at seven. Please join us.”

When I arrived, nervous and wearing my least offensive clothes (with no pictures of metal or punk bands on them to offend the eye – yes, I had to search my closet), I was greeted by a graying man with a deep, reverent bow. I was made welcome at once. I sat as well as I could, as directed (2 periods of 20 minutes, with 10 minutes of walking meditation in between), trying not to so much as sneeze, or even blink. When it was over, we lit incense and the Zen teacher gave a talk on dharma while we sipped tea from Japanese cups. It was serenity defined.

In that year, I have grown close to the members of the Zen temple, joining in with their groups and taking the 3 Refuges in December of last year. I am now a lay member. I still try to meditate everyday. My teacher now is not that same, graying, shaved headed man, though he is her teacher. Suffice to say, I have slowly become a Zen Buddhist.

My teacher’s dharma name is “Kajo”, which means “mindfulness”, or simply “everyday life”, depending on your translator. Kajo has become a very close friend and confidant. Today she informed me she is moving to Alaska. I was both saddened and joyful. I am obviously down about losing the close companionship of a friend, but overjoyed that she will soon be with the people who love her and can support her. She says she will continue giving me lessons and counsel through the internet chat severs and email. In less than a month, in addition to dealing with the everyday claptrap that rumbles through my head like a freight train, I will experience the cold, but personal joy of email Zen. I’d like to remain impassive, but I am not looking forward to it.

I wonder if I’ll ever see my friend again. 

The good news is it isn't fatal. The bad news is it's chronic.

I was diagnosed with chronic, undifferentiated schizophrenia when I was almost 19 years old. It was a relief for me. Some people don’t understand this point, so I want to make it very carefully. After spending 5 years in a black, gaping maw of desensitizing hell, my monster finally had a name! After spending my days crying in a corner (not having eaten, or slept, or showered, or changed clothes for maybe weeks), screaming at a wall with snot in my hair, someone stepped up to the plate with not only information, but a treatment plan that didn’t blame the victim. I relaxed in the doctor’s stiff-backed chair. My mother cried, releasing her overwhelming grief.

For me, the diagnosis was a string of big words that said I wasn’t making it up, or doing any of this on purpose. For my mother it meant that her child would never be able to live up to a few, unspoken, parental expectations. These included “being normal”, which may not sound like a big deal to those of us who live on the fringes of society, but to a parent it is devastating. And she had some pretty big hopes for me. I guess every mother who cradles a newborn has some enormous hopes for their child, even if they remain hidden and locked inside a secret place in the heart. The one most often spoken, however, is “… as long as she’s healthy.” So schizophrenia cracked my mother’s heart.

The up-side is that you have to break a heart to open it. Immediately Mom checked out almost every book in the library about schizophrenia, joined NAMI, began lobbying for rights to protect the mentally ill, and started raising money for various charities for research. Need I say I have an awesome mom?

At home, things were different. Having a beautiful pair of Mexican, Catholic grandparents who doted on my every move, I began hearing different tactics to “make it all go away.” Grandmother: Who are you talking to? Me: Myself. I hear voices, Gramma. Grandmother: Ay! I thought you grew out of that!

Another time, I received this: “Maybe if you just prayed to God the voices would go away?” My snarky response: “Someone else to talk to that isn’t there? Great.”

So things were tense there. My wonderful Grandma died in 1998, but I don’t think in those years we had with my illness in between us, she ever really understood. This doesn’t go away.

Susan 

That Nerve-Wrecking First Post!

This happens to be me, in my totality (plus a dog). Obviously I collect books, which I keep because I enjoy re-reading those that catch my fancy. This picture was taken in my library, and believe me, that's not the only wall covered in words. My hair is tied back; my feet are bare. I have an extremely severe mental illness, but I look normal enough. Right?

If you take the time to look at the post date, you'll observe that I don't sleep so much. Or maybe you'll come to the conclusion that I am nocturnal. Whichever. Both suit me just fine. I am keeping weird hours not as an experiment, but because I usually have nowhere to be on any given day. That song by Nirvana, "Lithium"? That's me. So I decided to start a blog. I can't promise whether my words will be inspiring, or just downright clumsy in their mini-efforts at meaning.

I also can't reassure you that these words will always make sense to you, or that they will be in any coherent order.

I am hoping against hope that I can lighten the onus of mental illness for someone with this blog. Or maybe I can teach a loved one who deals with the bizarre changes they see in their brother, sister, daughter, husband, friend, or partner just exactly what goes on in the mind of at least one schizophrenic. It may help, and that's all the impetus I need to keep writing.

Susan