How’d You Do, Joceile?

Lately, my favorite explanation is, “I wasn’t my best self.” Other versions of it could be: I screwed up; I missed the mark; I could’a done better; I made a mistake. 

It’s all in attempt to both own my mistake and give myself a break for being human. It could be a kind of grace that comes with long experience. It’s not in an effort to refuse accountability. Holding myself accountable is a premium value for me. Not beating myself up is a priority that took longer to develop.

Was I thoughtless? Was I impatient? Was I talking when I should’ve been listening? Was it bad judgment? Did I simply forget a commitment? It could have been any of these and more. My least favorite is a mistake that hangs with me for a long, long time. Those are the ones I try to learn from the most. Sometimes, I’m vilified in my own mind by the double bind life puts us in. No matter how good I do, it doesn’t last. 

I’m always struggling in that place of wanting to do the best and allowing that being perfect isn’t possible or reasonable. It’s an art. The art of living a good life. Setting up goal posts with an undaunted eye and accepting that not all goals can be reached. It could be an act of humility and self love. Extending this to others is an outgrowth of this love. How could I give a break to others if I can’t give one to myself?

Today, I’m going to go out in the world. I may make a mistake. I’m certainly going to make one at some point. I won’t like it. I’ll be disappointed and annoyed that despite my good intentions I missed the mark. But I’m going to extend kindness to myself and work to extend it to everyone else. I won’t do it perfectly but I will keep trying. That is the greatest gift of life. That we keep hanging in there to swing again at the next ball that’s pitched. It may be a curve ball, a fast ball, or a down and in slider. As long as I keep swinging and the balls keep coming, I’ve got another chance. 

Reporting from Life’s Front.

Joceile

5.20.23

[Picture: The lake with storm clouds on the horizon that may or may not arrive.]

Play Time is Over

I’ve always thought our happy smart phone/internet availability would end at some point not too far in the future. My plan was to enjoy it until that time. I thought it would be the failure of the electrical grid, a catastrophic global weather event, or terrorist sabotage that would make the internet and our cell phones irrelevant. I had the right outcome but the wrong cause. Silly me.

It’s what is commonly referred to as “AI” that’s heading this way like a tsunami. For simplicity’s sake, I will refer to it as AI even though it’s not technically intelligent and not at this point sentient. When massively powerful computer programs can review everything on the internet, use it to generate additional internet content, and then continue to create ever more content until it is impossible to know what is original content, what is accurate, what is AI generated, and what is regenerated by AI, then the internet becomes fully corrupted and by extension our smart phones. Nothing is reliable. Nothing is verifiable. Nothing is constant.

It’s entertaining that the unreality of the start of the internet with access of so much writing, imagery, and historical reference is revisited at the end of the internet. Humans are once again used as test subjects in a giant experiment on the use of language, imagery, and revisionist history using this same language and imagery to rebroadcast in billions of different incarnations among billions of sites with more coming every second. It’s not like the internet was ever pretty. It’s just becoming even less so.

A simple example of this AI software/algorithm process using language research and prediction in a far less complicated software became ubiquitous in our smart phones.  Everyone has been frustrated by auto correct.  Auto correct sees what our sentence is, what the two or three letters are that we type, and then based on the language usage it has been exposed to, continues to reference, and our previously typed messages, guesses which word we are planning to type. Often this is a painless and useful process. (In typing this essay, how many times did I make a typo in a word but when I hit the space bar it was automatically corrected?) Occasionally, it also makes mistakes to the absolute frustration of the user. But we are human and only notice when it doesn’t work. I am training the program now as I write this to make better guesses in my style and that of others using the same platform or application.

The AI as it is being introduced does this on an incomprehensibly enormous scale.  It’s why it’s called a “large language model.” Its references are so large, its products so undefined, that it’s unpredictable to even programmers and scientists who do not know what it will do to our existing systems and references. Corporations are not waiting to see how this impacts the internet because there is big money to be made.

That’s where the internet stands. Because no one can or will put on the brakes, this software generates ever more internet content as average consumers request content. It continues to build on that to generate even more content for it to reference when more consumers request it. It is self replicating. The content on the internet can and will become so unpredictable, false, misleading, and unreliable that it will essentially become useless and meaningless to us humans.

I see the internet and our smart phones becoming irrelevant and unable to reliably tell us how tell how tall Mt. Rainier is and who was the first white man to climb it with information on his bio, books, and profession. This has long been a problem with news and the interpretation of history. AI’s great appetite is likely to include the assimilation and reconstruction of many “established” facts. Who was Eleanor Roosevelt? When was she born? I couldn't have guessed this outcome. I don’t believe there’s a way to stop it. The genie is out of the bottle.

Every word I ever wrote and put on the internet is now fodder for this churning monster. We’re now not only squandering the natural resources of the planet but have moved on to squandering the creative human resources of our history, writing, and imagery. As I write this and post it, it too falls into this canyon of lost writing.

My written word may be mostly significant to me, but now every piece of writing, book, novel, speech, research paper, or anything ever written and uploaded is now part of this scavenger hunt and redistribution process. Is that piece really written by Plato? Let’s find the original so we can check. Now where did we put that?

It’s clear I’m mourning, struggling to know how to respond as I contemplate the loss of this great body of work. Is this what the destruction of the Library of Alexandria felt like? I can only imagine. Fortunately, our brick and mortar libraries still exist.

If you’re looking for me, I’ll be verifying hard copies of every piece of writing I have uploaded with the most recent edits and placing them in my safety deposit box. I don’t want to lose them while I’m alive. I want to be certain that the words are truly my creative effort. Any sharing will be made by postal carrier. It’s time to buy more stamps. I don’t want my email content used by AI either. Long live the pony express!

Reporting from the Society of the Troglodytes.

Joceile 

4.23.2023

[Picture of my smart phone, a laptop, and a cup of coffee with a Black-capped Chickadee on it.] 

Mom, If Only

A year ago in May, I took another stab at having direct contact with my mother after agonizing for years. She had just turned 87. 

I realized my communication skills had greatly improved along with my ability to manage difficult people. In the 33 years since we spoke, I’d talked to thousands of employees, many of them feeling victimized and wanting relief. Other than managing my own emotions, my mother was no different and in all likelihood I could handle her. I got her current phone number from my brother. Anticipating possible responses to my call, I was fully prepared if she was hurtful to say, “Do you really want it to go this way? It’s your choice.”

I set up my iPad to record while I called her on speaker phone. I wanted to record the conversation because I might not have another and wanted analyze it if it went off track. She answered with a simple, “Yes.”

What does one say after several elapsed decades? “Hi, Mom. Its Joceile.”

“Oh, hi,” and we were off like we’d never stopped speaking except she was nicer to me. I guess the certainty that I could disappear forever was motivating. She’ll always be on probation with me. It’s possible she knows that. We’ve never discussed why we haven’t talked since 1989. Certainly, she’s never asked. My standard for any interactions with her is that she not be mean to me or say mean things about my grandparents. 

Remarkably, she hasn’t been mean. We’ve confirmed that neither one of us has any wish to hurt the other. If one of us needs to change the subject, we both have agreed to do so. The passage of so much time is palpable. Neither of us says it shouldn’t have happened. For me, it had to happen so I could begin to heal. I could not have contact with her and maintain my path toward mental health. I don’t know what it meant for her. 

I’ve spoken with her a dozen times and recorded the calls. She repeats herself. She dwells on the past with an emphasis on the way she’s been wronged but is easily redirected. However, facilitating the conversations is tiring. She talks continuously and doesn’t ask questions about me. The calls stretch longer than I plan. I still crave the contact but it is an empty calorie. I still take a hit. If she asks me a question, I’m allowed a sentence or two before she’s off again as if I’d never spoken.

I’ve had her email address and established a unique email for her to use with me so our correspondence doesn’t pop up in my feed unless I purposely check it. My contact with her is of my choosing. She has a landline and hasn’t asked for my phone number. Primarily, we’ve fallen into an email only relationship. It’s less exhausting for me. 

I have asked her every question I can think of about her life and our family history. I’ve mined as much as possible but it comes through her filter with uncertain reliability and difficult interpretation. I sent one interesting email story to my daughter who responded, “I’d love to know about this so maybe you can interpret it for me someday.” I looked at the paragraph. I understood it but I hadn’t realized it was in my mother’s code. My daughter hadn’t grown up with her. I wrote a translation as best I could so Alex could have the story. 

My mother’s most meaningful activities appear to be praying to god, shopping at Value Village, and talking to dead people. She has visitations most notably by her mother. I don’t begrudge her these. She has very little that gives her joy. 

In July of last year, I drove the 55 miles to her house for a visit knowing it could be my last. In the past, she was a hoarder. A clean one, but I had to follow trails between stacks of items to get from room to room. She’s lived in a single wide mobile home for nearly 40 years. Remarkably, her extraneous belongings are gone.  I didn’t know hoarders could recover. She’s been giving things away for years to people she thought would appreciate them. She can tell chapter and verse of any recipients that didn’t appreciate an item with irritation. Her house is spare, neat, comfortable, and as open as possible in a mobile. I’d forgotten that the mobile was pink, her favorite color, and any optional accessories are also in multiple shades of pink. 

The remaining physical reminders of her life were carefully curated. The very few displayed pictures are of her mother and father, my father, brother, Zack, and I when we were young, and Zack’s children. She’s eliminated her two subsequent husbands, my daughter, my Granny, who was her stepmother, and anyone else who she believed wronged her. She’s full of wrongs. 

Visiting her did enable me to see how prominent my brother is in her life. This is not a bad thing. He has always been the first person she calls when she needs help. He always shows up. It did help explain why I didn’t feel very important to her. Next to her bed is a picture I drew of my brother when we were both young. It’s actually better than I’d remembered. My tiny signature is at the bottom but nothing more to reference me. There’s very little to be seen in her house related to me. This realization helps me understand my place in our family. Boys mattered. Girls didn’t. My grandparents were the exception.

She frequently remarks that she can’t wait to die but that even god won’t have her. I don’t know if this is an invitation for me to protest or simply a statement of her belief. Regardless, I don’t engage. I can’t alleviate her suffering. I do recognize the old pull to try to help her make her life better. I’m old enough now to know it’s a losing proposition. People like my mother are bottomless pits of need. She never felt loved and cared for as a child. Only one person can fix it. It’s not me. My mother has never been able to face her demons. Death will come. She’ll meet it like she met life—angrily and resentfully. It’s her business. My love for her doesn’t change that. 

I’ve sent her postcards of my lake pictures over the years. She says she thoroughly enjoys them. Now, my photos make up the bulk of my emails to her. She responds in enthusiastic gratitude. I try and send as much pink as I can. In her world, there’s no such thing as too much pink. I send her whatever I’ve taken every couple days. It’s an act of love that doesn’t hurt me. 

Recently, her email responses weren’t getting back to me. I don’t send more pictures until I get appreciation from the last ones. My brother helped her figure out the problem. 

I wrote, “Zack says your email is working but you haven’t responded to my last two.  I’m not sure what’s up.  I’ll send more pictures when I know you are getting my emails.” She always types in caps.

“OH PHOOEY!  THEY ARE MESSING WITH MY EMAIL. AND I CAN ONLY TRY.  STOP WORRYING AND SEND ME PICTURES…PLEASE!!!!”

I sent the next batch and added, “Please understand that part of my reward for sharing pictures is hearing from you. Without that, I’m disappointingly unrewarded.  I don’t get my treat.  So, we have to keep working on this.”

“I NEED YOUR PICTURES LIKE YOU NEED MY IMPUT [sic].”

Her tone is demanding and disrespectful of my clear request for parity. I don’t need input. I need appreciation for my thoughtfulness. Our needs are not the same. She’s saying to me in effect, “I still only care what I want. Not what you need.” I needed her to be my mother because I was a child and not her equal.

It’s hard to believe that even just sending her pictures is risky and comes at a personal cost. How much cost can I tolerate? I’m constantly evaluating it. It’s hard to look objectively at such a complicated personal relationship. It’s hard to put into words the terrible lifetime of pain it’s caused.

She’s paranoid and a believer in many ridiculous conspiracies. She’s not new to this. When I was young, I remember hearing quietly delivered pronouncements on “what they’re planning to do to us.” The first was an alleged question on the Census about how many doors the house had. She was certain they wanted to know how many soldiers it would require to cover our exits. I was always a skeptic. Fortunately due to the previous president’s fall from grace and her probationary status, she’s able to resist her political soapbox and willingly stops. This is another essential requirement for my tolerance in communicating with her. 

She has aged just like she’s lived her life, bitter and regretful. The other day, I realized we were given much of the same hardships in life, though no one’s hardships are ever quite the same.  She was born in 1935. Her mental illness is different. She appeared not to have childhood champions or maybe she couldn’t respond to any she had. Her life wasn’t wasted. She did have my brother and I. It could have been much better had she gotten mental health treatment and taken responsibility for her life. But my people didn’t do that sort of thing.

She’s a wounded animal, reactive and cornered. I understand now that there is nothing I can do to make it better. At 12, I pushed, cajoled, nurtured, supported, held, and cheerled, to the detriment of my own mental health, all in an attempt to make her life and mine safer. At 65, I’m quite clear that not only was that an unreasonable, inappropriate task, it was never mine to begin with. She was on her own then as she is now. She’s a pathetic creature. I never want to emulate her. Through the last 50 odd years, I’ve recovered and thrived. All my poor mother can do is look forward to death with deep remorse. She’s made the choice to follow this path over and over and over again. All I can do is send her pictures.

I’m so grateful to have learned she’s not mine to fix. As a child, I tried to fix her so I could have a better mom. Children don’t understand it’s not their job to fix their parents. We’re always on the hunt for nurturing which is why as adults we’ll take it wherever we can find it with potentially disastrous results. 

Do I blame her for not interrupting the violence and abuse in our lives and contributing her own to me. Am I mad at her? Of course, I’m mad at her for not taking care of me and also for not stepping up and dealing with her awful life. Her life was brutal. Sadly, her old age is no better. I feel sorry for her. I probably pity her for her deeply imbedded pathos. 

When I saw her, she told me she has terrible regrets and shame for her behaviors and all she can do is pray to keep her mind from dwelling on them. I know it’s her form of meditation. It would never occur to her to make amends. I did not ask her what these regrets or behaviors were. I’m certain they aren’t the ones I’d identify and would further hurt and appall me. She’s never owned her abuse and neglect in ensuring my safety. I no longer need her to. I’ve taken full responsibility for ensuring my own safety and the lack of abusiveness in my life. It was hard won and I wouldn’t hand her back the reins for love nor money. 

It gives me a bit of peace to have made this long full circle back into contact with my mother. I can’t not love her and am now fully inoculated from her hurtfulness. I have but to step away. My mother has no recourse. She’s just waiting for someone to turn off the lights. I can’t control my death but I can certainly control my response to life. When it’s finally over for her, I hope she rests in peace.

* * * * * * *

As I completed this essay, my mom sent an unsolicited email rant about the state of the world, Biden turning this country communist, and all the other extreme right wing tropes.  I could only agree with two thoughts in the message. The first, “I KNOW BEING A DEMOCRAT MAKES WHAT I AM SAYING AWFUL, BUT DO NOT JUDGE THE PLAY TIL THE LAST ACT…AND I DO NOT FEEL IT LOOKING GOOD…” And the final line, “OKAY, NOW YOU KNOW WHY YOU DO NOT WANT TO TALK TO ME……. MUCH LOVE ALWAYS, MOTHER.”

Actually, I have never forgotten why I didn’t want to talk to her. I have always said that my mother does not wear well. People like her initially but after a few weeks begin to see the impossible untreated mentally ill person she is. She’s never able to pretend for long. One hand offers me an olive branch while she soundly pummels me with the other fist when I reach for it. It gives me whiplash. To take care of myself, I can’t afford to focus on the olive branch and ignore the fist. The fist is just too destructive. One thing I have learned over the years is that when someone gives me a very big push it can often be a sign that they need me to step back. It’s the twelfth month of our renewed contact. I will take a break now. She’ll be 88 next month.

Reporting from Life’s front. 

Joceile 

4/10/23

[Pictures:  Mom and I at 15 in 1973. Mom and I in 2022.]

Lesbian Feminism 101

Look at the state of Washington! As part of the governor’s Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion initiatives, my agency DEI manager and I have been working to develop a new training offering. We are looking for employees to test our new Lesbian Feminism 101 online training. To answer questions such as: Do you want to know what Lesbian Feminism is all about? Are you curious to know how to interact and be supportive of the Lesbian Feminist population? We have the support and encouragement of government leadership. I am the main spokeslesbian. Please contact me if you would like to help us while we are in the development phase. Thoughtful feedback gratefully accepted.

[Picture: State employees celebrating pride with their rainbow gear.]

Governor’s Announcement

I am pleased to share that the governor’s office has tapped me for a special assignment for the next six months. As an economic downturn is forecast for the end of this year due to continued high interest rates and in anticipation of an increase in poverty rates among local communities, the governor has instructed all agencies with significant Olympia real estate to convert first floor space into community service specialty centers to serve those at greatest risk including distressed and unhoused individuals. He has directed agency reasonable accommodation specialists to coordinate with community service professionals including social workers, mental health providers, addiction recovery counselors, and emergency medics from JBLM. 

I have been instructed to collaborate with my agency executive leadership, enforcement, facilities, and safety on this high priority assignment. An executive order from the governor’s office is pending. HR management and facilities assure me that staff will have touchdown workspaces throughout our building with conference room assignment priority and continued ability to telework. I will be unavailable to my management and agency employees while I work closely with other agency reasonable accommodation specialists and coordinate with community liaisons. 

I have been waiting impatiently for state government to recognize that empty office space can be utilized to support our community. Finally, this is being acknowledged. 

Joceile 

[Note: This post was not developed nor written by any tools now commonly referred to as “AI” or GPT-4.]

PAIN

Pain leaches from places we don’t want it to be. That’s why we root out what we can. It makes no difference if it’s mental, emotional, or physical. It is self perpetuating. We must give aid and comfort with an eye toward healing to minimize its impact. This goes for generational pain too. That which gets ignored, denied, and swept under the rug flourishes in darkness and metastasizes. It waits to resurge when we are least able to defend ourselves. As we age as individuals, families, communities, or a nation, that which goes unaddressed gains power over us. I wish this wasn’t so but my desire is irrelevant. To quote a wise woman, “It’s like gravity. It doesn’t require your belief to make it work.” And just like gravity, pain never entirely disappears. It’s our job to make falling to earth more like a small stumble rather than from a high cliff. Like Robin Williams said in FernGully: The Last Rainforest, “Gravity works!”

L’Chaim.

Joceile 

3/5/23

[Picture: An example of unrequited generational pain. From left, my great grandmother, her mother, and my grandmother. My mom is the little girl. Circa 1938]

 

My Therapist

Many people don’t understand the role of a mental health therapist. Perhaps they have a priest or elder they trust. Perhaps their mental health issues were never identified as critical requiring professional assistance or were simply tolerated or ignored by their friends and family. Perhaps they didn’t have the financial resources or wherewithal to get help. I haven’t had that luxury since I was twelve when it was abundantly obvious I would never survive without professional intervention. That was over 50 years ago.

It’s not like it’s been easy.  In 1971, my school counselor helped me get an appointment at the county mental health center.  They don’t exist anymore.  (These centers were championed by President Kennedy and gutted by President Reagan. Don’t tell me who’s president doesn’t matter.)  At fourteen, she helped me get out of my parent’s clutches and into a child psychiatric facility.  Unbelievably, it was a gift, which certainly speaks to how bad either of my parents’ homes were, enabling me to finish childhood in my stable and caring grandparents’ home. When I went to high school, there was a conspiracy among school counselors to give me support. In junior and senior high school, my counselors scheduled a study hall period for me. It was unusual at the time. I don’t remember asking for one. In retrospect, I recognize it helped me cope with the out of control voices in my head enabling me to excel in school. I was so damn lucky.  With the immense shortage of teenage mental health resources, I’m not sure how that would have played out today. Without this support, I likely wouldn’t be here.

As an adult, I had to chart my own path for therapy.  Not all therapists practice the same methodology.  Nor do personal styles, locations, or god forbid, insurance options necessarily result in good therapeutic relationships. Bonding with a therapist is an act of trust between professional and client.  As a client and consumer, I have to work hard to identify my therapy needs when interviewing these professionals. Currently, it’s difficult to even get an appointment to see someone. It is intimidating and requires determination. I wouldn’t hire just anybody to remodel my home. I wouldn’t stand back with no plan and say, “Have at it. I’ll be back in six weeks with a check to see the results.”  It needs to be interactive. That’s how is should go with a therapist.  This is a process partnership.  Not to mention that now the bathroom is updated, I also want to do the kitchen, and by the way, I hate that popcorn ceiling. I want to fix that too.

Insurance is a huge barrier to finding a therapist. It’s also a problem for therapists.  I know.  I live with one.  Reimbursement rates by insurance contracts are crappy and summarily lowered with no appeal other than to stop accepting their insured. Therapists must code the issues and submit paperwork for insurance approval and payment. I hate the system. I’ve opted out. Instead of a monthly car payment, I self pay for therapy.  It’s that important to me.  I’d rather drive an older car than continue to use a mind without any ongoing repair or maintenance.  Mental health therapy shouldn’t be free.  Clients need to put out effort to acknowledge the importance of the service. (I don’t have enough eggs to barter.) However, it should be subsidized by all of us similar to public education. A populace operating out of trauma is just as destructive as an uneducated one. (Did the US have a mass shooting today?)

Once I establish a solid relationship with my therapist, I hang in for the long haul. The trust goes both ways. Am I honest about my struggles? Do I keep my appointments and agreements?  Do I fight the need to appear better than I am? This is not for the faint of heart. I’m inviting her to walk with me to look at my trauma, that is, the abuse and violence that caused me to operate out of destructive coping mechanisms including being self violent and suicidal.  These things don’t just go away with medication and dusting off my hands and saying, “I’m all better now.  Glad we took care of that,” and walk away.  It’s a process.  One that can’t be shirked by either of us. I can’t just cover my flaws with new drywall. I don’t believe in short term therapy or quick fixes. A response to familial violence that settles into long term unsafe behavior does not quickly resolve any more than an addict can continue dabbling in their drug of choice.  It is the work of a lifetime. 

I talked to a friend recently who’s facing devastating health issues about the role of her therapist.  Like me, she’s a lifer.  “At this point,” she said, “my therapist is a touchstone. Someone I can talk to outside of my life with no other connection to me.”  Ronnie and I have often talked of therapists being like priests supporting our lives as professional guides. Of course, priests and elders can help unless they too are abusers.

My therapeutic relationships last more than a decade when possible and they continue being helpful. Longevity assists but is not required to have continuity of purpose. We’re a partnership. I bring the crazy and she (or he or they) brings the grounding and skilled push to understand where the crazy comes from.  With luck, that practice leads to a mental map for traversing the brokenness and making it better.  Without that touchstone, I am lost.  I resist changing therapists and only do so where a barrier presents itself that brooks no debate:  a relocation, retirement, or in one terrible case, a death. The depth and breadth of the interminably slow changes I make have created deep caring and mutual respect while understanding the limits of the relationship and the reasons for them.

I am indebted to my therapists. I am indebted to myself for doing the work, accepting uncomfortable truths, and facing demons, all of which, has allowed me to get to a place where I’m safe, where I don’t hate myself, where I don’t wish I was dead, and where I can embrace the richness of my life.  I have been persistent and lucky. Many have supported me on this journey including friends that drove me to my appointments when I wasn’t safe or took late night phone calls when I couldn’t get through the night.

I am now in a place where I can explore the oxymoronic term Post-Traumatic Growth. Who knew there was such a thing? Seeking mental health is like editing my writing. I make a pass at improvement, followed by another and another and another, until the writing gradually gets better. It’s long and painstaking until finally, remarkably, I recognize it’s worth celebrating.

L’Chaim.

Joceile

1.28.23

[Pictures of faces:  Karen, Trish, me in 1972, Barbara, Steve, Kari, Jerry, Stacy, me in 2004]

[NOTE: If you or anybody you care for is suicidal or struggling with personal safety, the following resources are available 24/7: Suicide & Crisis Lifeline - call, text, or chat at 988 or 800-273-TALK or 800-273-8255. Crisis Clinic of Thurston & Mason Counties at 360-586-2800. If immediately life threatening, call 911 or go to the nearest emergency room. Keep calling. Do Not Give Up! Suicide moves the pain to our survivors—a cruel legacy. Enter these resources in your phone where they could save a life.]