Fear Of Drowning-And Wanting To Do It Anyway

Fear Of Drowning-And Wanting To Do It Anyway

I recently heard a story about a man whose grandmother swam out to sea, intending to die and succeeding in doing so. I can relate to her.

I am writing this as a woman who just moved from land locked status of 51 years in several states to the beautiful Florida panhandle on the Gulf of Mexico. I am 10 minutes from the beach and I go most every day. I have been here nearly a year and have only gone in the water over my head twice. Because I am afraid of the water.

The funny thing is, I love being near the water. This is a quote from President JFK that he made on September 14th, 1962, to a gala dinner held at The America’s Cup sailing event. It has always resonated in my soul. The painting, above, is mine and has that quote, plus sand from my beach on it.

“All of us have in our veins the same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and, therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea-whether it is to sail or to watch it-we are going back from whence we came.”- JFK

I must have been four or five years old when I began my swimming lessons. They took place in the swim lanes of our all white Yacht Club, between ropes strung with big red bumpers. The same color as my kick board that was assigned as a teaching tool. I hated swimming lessons. The water, which made up the swimming area, diving area and beach area was walled off from the Long Island Sound, so it was salt water.

As I recall that moment like it was yesterday, I was terrified by the instruction to hold my little arms as far as I could out in front of me, while holding the only thing I thought could keep me from drowning, my red kick board. From my child’s eyes, the gap between me and that board felt like a mile because I could not see through that water and feared that the dark space below would swallow me up whole. This was in the early 1960’s.

I lived in New York and Connecticut from age zero to nine, formative years with the trauma of the death of my young father being part of the story. He was 42. I was 7. He went to bed on a Friday night, and was a no show for our standing cartoon date the next morning. Because during the night, he had a grand mal seizure, which stopped his heart. For good. And the family fell apart after that.

Before he died, family outings to the ocean were regular practice, as my father loved the sea. He had a boat at the yacht club named for my brother and sister, who were here first, eight and nine years ahead of me. They were sailors too, and while I was in swim lessons, they were in sailing school.

Jones Beach in New York was a place we often went as a family. My first thought is the memory of the time I got to watch the filming of a Hawaiian Punch commercial there. I sported a red mustache stain often, so I was a big fan. They spread a blanket on the beach, filled it with lemons, limes, oranges, pineapple and ice cubes. Then, two people grabbed the edges and tossed up the contents like a trampoline while the camera filmed. The end result that made it to the screen was a slow motion scene of fruit and ice flying up and down, seeming like magic to me.

The next thought I have is the undertow. And my experience of having been caught in it. I don’t remember specifically, but I know that it happened. I had a recurrent nightmare for years, (not sure for how long or when they began or ended,)of blankets coming up over my head, and me struggling to breathe. I always reasoned that was because of being caught in an undertow, because the sensation was the same.

The truth is, based on more information coming to my consciousness over the years, there is also a possibility that those were real blankets and that at some point, someone tried to make me quiet with them. If that did happen, at this time I don’t know who or why or if so, or if they wanted me quiet for the moment or forever. So it’s no wonder to me that while I do have sleep apnea, I often sleep better when I rebel and don’t cover my face with my CPAP mask to sleep.

Two years after my father died, it was just me and my mom in 1969, in a big three bedroom house on two acres in Connecticut. My mom had sent my sister away. To college early. And my brother, was just sent away. In my nine year old experience, I had lost my father and only friend at age seven, followed two years later by losing my brother and sister, my home as I knew it, four collies, including “Buttons,” the one I called mine.

The greatest devastation was not the house or the dogs that were lost, it was any hope of ever having those who survived my father’s death to ever be anything like a family-ever again. My father had a traumatic brain injury where he was mugged and left for dead in a stairwell in Manhattan in his late twenties and when he drank against doctor’s advice, was emboldened to hurt people. My mom had suffered violence at the hand of my father for many years. From what I saw and know today, everyone in our family suffered at his hand, albeit mine seemed the least of it. But growing up around what was happening, that being my formative environment, took its toll on me, much like second hand smoke.

My mom had decided to move us. Me and her. And I was excited. Because we were moving to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida! I would get to live at the beach, in a fancy high rise condo and the plan was that I would attend a school with children from all over the world. I was thrilled. And it never happened. Instead, we ended up in her old home town in Southern Illinois and then Tulsa, Oklahoma. So when I am telling those who ask why I moved here to Destin, Florida, whether it is a local or one of 4 million tourists, I say, “I was removed from the beach against my will at age nine, so I decided to make that right.”

Fast forward to the 1970’s and the release of the movie Jaws. That did not help me. I was still working on going to the playground without fear after seeing the movie The Birds which depicted a small sea village overrun by angry sea and land birds that attacked and terrorized the towns people, teachers and children on the playground.

From then until now, the only vacation destination that held my interest was always the beach. But never to swim in the water. Just to be near it on the beach. And boy, have I landed on a beautiful one. It is considered by some, to be one of the most beautiful in the world. And for good reason. The sand is white and it sings when you strike it just right with your heels, the water is an ever changing experiential painting, boasting clear Coke bottle green waters on the sand bars, allowing the eye to see quite clearly what is frolicking there. One day, I got to watch the manarays, with their black ball diamond bodies, accented with white, long black tails swishing as they glided through the shallow water faster than I could keep up with as I walked knee deep behind them trying to keep up.

As the eye moves up towards the horizon, on a sunny day, of which there are many, the water likes to show of its Emerald green prowess, which has rightfully earned these beaches the name of Emerald Coast. But don’t tell anyone here, MY favorite water is that sapphire blue that, as you continue up from the bottom if you are scanning sand to sky, happens just before you see that navy blue line, setting a boundary that if it had a voice it would say to the viewer, “This is where the sky begins and don’t you forget it!” I have also heard it say, “Look at me. ALL of me. My water. My sand. My sky. My creatures. Take me in. Often. Because I am a gift. An ever changing display of the most beautiful living painting you will ever have the good fortune to see. I will never be the same way twice. Not from minute to minute. Not from day to day. I will dazzle you with my angry gray clouds, my bright white towers, my periwinkle sunrise with the sweetest pink accents. You will be stunned at what I show you. The colors, if you pay attention, will blow your mind. The bold orange and yellow fireballs that when they go under water for the night, don’t go without at times leaving a green burst of light at my horizon line.”

I have gone for a walk in cutoffs and a t shirt that took me chest high into the water some 40 feet offshore, shallow green waters allowing me to do so, to enjoy the show of the pelicans all around me. I have watched between 50 and 100 migrating loons on the water. My personal favorites, because they appear black with white polka dots, and I have a jar full of feathers that they leave me beach side on their way out of town to prove it. I relate to the sandpipers. Those little ones who travel in neurotic groups, their legs almost spastic as they scurry.

I don’t talk about this in the daylight much. But today, I felt I had to. Because once again, just last night, after a week filled with situational ups and downs of joy and disappointment, I felt down, and tired and spent. And again today, I woke up, so where the night at times can be like being in deep, dark water, waking up again affords me the chance to push off the bottom and resurface. And while it may be hard to believe, mornings like that it can still be hard to get up and go to the beach. Thankfully, most of the days I am gifted with the strength to do so. Because I have learned that no matter what the world is doing, and much of it right now makes me very sad, in my little world, the beach is healing me.

When I was 11, I had my first understanding that people could make themselves die on purpose when my 14 year old cousin, a beautiful, sensitive artistic soul shot himself. When Robin Williams died, I was heartbroken as the world was to lose such a joy bringer. But when Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade both took their lives within months of each other in 2018, when I was in a year long severe depressive episode, I found myself googling how to hang myself. From my cousin’s death forward, the suicides of people who show a beautiful life to us, only to end it in private has left me marked with a fear at times that one day, suicide will come to me or my thoughts and it will win. I have never attempted it, and every time the thoughts were strong I went for help because the moods I live with at times change fast at no notice from up and embracing the moment, to a deep dive of hopeless despair.

And while I am on the subject, one which sharing it out loud here makes me feel naked because so many judge what they do not know, those people who have not been here cannot know. And sadly, they will continue in ignorance to judge a person whose pain moves them to leave a lifeless body on purpose as selfish. Mental illness IS NOT a character flaw. It is a real sickness. And for this person, those who do judge out loud, when I hear them if I am down at that time, just makes the pain worse, never better. So please, keep it to yourself. I have been in that dark space on and off now for a year never mind for most of my life and have shared that there are nights as I age when I say to my maker that I would be okay if I didn’t wake up, but I never volunteer to exit. I just express the feelings to safe people because much like cockroaches, they can sometimes flee when there is light. Frankly, that is part of why I am sharing this now.

Back on land and at home, after going to the beach, I am changed for the better. But back on land and at home is the rest of my life. And that has been hard at times, in recent days and before. Even moving to paradise is still change requiring the grief and loss of where I left to come here and all of the support and the people who gave it. I made this move because I was moved to do so. By the instinct that was put in me by whatever made me. And everywhere I go, there I am.

So I find myself healing in paradise. From unresolved grief over the loss of my 24 year marriage, the necessary loss of a 23 year old daughter, formerly dependent on me, who now is a young adult, with less need for me and more need to find her own way. I am now a life consultant and I am careful with that to just offer my experience if it applies and in most cases, I am just a listening ear to the young woman just looking for a safe place to sound out what is happening in her life in this world. And I miss her.

And here I am. Making my life. At the beach. As a woman who is afraid of the water, I find myself consumed by wanting to keep others from drowning or dying. People and living creatures alike. This morning, I scooped up a bee, struggling at the water’s edge the get right side up and fly. I carried it in a pile of sand to the dune nearby. This week, I found a bobber on a rope that floated up onshore. The rope was covered with some kind of mollusks, who looked like some kind of Mad Max community. All in burnt umber, appearing lifeless as they were attached to the rope with seagrass and muck, only to watch long enough and see signs of life. It looked like shell mothers twitching with babies attached. It was fascinating. In any event, when I learned that the line had been thrown in the trash, I made it my mission to save them. I dug them out of the the trash, found a fishermen’s knife, cut off the bobber, and threw the line out, hoping it would take them somewhere to keep living.

Earlier this year, I spent three hours helping rescue a loon who had beached with a spinal injury, consumed by doing my part so that it had every chance to make it. And yesterday, I saw something floating just offshore. It appeared gray, and round and shiny, I thought maybe it was a dolphin. I kept an eye on it for forty minutes or so, as a crowd began to gather and a long lens camera holder spotted what looked to be a sea turtle dead in the water. I went into action. Calling the Florida Wildlife people and was told they would need a call to pick it up once it has washed up on shore. I felt sad. Just then, a man swam out to see what it was and upon his return, he had good news. Not only was it a very much alive turtle, it was not alone. It was having a roll in the hay of the Gulf of Mexico, working on baby turtles, and when he told me that part, his eyes got wide as he said, “that is something you cannot unsee.”

I am a volunteer on the beach, trained to support the lifeguards and other agencies who try to keep the people here safe when the water is not. It is optional as to when I volunteer. They don’t require a commitment to a calendar. I go when I feel called from within. And typically that is on the days when the water is closed. Double red flags fly to warn of the rip currents. Rip currents which have killed five people here in the last few months alone. My job on those days, when I see people in the water, is to blow a whistle, wave them out, and explain that the water is closed. Then, if, and sadly when, they go back in, I am trained to take a picture of their back side, note their description, time and place of entry and report it so that if their body turns up later, they have some idea of what happened.

As I recount this to you, I am struck that I am trying to keep things and people alive. When I can only do so much. But I think it comes from several places. On the surface, I really want to do my part. And when I do these things, I feel value and purpose. But what troubles me is the emotion behind my action at times. It is almost a desperation. Ultimately, The life I think I am trying to save is mine.

To use a metaphor, I have had many times in my life when I go through periods of darkness. And some of them are frightening to me. The feeling is not unlike that same fear I felt when I was asked to trust a kick board with my life. And there was not much in my young life at that time that showed me ANYTHING was worthy of trust. So I see these times as me being under the water, in total darkness, part of me relishing in the quiet, the other desperate to spring to the surface to breathe, not wanting to suffocate. But I have had so many of these times that doctors like to call bipolar depressions that when they come, they find me as a tired woman who isn’t very fond of swimming to begin with. And I entertain the idea of staying down.

So I will let the beach and its water have the final word here. And I suspect it would speak to me in this way. “Keep coming to me. Daily if you can. More than once a day if you feel led. That is me calling you. See me as proof that beauty still exists in a sometimes ugly world. Kindness still happens in a sometimes angry society. The unexpected can surprise you with joy. And life is everywhere. All the things and the creatures all have a part.They matter. And so do you.”

“P. S. I will put people in your path who will help you to not fear my waves. And I will offer you joy and healing beyond measure when the time comes.”

Art and Anxiety-My Weekend With Both -In Honor Of Mental Health Awareness Month

Art and Anxiety-My Weekend With Both -In Honor Of Mental Health Awareness Month

(The face of Joy)

It is 2:30 a. m. I have been awake since midnight, in spite of the Trazadone I took at 9 p. m. that usually secures a good five or six hours of sleep for my tenacious brain.  

I just finished a three day street art festival. I literally made art on the street, alongside some significant talent. To say I was humbled would be an understatement. I am new to the art community here in Florida, and had much hope for a three day fun filled art rich experience. Thankfully, the last two days brought much of that. But if I put aside my “How shall I present this through the fake filter of ‘I want people to think I have it together on social media’ appropriate”, I decided to get real. After all, it’s Mental Health Awareness Month and I have been at times painfully aware of my mental health or lack thereof for most of my adult life.

When I was thirty, I was diagnosed as  having bipolar disorder, type 2. My experience in the years since have been rich with creativity,  agitation and a significant depression and anxiety. Through medication, a spiritual practice, a little yoga, beach life and a sturdy support network made up of therapists, psychologists and fellow travelers, I have survived  a lot. But the story I want to tell here is about the favorite medicine for what ails my beautiful brain. Creating art. 

This art festival was one where every artist was given a 10’ square of pavement upon which to art. I was ecstatic because I am currently obsessed with beach umbrellas, so I submitted an image and they signed me up.

About a month ago, I was diagnosed as being in an acute depressive episode. Always a mixed thing to be told. Like “Yay! I feel like shit and now I know why.” But also, “Fuck I am a mental case. My life will certainly go nowhere.” That last one is what happens when thoughts go through the filter of depression. Fortunately, I found a stellar new psychiatrist who put me back on a medication that has a great deal of success addressing these “bipolar depressions” for me in the past. Latuda. The cost to me, however, would be $500 out of my not deep pockets. But there is a God and that God put me with a helluva head shrinker who called my first month of success back on this drug  “robust”  and who has assured me that one way or another, I will have this medication, if I have to get samples for all of the two years until there is a generic available. 

To try and make the samples go farther, she gave me a mg that was twice my RX so I could cut them in half and get more out of each one. Bad idea because these are time released, hence cutting into the protective coating that allows for the gradual release meant to happen over twenty four hours set me up for one rough Friday afternoon. In fact, I had been taking them cut in half for about a week and as I reflect, this marks one of several nights where I should be asleep but my brain has had me up and painting or writing or talking to my friend in England who is awake because it is five hours later there. So Friday, I had anxiety and panic like I have not seen since three years ago. Not fun. Creative, but not fun.

On Friday, I took my medicine with lunch and when that cut pill decided to explode, I went to hell in an hour. At 1:30pm, I got in my car with all of my supplies loaded up for this three day art festival.

On the drive there, I began to not feel grounded in my body. As if my car was on the road, but I was not there. Like disassociation on steroids. It is not a safe feeling. I got to the venue, parked my car and called a friend. The panic was erupting in me and there was not a damn thing I could do, except ride it out. I wanted to curl up in a ball in the backseat of my car, but that would not have done anything to help. Instead, I pushed my way to put my car into drive and drove through the beautiful shopping center where I had happily been for shopping just days before. When I parked my car, it was getting worse. And when I got to the info. booth to check in, that was as far as I got. I knew that there would be no unloading of supplies or meeting of new artist friends. Nope. I would be doing triage on what felt almost psychotic. The plan was to check in, find my space and commence to chalk art. Instead, I stood there, looking like someone who felt good, being someone who did not.

I looked at the event coordinator and said, “I am not feeling well. I am going home. I will be back tomorrow.” Words I did not believe to be true. 

For the next four hours, I lived in hell between my ears. I called my doctor reporting that I was in a panic state and felt that the medicine was to blame. I called several friends, one who stayed on the phone with me while I drove home from the venue, moral support on the other end in Texas saying “Take some deep breaths. I am here with you.” When I got home, I could not wait to get inside my house. I felt like a horse running back to the barn for safety and security, things I felt I would never know again. Thoughts included, “I really am too much of a mental case to ever be a contributing member of society.” But fortunately, I have support from people who tell me that feelings are not facts and not all thoughts deserve to be believed. 

When my doctor put me on the Latuda, she informed me that the bipolar label would have to go back on my chart, unless I’d rather pay $1300 for this drug that had been so helpful when I had better insurance that afforded it for $150 a month in the past. My bipolar label had always been a source of shame. So much bad stigma with that label. Arts and entertainment does some terrible things in their portrayal of manic depression in movies and books. It is a complex diagnosis with many sub diagnoses and somewhere along the way, I managed to get it taken off my chart. 

“Commit to the treatment, not the diagnosis” the words from my new doctor to me, as she was sensitive to the fact that I hated that label. I have that up on my bathroom mirror now.

(Note to self.)

It took four or five hours to come down from the horror of that med exploding in my system and I gave myself complete permission to bail on the art festival if it seemed too much.

Happily, when I woke the next day, I felt better and I had a new resolve to show up for my art. That is what this story is meant to be about, but all this backstory is an important part of the context. 

It was Saturday. Day 2 of the event. I got in the shower, dressed and off I went. I spent the day meeting people, cheering people on, crushing chalk with a wooden mallet to mix with water as paint to begin creating my current obsession of beach umbrellas on the pavement.

And I returned the next day, too. During the festival, I felt a little like a fraud here and there, as I was surrounded by some real fine artists. But I reminded myself that my art belongs to me. It is my gift. It did not get given to anyone but me and my practice of expressing that, particularly since the end of my 24 year marriage 6 years ago, has been exponentially healing for my grief, depression and anxiety. I am sure I could find science to support this, but my personal experience is enough for me.

For over two years, I have practiced my artistic expression every Thursday like a religion. This kind of commitment is far better than the psych ward and the doors are unlocked too. I have powered through chronic pain, insomnia, kicking benzos that I took for sleep for many years and heartbreak all through the action of making art. The part of the brain where the ideas come from is like a comfy chair. I love being in it. It holds me quite nicely, feeds me ideas and relaxes my mind because when I get centered in creating, I am FULLY PRESENT. That is my sweet spot. If you love to paint or to draw or to write or to bake or to entertain, you know what I am talking about.

Day three of the art festival was Mother’s Day. Families were everywhere. Some missing members who had passed this last year. I was missing my daughter, who now lives 800 miles away after just being in the room next to me this time last year. Others appeared whole and complete in their Sunday best of fine linen pants and Lilly Pulitzer dresses of lime and vermillion greens with neon pink tassel accents. It was a handsome crowd. Artists and spectators alike. I got a call from my daughter to wish me Happy Mother’s Day. It was one in a series of hour long delightful authentic exchanges. The kind old friends have and admire at their close.

The event was coming to its end and there were cash awards to be given. I had a secret hope I might get one, but was only a little disappointed based on those who did get recognized. One was Elle Farquhar, a little girl who, like me, recently moved here from Oklahoma who stayed out in the hot sun to the end to make her art in spite of a meltdown that her mother reported. I could relate.

My favorite of all those recognized however, was one Danny Kocher, whose work was announced as a winner as follows: “And the next award goes to someone who captured much of what we have all been feeling during this last year in his illustration called ‘Anxiety.’ ” Danny created for three days in the hot sun with the help of his precious red headed niece to commemorate Mental Health Awareness Month.

I may not have been given an award, but I recognized my own success for the fact that I showed up and stuck it out to practice my art. And I’d have to say, that much like that mallet did to that chalk, I crushed it.

(What Mental Health Should Look Like)

Special thanks to Jim Clark Photography for some of these stellar images iamjimclark.com

and Danny Hocher for his bold contribution to Mental Health Awareness. instagram.com/dannykartist