Lacrimae

No more attempts at "relationships" for me. I am so done.

It's the tears I hate. I can be almost anywhere, and my eyes will fill up. It's fine when I am alone, and the water can flow uninterrupted -- or when I am on a walk, and can hide behind huge sunglasses.

But it happened at the mall tonight, as I was waiting for my daughter and her friend. Horrible timing.

Pretending to read (at least the book was right side up) I sat there struggling to regain my composure, exposed on every side, but ignored (happily).

But I wouldn't give in. I couldn't give in. Surrounded by teenagers and families enjoying (if one can use that term) the best fast food Exton can offer, I swept my hair back from my face fiercely, channeling every tough heroine I knew.

Still, it's a challenge when you are in the middle of a conversation about something, and suddenly it's a struggle to articulate the words because your throat has tightened and you start to feel not only pitiable, but pitiful. It stinks.

And then, of course, there are the feelings I closeted while in the thick of things, but am only now allowing myself to experience -- those will remain private.

I used to be very happy to be by myself -- too happy, I believed. Now I'm not happy alone, but don't think I can risk hope once more.

Of course, there are those other factors -- there is another facet, facts behind the feelings. There are so many reasons not to accept my current version of reality, my perspective, and even my gloom about my future hopes.

But right now, as in so many quarters, emotions rule.

They will, apparently, have their day - or their dark night.

In the daylight, things may look different. But I'm not much good at waiting. Or escaping. Or denying.

I am, however, an expert at looking like I'm about to burst into tears.

Too bad you can't make a career out of it.

A special readers note (or a reader's special note)

I hardly know what to say. It's rare that this inconsequential little blog gets such devoted, if perhaps fleeting, attention.

And really, why should the meditations of an exurban mother of two be worthy of anybody's scrutiny?

Little League mom. Boy Scout mom. A person who spends much of her day chauffeuring kids to after- school activities and the movies? Could anything be more boring to someone I have never met?

I seem to show a shocking lack of principle -- someone who roots both for the Phillies and the Yankees must be totally namby-pamby. I don't know one end of a football from the other. I live out here among Republicans and hunters -- and some of them are even my friends.

Then there is the matter of my belief in God -- I must be, as it were, thoroughly irredeemable. So unsophisticated.

If I didn't have a good friend with a condo in Utah, I'd never get out of Pennsylvania.

Even my vices, ordering PG Tips and Ribena in cases from the U.K., are rather pedestrian.

And let's not even talk about my lack of culture -- out here in the rural fastnesses of Chester County, my idea of a good time is a long walk through the cornfields.

Tedious, really. Rather a cow. Not to milk the metaphor, but I'm udderly beneath your notice.

I'll do my best to find little snippets that may be amusing for you -- but I make no promises.

So long for now -- I've got some gardening to do -- and the laundry to take in.

Back from the edge

"I don't care if you ever dated me, or were my friend, you don't know me and you have no right to judge me. I know who my friends are, so don't even pretend" writes my daughter on her Facebook wall.

A few updates back, she muses on how her life, since her 16th birthday, has gotten progressively worse.

I sigh. Or I grin. Or, when there is some revelation I consider particularly inappropriate, likely to cause problems for her, I call her dad and ask him whether we need to impose some consequence.

But in the case of adults like me, we are the only ones who can impose the consequence.

Technological toys like Facebook and Twitter can be such wonderful instruments for spreading news, creating more open societies, and promoting one's work.

No wonder dictators move to choke off revolutions by shutting down Facebook and Twitter.

Most of the time, I am a placid user.

As someone who has profited by sharing snippets of her life story as a commentator, I am happy to have the additional forum.

But I've found that I am not always a wiser consumer -- at least not recently. There have been occasions on which I have veered too far over that invisible line I chart for my daughter. And that's a big red flag.

Most of my friends and followers are smart about the way they access social technology.

If you met them in real life, you'd recognize them from their online persona's. Most of them are wary about how much personal information they divulge -- they do it if it will edify, not humiliate or embarrass.

I want to be one of those people. I choose to be one of those people.

A few changes are in order.

I am taking a break from personal tweeting, unless it concerns news or posts from articles (or my blog), until I am better at maintaining the boundaries I have set.

I apply the "will you regret having said this in three months test" when I put personal information on Facebook.

I will try to spread light, and not darkness.

And mostly, I'm going to try to be the person online that I am offline.

We'll see how well I do.

How about you, readers? Do you sometimes fall into the red zone when it comes to self-disclosure? What are your zones of privacy? Comment, please.

Inflate me: did I really earn that A?

I just checked my spring grades. Relief -- and unbelief.

I've had occasion to think about grades and how they are handed out recently -- something I didn't care about a lot the first time around.

In seminary, my grades reflected my interest in a topic -- barely respectable (well, actually horrible) in the introductory courses, gold stars in the doctoral-level English courses at Princeton University. Yes, I find reading the poet Andrew Marvell more interesting than John Calvin.

But this time around, on my third master's degree (and my second in the secular arena), I've noticed something. I could probably hand in a paper in Swahili and still keep that shiny GPA.

This past semester, I KNOW that the professor curved a test score.

I don't think it's my extraordinary academic ability. Instead, it seems to reflect some kind of bias on the part of graduate schools.

My second degree, at Rosemont, I came really close to a perfect grade point average. And I still recall the teacher who gave me a B+ (or maybe it was a B). He said something like: "you really didn't get all the nuances of this topic (ugggh, project management) but you compensated with enthusiasm."

I can tell you right now, he (and my classmates) were the only things I liked about the topic.

His grade may have been the most authentic thing about the degree.

Which doesn't mean that I wasn't disappointed when I didn't get an award at graduation. Particularly with my spotty academic history in college and at Princeton Theological Seminary, I don't mind imitating a fantastic student.

I've only taken four courses towards my counseling degree -- very possibly, the more advanced classes will be harder. Also, the professors, who were forgiving about style, will feel freer to hit me on my shaky command of APA style.

But I still wonder -- why do the grades I felt I really earned in college seem to come so easily now? I really doubt it has anything to do with me, or my classmates.

I have the sense that I'll find out -- and whether I like the answer, or not, I'm still going to be questioning.

Do 'nice girls' finish last?

Year ago I interviewed a famous Bible scholar (really kind to me, by the way). Asked about another, more liberal and popular (at the time) scholar, he labeled the man "terminally nice."

Snarky, but clever enough for me to remember with a twisted grin every time that man's name comes up.

I'm afraid I fall into the "nice girl" category. And trust me, I 'm not saying it as a compliment to myself.

I listen to other people's woes -- and not solely when someone is paying me to do it.

I apologize to them, sometimes unnecessarily. If I hurt a friend, it can keep me up at night.

I feel their pain, often before they feel it.

But it's more what I don't do that probably separates me from another type, the femme fatale.

I don't seduce. Heck, I'm not even that good at innuendo.

Rock a strapless dress? You gotta be kidding.

Drama is something I try to avoid at all costs.

Minor temper tantrums aside, I generally prefer an even keel.

Not that I am saintly, by any means -- I can do catty. I can attempt sexy, before I lose my nerve. I know lots of feminine wiles, ways to get under a man's guard. I'm just not very good at using them, so I tend to fall back on that old standby -- nice.

And we "nice girls"? We can spot other ones a mile away. I know I can trust my "nice" girlfriends.

But I have to admit, I like to make friends with women who have a bit of a "mean streak" -- it makes for better girl's nights out.

But nice isn't exciting, is it? Nice doesn't provide those wonderful ups and downs many of us (male and female) learned to associate with romance in high school? Nice is what you want when you are living in the nursing home, not in business, or friendship, or love.

And underneath all of this self-mockery, I suppose that I accept that I don't really have a choice -- I'm just going to hope that someday a guy will come along who will appreciate steadfastness, and not be bored with it.

In the meantime, I "get" you, Taylor! Here's to all the people standing on stage as Kanye, or some other dude, grabs the mike out of their hands -- speechless, incredulous, and right out of the spotlight.

Goin' crazy on you - Living la vida loca in a therapeutic society

Did you know that the experts who get to diagnose our mental disorders are coming out with a new bunch of labels for the woes that wake us up at night?

Here's the first paragraph from the page, replete with links, that the APA (American Psychological Association) has on those proposed changes.

You will notice several changes to this Web site since we first launched in February 2010. Numerous disorders contain updated criteria. For example, nearly all of the Bipolar and Related Disorders contain updates. We have also posted several newly proposed disorders, such as Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder. Furthermore, we have added many diagnostic-specific severity measures, including the Anxiety, Obsessive-Compulsive-Related, and Trauma-Related Disorders. A detailed listing of all changes to DSM5.org that have taken place since February 2010 can be found on theRecent Updates page.

If you wish, you can read in detail.

And why should you care, you ask yourself. Why should changes in the new edition of Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM 5) concern lil' ol' me?

I'll tell you why I care, first. And then you can make up your own mind -- if you don't have indecisive disorder.

I have personal and professional reasons for curiosity about the way our Ph.D. establishment looks at mental illness (ooops, sorry disorders).

First of all, I'm a therapy vet. Ongoing visits to someone with a string of letters at the end of their name is de rigeur for clergy.

Coming out of a failed marriage, I had a strong desire to become as healthy as I could.

In addition - clergy, who like other social service professionals often still are offered license to poke around in the cluttered basements of other people's psyches, can find themselves in situations where they have to make speedy judgment calls -- am I being intolerant? Or are you really acting nuts?

I'm sure that most of us have found ourselves in situations where we had to take a hard look and ask ourselves what falls within the perameters of normal -- and what is outside the lines. Of course, that assumes that as a society we have some agreed-on idea of what 'normal' is, to begin with.

I have a third reason. As a future counselor (I'm working on a degree), I also need to have a basic understanding of how diagnoses are made. Eventually, I might be signing your receipts (find another therapist, fast!)

So perhaps it seems a bit strange that I'm questioning the avalanche of new potential diagnoses . But it strikes me that we are living in a society in which everyone, pretty much has a label that will explain it all. And that's a bit scary.

Do you get anxious on planes? Do you go nuts when someone cuts in front of you while you are buying groceries? Do you get furious at tailgaters? Are you a guy dealing with the inevitable changes aging brings? Do Democrats (Republicans, libertarians, Yankee-lovers) infuriate you?

Have I got a label for you, love.

Remember (those of you who are old enough) when you were simply neurotic? It was the college prof who gave you a C, or your girlfriend's prudish father, who were psychotic. Simple.

We live in a culture in which everyone (in part thanks to our insurance companies) has a complex diagnosis.

Given the curve balls life can toss at us, perhaps that isn't surprising.

Sadly, however, for those of us who grapple with mental disorders profound enough to affect our daily lives and keep us from becoming the people we were meant to be, cures are still as elusive as ever.

So practice compassion -- and don't buy into the code game.

Better you don't know what he or she is writing on your slip.

You might need more therapy -- or another therapist to cure you of the label.

My disillusionment manifesto

Everyone has their gifts -- but our gifts have their shadow side.

One of my double-edged abilities is a slant towards what one old friend memorably called a "hellish honesty."

I slice through rationalizations like a butcher -- including my own.

Recognizing that sometimes even the "facts" are debatable, and we seem to have different "truths," I want to know your perspective.

I may learn something new.

I might be changed.

Pin me down? Good luck with that.

Of course, the downside of that position is taking a long time to make a choice, or stand on the side of the "angels" or be courageous when bravery is called for.

And one can become cynical. Very cynical.

Doubtful to the point where it seems like there are so many forms of "illusionment" out there that faith in human idealism (in many senses of the word) and good sense is just a waste of time.

I also realize that I, too, can be inconsistent, random, and judgmental (of those who are too judgmental or snarky, of course).

There is a profound loneliness that goes with taking a position outside the boundaries, whatever those boundaries may be.

Like the nonbelievers I have met who say that they "envy" a faith that aids believers in difficult times, I yearn for the passion to pursue a goal, even if that goal ultimately turns out to be nothing but a mirage or a compromise with reality.

I think.

But I can see equally compelling arguments against this perspective.

Let me get back to you on this...in a few decades.

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How about you? Do you suffer from illusion envy? Do you have tough times making up your mind about "big questions?" Talk, baby.