Supernatural Window

"When things appear to be falling apart, supernatural horror stories provide their authors and readers with a masochistic, but relatively safe means of fantasizing the worst"--Jack Sullivan

Originally my plan for the new school-year was to use this blog to channel my way through the bigger issues in society: war, politics, education...etc. but little things keep getting in the way. Quarter-life crises and salsa dancing and crazy missions and ghost stories. It occurs to me that these things are just as important to me as the bigger issues, maybe even more so because they are happening to me, right here and now. After all, this thing was created for me to write, so I might as well write about what I want.

This semester I am taking a class on supernatural literature as part of my writing major. I was never big into ghost stories before, mainly because they just didn't scare me. I can watch "scary" movies and end up feeling more amazed than anything that so many people can believe in spirits and demons and zombies when there is obviously more evil to be seen right here in human nature. Why make movies about the end of the world or fabricated terrorist attacks when there are genocides, kidnappings, drug wars and terrorism right here on the news? Not a thousand miles from your television? As a society we seem to love this masochism--we eat it up with breakfast and watch it slipping through the corners of our periphery throughout the day. We can't get enough of it.

During the past week I finally came to an understanding about this phenomenon. Over Thanksgiving break we were assigned to read a novel by Hilary Mantel called "Beyond Black," a chilling modern ghost story about a woman who was molested, abused, and ignored throughout her childhood. Her severe psychological trauma is relived again and again in the form of several spirits who haunt her adult life, mocking her and bringing up the past each day and preventing her from healing. There was so much that was disturbing in this book--her broken family dynamics, a significant lack of pity or compassion from anyone in the story, the fact that the devil himself is her biological father--that I found myself torn between revulsion and fascination, as my professor says any good horror literature ought to make the reader become. I watched Alision, the main character, suffer again and again and couldn't put the book down or turn away from it without knowing what the ending would be.

What was more frustrating to me than this sick fascination was the fact that I was scared. Really and truly terrified by a ghost story that ought to be discardable fiction.

In the story Alison is bombarded by hosts of the dead every single day. Sometimes it's just a hand or foot. A voice. A thought. An unanswered question. And then sometimes its a mob of spirits pulling her, twisting her insides and driving her crazy. I started to think I was hearing things, seeing things in between readings. I heard a tapping at my window late at night and sat up in bed, my heart pounding. Was it Bob Fox trying to get in? Was it MacArthur leering outside with his one eyeball? On the bus-ride from Idaho Falls to Boise I kept seeing flashes of faces in the fields as we whizzed past, gaping mouths in the sky and fingers reaching up from the dirty road. I thought I smelled Morris in the corners of the airport, reeking of decaying flesh and cigar abuse. I even believed I saw my own future as I watched a happy family exit a mini-van at the gas station in Mountain Home, the mother, father, and little children appearing suspiciously like my boyfriend and I in looks, body language and attitude.

Was it just that I was so absorbed in my readings that I was prepared to believe in the supernatural, no matter how farfetched it seemed? Or was it that I was emotionally exhausted from the various misfortunes that had gone on in the week and was looking for the masochistic confirmation that I had a right to be discouraged, like Alison had the right to be traumatized?

Or was I just delirious from too many nights of not enough sleep?

I think to an extent all of these things were true. I read the book at just the right time to be affected by its darker themes, with just enough going on in my life to feel like it was mirroring the story. Do I really believe in the supernatural now or expect to be scared by ghost stories from now on? ...Probably not. But I do believe that there is a place for supernatural fiction in society, especially the modern society where reality is frightening enough that creating a little scary fiction can be entertaining and even preferable. An escape from realities that can't be so easily closed and placed back on the shelf.

What I Took From Salsa Dancing

"How many times have you looked at someone and thought, 'I'm not as good as them?'"

My week-long challenge to myself to live life a little fuller was, sadly, mostly uneventful... until today. I spent most of the week in a sleep-deprived haze trying to change my status as a student from "awful" to "decent" again, studying and working like a madwoman. I was disappointed to find I didn't have too many reasons to go on a wild rampage or throw a tantrum and for the most part, I was still middle-aged me. The Old Soul.

Enter Salsa Dancing.

Admittedly I would never volunteer to go salsa dancing by myself. For all my years in ballet I came away with surprisingly little in terms of coordination, and the idea of going out anywhere to try to Latin dance was terrifying, particularly after being laughed off the floor at a Zumba class last year (the white, nerdly duckling in a room of beautiful Hispanic swans.) But a friend of mine in choir (who shall go unnamed but THANK YOU!!!) made a convincing case for salsa--if this was really to be my week of living on the edge I had to do something way out of my comfort zone. As in, galaxies out of the comfort zone. Expressive dancing with a total stranger an hour away (in the shortest dress I've ever worn!) was exactly the ticket. It was too perfect to pass up.

When we arrived at the Boise Cafe I was full of the regular anxieties. How awful was this going to be? How many feet would I step on? And more importantly--HOW exactly was I supposed to dance in heels and a little black dress? I longed for my jeans. I longed for my boyfriend to be there to make the whole thing less painful. And before it had even started, I was longing for a nap. The Salsa lessons were already underway when we got there, and with limited numbers of partners I had to play the part of a guy for a while until more men showed up. I had told myself repeatedly that I was not going to be shy or reserved while I was there, so the awkwardness of playing the leading dude for girls I had never met wasn't allowed to phase me. I made myself laugh instead, and to my surprise, the other girls laughed with me. I started to relax.

About ten minutes into the lesson (a slow cha-cha) I got paired with a man who looked just as nervously determined about salsa as I was. This was a good sign. If I got paired with someone who had crazy skills I would be too intimidated to do much, and if I got paired with someone who didn't want to be there at all it would be hard to enjoy myself. As it was I was blessed with a guy with a great attitude that didn't care when I messed up. It was his first lesson too, and through a lot of trial and error we discovered that we could be just as good and even better than some of the other beginners in the room. With a strange sort of thrill I realized that I was doing it. I was dancing and I was having fun and I wasn't feeling bottled up. The Old Soul Robyn had gone somewhere else and left me with a different side of her; a ghost I had not seen in years whom I'd almost forgotten how to be.

When the lessons wrapped up I continued to dance, making myself go out onto the floor and wondering exactly where the usual voice of reasonable doubt was. And then my partner asked me what I was studying in school and why I wanted to be a counselor, and the Old Soul came back to talk about the state of education in Idaho. Politics. Convictions. I'm not sure exactly what two people talk about during their average salsa session (most people were saying more with their hands on each other's butts) but I'm guessing convictions are usually not on the list.

Yet I didn't stress about slipping back into Me again because I was now Two Things. I was still the Old Soul who found more in common with parents than people my own age, but I was also Brave. And Brave made me something different. I was a hybrid of self-confidence and crazy cat lady. Harold and Maude. Curry and prunes. (Ok, that last one is pretty gross.) The point is that for the first time in my college memory I was doing something new and mysterious with someone new and mysterious and I hadn't closed off or tried to hide. This was new. This was awesome. And hopefully, something I could learn to do more.

I told my partner how exciting it was to be out dancing on a Friday night instead of home mellowed out, and he pointed out something interesting to me. "How many times recently have you looked at someone and thought, 'I'm better than them?'" he asked me. I replied that of course I never thought I was better than someone or that I did something better than someone else because that's not nice.

"But then," he followed up, "how many times have you looked at someone and thought, 'I'm not as good as them?'"

This is a good point. Why exactly do we tend to compare our potential strengths to the strengths of others and end up weighing ourselves less? Why is it that we refuse to look a mirror straight on and say to ourselves you are good exactly the way you are? It makes me sad to think how many opportunities have been lost by the lack of confidence caused by this kind of thinking, and sadder still to think that I've lived most of my life that way.

After my partner left I remained at the Cafe until 1:30 in the morning with my housemate and our friends. Gradually I sank back into the old Me as I danced with people who were far better than I was, comparing myself to them in the exact way that I knew I shouldn't. Old habits die hard. But I didn't let myself despair or shrink, and the last hour at the Cafe was still as fun as the first. As much as I hope that the Brave part of me sticks around, I hope more for the perspective that started to change tonight to keep changing. To stop being so self-critical all the time. To be happy with who I am.

I dare you all to try an experiment this week. Do something you have always wanted to do but been too afraid to try, and when you feel doubts coming on, look at yourself and believe. You are good exactly the way you are.

Angry Days... No More?

In high school I frequently had one of THESE days:

Where I screamed along to System of a Down, Avenged Sevenfold, Disturbed, Five Finger Death Punch, and Godsmack.

Where I would have very much liked to GIVE someone a Five Fingered Death Punch (what an incredible name for a band, right?)

Where, unlike the months since my accident, I would not be afraid to go over the speed limit and race somebody and WIN. And not just win but DESTROY.

Where I might actually be brave enough to say what I mean and say it with force.

Where I might have done something crazy, and I had to remind myself to keep my emotions in control and not rage all over town.

The rational side inevitably kicked in enough to keep myself from saying something I'd seriously regret later or hurting somebody's feelings too much (to my Hulk-like alter ego's disappointment.) And this had the effect of feeling relief instead of regret the next day when facing the consequences of my (non) actions.

I believed this was a good thing.

But every ONCE in a while isn't it good to explode? To stop being so contained and pleasant and let some ugliness out? William Saroyan was quoted to advising writers to "try as much as possible to be wholly alive, with all your might. And when you laugh, laugh like hell, and when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough." I read these words last night and thought...what would happen if I did?

I am one of those people that no one can imagine being pissed off. I don't generally GET angry very often. Irritated I can do. Frustrated I can perfect. But angry? It takes a lot to get me to actually swear or do something totally weird like...voicing my opinion. Loudly. Or shut a door a little harder than is acceptable. Or hang up the phone forcefully on someone. Truth be told, on the RED HOT Rage Scale I am a lukewarm shade of Jello. Quivering, but contained.

Tonight I tried to be pissed off. I really did. I had lots of reasons to be angry and confrontational, but I ended up sitting in front of my computer typing instead of speaking. I tried listening to my angriest music, but after about fifteen minutes, I just wasn't feeling it anymore. I even practiced a little swearing at my monitor, but the words felt strange and cold to my ears.

WHAT HAPPENED TO ME??? When did I morph into this old woman who has to nap in the middle of class to even make it to the end of the day? Who sips chai and soup and chooses salad over a greasy burger? Whose dream this Halloween was to stay home and pass out candy, rather than dress up and hit a party? And more importantly...is this a GOOD THING? Is it better to remain in that state of teenage angst and moment-to-moment satisfaction or to recognize that the world is bigger than me and mellow out?

I don't know the answers to these questions, and so this week I am trying an experiment. I am going to LIVE as Saroyan advises to live. I will not allow myself to get in a funk about the weather. I will not allow myself to despair over a bad grade. I will act impulsively. I will be loud!! I might even go so far as to stomp my feet sometimes and jump up and down in tantrum if I so feel the need. And I will encourage those around me to do the same!

It is decided =) Let the experiment begin!!

The Day of The Birds

This morning I slept through my alarm and awoke to a world washed in gray and rain. Suddenly I heard my roommate exclaiming about something or other in the living room, and when I went to see what all the fuss was about I saw a swarm of literally HUNDREDS of birds outside. Sparrows, crows, brown birds--had taken over our street! Out the front room windows we saw the entire lawn packed with feathered bodies. The power-lines, trees, rooftops, and cars up and down the street were covered and as we watched they would land, pick at the ground and then suddenly take to the air all at once. We sat and watched them for about ten minutes and felt like we were in a scene from "The Birds," me trying to snap pictures the whole time as they wheeled and spun in the sky.

Then as quickly as they'd come, they were gone.

I have no idea what this means. My roommate hypothesized that the rain had brought out all the bugs and the birds had come to feast. My boyfriend cautioned that when animals go crazy it is sometimes a bad omen of weather to come. A less plausible but amusing explanation was offered by a friend at school: the birds had been infected by zombies and were gathering to rid the street of humans. Whatever the reason, we were lucky enough to be audience to a strange phenomenon of nature.

When I was a kid I used to wish I could be a bird. I felt like my namesake should be a part of my physical being--that maybe inside of the Robyn there was a robin bird waiting to burst forth and take wing. Then as I got older I realized that birds were limited. They can see more of the world than I could dream, mate and raise families in a tenth of the time that humans can, and they are blessed with a sense of grace that I envy, especially when I trip over my own feet looking up at them. But their lives are frantic. They are controlled by the natural instincts to find food and shelter, instincts to breed, instincts to nest and those less understood instincts to migrate and take to the sky in coordinated patterns. There is no time for self-fulfillment. No time to appreciate the view from which they soar. No time for redemption if they make mistakes. They either live and live well, or make one mistake and die alone somewhere, their beauty in life overshadowed by the grotesque figure of death that children poke sticks at.

But then again, I wonder if a bird doesn't look down at the human race scurrying through our streets and wonder if we're the frantic ones and they are the ones with purpose. Birds might even be able to love, for all I know. There are several species that mate for life, including swans, barn owls, condors, eagles, vultures, red-tailed hawks, pigeons, and cranes. This doesn't mean that they raise children exclusively with one another in all cases, but when it comes to the important things--returning year after year to the same nest, protecting one another--these birds show a kind of loyalty that society could learn from.

I was thinking about this tonight...thinking of my boyfriend and what it means to "mate for life"...to share a life together. What a terrifying and beautiful thing, this being in love. And how much easier it would seem to be a swan and never need to question my relationship or feel so homesick that I end up writing nonsense at three in the morning. How wonderful to be a swallow and never have to worry about money or grades or waking up on time. Sometimes, I think, being limited wouldn't be so bad. At least there are less chances of being hurt.

I know I can't leave this post there. I know that messing up and being hurt is the vital part of human existence that sets us apart from the birds and beasts; makes us grow and ebb like the tide. By day I will face up to the trials and deadlines of the world, but tonight, I think I'll dream I have wings instead.

A DayDreamers Post

A poem of daydreaming
by Robyn Argyle

From the floor of my cathedral, head cradled in a nest
of arms and notebook paper, I listen.
Someone is speaking from Up There, their voice
muffled by leagues of shadowy depths neither here nor there,
somewhere
above the sloped vaults in my chapel where birds and
spirits drift in and out of being.

I am dreaming, I think, but then again no. The voice
Up There is still speaking in tongues of Biology,
neurons, miracles of cellular proportions; chuckling
at some vague internal joke of its own invention.
There is a test on Friday and I really ought to be
taking notes, putting pen to page
instead of head to arm in comatose drifting, trying to
recharge from a week's sleepless nights.

I cannot find the energy to raise up from the cathedral floor
and push away the black nothing where things whisper. Fragments of
my other lives are lived here, in foreign embassies with strangers both
strange and familiar. Someone
pulls a chair across my marble floor and I start,
raising my head to see the backs of students exiting in droves.
Class is over. Did it ever begin?

I stretch and follow them outside, taking in this world with
skeptical eyes. The sun seems muted, the colors a little too
brilliant. I am unconvinced that I'm not dreaming still,
the child within me wondering if something fantastic
will occur. Am I invisible? Will the campus crack open
like an egg to reveal secret caverns beneath?

Where was I going, anyway?

The inevitable reality of reality sinks in, and I turn
to the coffee shop, my other cathedral, to make sense of the notes
I didn't take for the test I won't make for the sleep I'll be favoring
for the dreams I'll be dreaming.

Getting Real Part Two

Part Two:

So what do you do when you feel yourself getting dragged into a downward spiral? How do you cope? How do you grow? I'll share with you some things that I learned that worked and some that didn't, and hope that some of them will help. It's going to be a long post, so I'm going to break it into two parts.

If YOU are struggling with depression, seasonal or otherwise; anxiety, doubt or insomnia...

1) The best advice I think for all of these is being able to put the problem into words, and then finding some way to get those words out.

Counseling worked for me because I didn’t want to talk about my situation with anyone close to me. Some of the stuff that happened Freshmen year was downright terrifying, and I didn’t want to involve anyone else, including family (I'm not saying that was a great decision...but that's how it was.) It worked for me to talk to a stranger who couldn’t judge me, couldn’t say they were disappointed in me or be a part of my every day life. My counselor was one of my father’s friends that worked at his company and the counseling was free because I was a family member, so I went for it. He was exactly the kind of person I wanted to talk to because he genuinely cared, he listened and asked the hard questions that I needed to find answers to, and most importantly for me, he never gave me advice. He let me work out my problems on my own. He might suggest something and ask me what I thought, but he never told me to handle any situation any particular way. And that made me rely on myself more and grow through my own trial and errors.

Not everybody connects with a stranger well or has free access to one because their work or school doesn't offer it. If that's the case, keep an eye open for a family member, friend, coworker, peer, or acquaintance that seems to you like you can trust. Someone who has an open mind and does not easily judge you or try to make up your mind for you. Someone who will listen with both ears and do their best to support you. Sometimes it feels like this kind of person is rare in our world, but believe me, they are all around you. I found more people in the last three years who have become pillars of strength to me than I ever thought possible. Don't be shy about asking someone for a little of their time, and try to remember that as hard as it is to carry a burden between two or three people, it is infinitely harder to bear it alone.

Write. Every day, multiple times a day. Whether you’re writing in a journal only you can see, or typing out letters that you may or may not send to others, or keeping a blog, or e-mailing or making up fictional stories…anything that gets words and emotions and truth out is a way of releasing all the negativity. It helps you get to know yourself better and it may even help you resolve a lot of things. I took a writing workshop class at the end of Freshmen year—when my depression was at its very worst—and found myself writing finally about my situation, about my mistakes, and about my life. Writing is good therapy for the soul.

2) Let in the sunlight. If you live somewhere where it gets dark half of the year think about buying a strong lamp or taking extra Vitamin D. Try to have a schedule that allows you to see some daylight for long periods (no graveyard shifts or twenty credit semesters!!)

Sunlight can mean a lot of things. It can mean finding books, movies, or media that make you smile more or give yourself some "me" time to relax and recharge. It can mean associating yourself with happy, positive people and trying to match their attitudes. It can even mean "fake it till you make it," which is a concept we talked about in my Positive Psychology class where you try to be happier by developing a healthier perspective, even if it feels fake or forced at first. The idea is that the longer you fake it, the more it transforms into habit and into true happiness. I don't know how well this works, but the theory is interesting.

Sunlight can also be a spiritual thing, and it may help you to find light in God and in going to church or surrounding yourself with uplifting music or words. If you're spiritual but not religious, it might be art or music that uplifts you the most.

3) “Happy pills” are not the answer for everyone. Most people I think are skeptical of them because of the stereotypes or negative connotations associated with them. I myself haven’t looked into pills simply because I know I might get addicted to them or become dependent on them (I had headaches nearly every day for years and started forming a dependency on Tylenol...so I stay away from pills when I can.) But I know people who take prescription medicine for depression and have had a lot of success. Rather than “curing” them or making them happy the pills simply make the depression manageable enough to see the whole picture and think more positively, so life is easier to manage.

If you feel like there is chance you would rely on pills too much or you're uncomfortable with the thought of trying it then don't. Just don't allow yourself to latch on to other, unhealthy substances as substitutes for prescriptions, like alcohol, cigarettes or drugs. There is a difference between healthy reliance and addiction.

4) There are a lot of other small things that help, that I’ve learned about in psychology classes or talking to others:

--Playing an instrument or taking up something like art or photography can help a lot because the focus is on personal improvement and goals rather than personal flaws or failures
-—smiling even when you don’t feel happy can make others around you respond better to you which makes you feel better
--EXERCISE!!! In almost every study on exercise it has been shown that the mind and body improves. I started doing yoga this last winter and it gave me a place for all my energy and a way to focus for a few hours on something other than myself. Plus when you feel physically healthier you often feel mentally/emotionally healthier too
--Engaging yourself in something bigger like a class or service project or church can often be the biggest help. SERVICE is a HUGE deal because it is a double win. You feel better from helping someone else, and because you feel better you are temporarily able to step back from your problems and approach them in a different way

None of the things I mentioned above are cures, or even guarantees, especially if only tried one at a time. We are complex beings who usually need multiple pushes in the right direction before we say "aha! I see where you're going with this..."

For myself I spent a semester cramming in everything I could: yoga, positive psychology classes, band, choir, church, volunteering at food bank, counseling, writing, buying a lamp, surrounding myself with positive people...and discovered by the end what worked for me and what didn't and have since thrown out the things that weren't helping. I am not an expert, by any means. You can take this whole post and toss it in the trash if it sounds too hokey. I can never say to someone else "I know what you're going through"...I can only say "This is what I went through. Maybe my experience could help."

If SOMEONE YOU KNOW is struggling with depression, seasonal or otherwise; anxiety, doubt or insomnia...

--BE THERE FOR THEM. Let them know that you're available if they need to talk, but don't push it. Check up on them once in a while. Don't barrage them with a list of things you think they should be doing, but instead invite them to try something with you. Having a workout partner or friend to tag along to counseling can make all the difference

--If you think that someone is suicidal, DON'T just brush it off!! Find a parent, friend, teacher or family member to confide in. Tell them only what you know for sure, and as much as you are able, let that person know you are there for them

--This is extremely important and something I am still learning, but remember that you can only do as much as you can do. Don't EVER let yourself feel like you and you alone are responsible for someone else's life

Thanks for letting me get real guys. I know this was a more serious post, but especially now, especially at the start of winter, I thought it was important to let you know you're not alone and there are ways of dealing with the winter, metaphorically or otherwise.

Getting Real Part One

So I know I said I wouldn't post the personal stuff so much anymore, but as winter sneaks up on Caldwell and this whole city is transformed into a big, wet, gray mess I thought I should say something here about depression and staying positive.

Most people grow sadder in the winter--it's just how we roll. Sunlight seems to have a major impact on our moods and it can often seep into the unconscious. I don't know where you live or how long your winter is (on this side of the great state of Idaho winter lasts about six months of the year or longer), but here are some thoughts, from me to you, about how to get through it. The thing about depression is that it is unique to every individual and can be handled in a different way every time, which makes it hard to talk directly about.

I'll start by telling you a story. My depression began in winter in two major ways--the metaphorical and the literal--of my Freshmen year of college. It was literally the darkest time of the year, from October through through about March being the darkest. In normal parts of the world this period would have a lot of snow or ice or something that would justify the cold weather outside and even offer some aesthetic appeal for snowboarders, skiiers, and people who just like waking up to a world covered in new, soft layers. Not so in Caldwell. It is just cold enough here to hold one or two snowfalls a year, and the rest of the time it is simply damp and overcast for no reason. Meaning a lot of resistance to getting out of bed in the morning, a lot of unattractive layering to stay warm, and a lot of time spent in the classroom or at home studying where there is no natural light.

It was also metaphorically the darkest period of my life. I had fallen in love with someone who was already deeply committed to someone else, and you can imagine what kind of dramas play out of that. But on top of that I was extremely naive and mistook selfishness for good intentions, and soon I found myself in a very codependent situation where I felt completely responsible for the lives and decisions of two different people. If I left the sitaution, I felt like tragedy would follow. But when I stayed in the situation, pain and guilt resulted. It was a losing battle, and I was fighting it for all the wrong reasons.

By the end of my Freshmen year I had transformed. I didn't leave my dorm room for any reason except to attend class, and then I would spend that time wishing I was in my room. I ate there, did all my homework there, --tried-- to sleep there (this is when my insomnia started) and only talked to the "outside" world via my phone in short conversations. I wasn't innocent anymore. I knew what it was like to want to die and what it was like to lose everything. I had grown up exponentially, and couldn't find it in me anymore to care about normal college things. Social dramas, movie nights, parties...I had no interest in them whatsoever. I still managed (miraculously) to get good grades, to function at home, and avoid suicidal thoughts, but I felt broken. I was not a hero, but I didn't feel like a villian. I didn't know what I was.

Things only turned around for me when I was ready to see a counselor and talk these things out--to let the entire ugly truth come out and face the consequences. In the last two years I have come a long way from where I was then, making plenty of mistakes and hurting plenty of people alont the way. Yet here I am. No longer classified as "severely" depressed, no longer living without hope. A survivor. But what exactly does that mean? What cost was there for me to be who I am today? Was any of it really justifiable? I don't really know. And anually when it gets to be winter again, everything comes back to me. The urge to hide in my room. The instinct to close off from those who care about me. A therapist might diagnose Seasonal Depression, and in some ways they would be right on. But it is so much more than that.

End of Part One.