Tanks Don’t Float

You guys, sometimes I feel like I’m losing my goddamned mind. Has anyone ever gone crazy trying not to go crazy? I cannot be the only one. Remember my story about whether I should float in the ocean or go back to shallow water? Remember how I said that I’d have it figured out by this week? I haven’t decided if I can float yet. Maybe next week.

For the past few years, I have had a sneaky suspicion that I missed a crucial step in my development. Perhaps a life lesson that I never learned and all of the other forty-something-year-olds know. Seems like I fumbled up my map along the way, and ended up  getting pretty lost, for years.

This particularly exciting phase of my life has left me with an astounding and surprising 65 pound weight gain (thank you cortisol) and a mild- to moderately-concerning drinking habit (thank you stress). I have wound myself up so tight from the fretting and the doubting, that my body has revolted. I don’t recognize myself anymore. I must be in the In Between where my outsides don’t match my insides. I cannot be the only one.

Have you heard of a book called “The Body Keeps The Score?” If you’re looking for a book to read on the beach with a glass of chardonnay, choose a different book or better yet, pour some whiskey instead. It takes me about a week to absorb a single page. But John keeps reminding me of its validity in my life. (“Super! Thanks so much babe.”) The general premise of the book is that fear, trauma and worry are held deep in the body’s cells. Especially if the turmoil occurred in childhood. It is similar to the concept of fight, flight or freeze: your body is a biological machine, trained to survive.

Um. Also. Is it a coincidence that the author of the book is named Bessel VanDer Kolk? I think not. My mother’s maiden name is Kolk. This is what I call a Cosmic Clue. More on those later.

First, let me explain The Tank and then I’ll tell you a fun little story about a bunch of things that broke in 2016.

Ok. Speaking of biological machines…The Tank. I’ll make the pleasantries short. World? I’d like you to meet The Tank. Bear with me if you think this is a little trippy, but The Tank is me.

Here’s how that happened. As a result of my mother’s personality disorder and severe depression, and as a result of being the first-born of four children, and as a result of being extremely unlike my mother in mostly every single possible way on earth, let’s just say that Little-Gretchen sustained some significant attachment wounds. Listen. I know! I know. I used to think all that was bullshit, too. But then life happens. Doesn’t everyone have to unpack their baggage at some point? I can’t be the only one.

Turns out, I became The Tank in order to survive a childhood with an inconsistent and sad mother who, as a result of her mental illness, subconsciously deduced that because of my strong, exuberant and boisterous personality, I was not in need of mothering. I’m not sure what came first. Did she not know what to do with me? Did Little-Gretchen’s vibes exude, “I don’t fucking need you, lady!”? That’s all for Bessel VanDer Kolk and my therapist to figure out, and really, at this point, does it even matter?

Then my little sister, Anna, came along and was much more like my mother. Sweet, emotional, sensitive, quiet and I think my mother was like, “Ohhhhh! I know what to do with this new baby! That other baby is so bizarrely happy and strangely independent.” Or did I have to be? Again, regardless, I became The Tank and powerfully crushed any pain or hurt or neediness that I felt, while I watched my mother attend to the considerable demands of my baby sister. The Tank knows that any emotion other than happiness, confidence and self-assuredness, like, say, for example, sadness, loneliness or fear, is not seen by the mother.

Listen people. I love my mother. I do not blame her. I am not angry with her. We’ve discussed all of this and how Little-Gretchen interpreted these dynamics. (I literally talked to her for an hour and nine minutes on the phone today.) But, my mother has struggled with mental illness her entire life. It isn’t her fault, it’s a tragedy. But. It is still True. And it affects me profoundly. Working through all of this hasn’t been my cup of tea. I’d rather just be “normal,” but like her, I have no choice.

Here’s my Truth: I have no Trust Muscle and I have no ability to connect with my emotional self. Vulnerability is certain death in my world. And I really need to fix this before I gain another 65 pounds and my drinking habit become a 12-step issue. I gotta figure out how to retire The Tank and learn how to float.

Ok, now for the story of broken things.

I turned 44 the year our house fell. Another instance where had I been given the option, I’d have said, “Yeah, no thank you.” It was a year where the bones and foundation of my life were literally and figuratively shattered. Today, the bones are healing and the foundation is rebuilt, but I’ve been stuck.

In July of 2014, we stumbled upon our dream home in the historic neighborhood of downtown Stillwater, Minnesota. It was not necessary for us to buy this house, except that we had to buy this house. Here’s one reason why: it spoke to us. You go ahead and laugh, but we have witnesses.

On our first visit to the house, we were touring the main floor and there was gentle music playing in the background. I didn’t really notice it, but Annika did. She was 6 years old at the time and said, “Mom, this is the song Lydia played at her piano recital.” And it was. (weird.) About a half-hour later, we found ourselves in the same room after we inspected the entire house. Annika said, “Mom, this is the music David played for his cello recital.” And it was. (super. weird.) The hairs on the back of my neck tickled me.

By October, we had sold our house and moved to Stillwater. All three of our previous homes were new and clean and shiny and as you may already know, we name things, like houses. “BayFarm,” “The Ridge” and “The Keep.” Even the house we rented for 7 months got a name, “Tempo.” This house in Stillwater was built in the 1870s and every single set of stairs (3 inside and 6 outside) is treacherous. So we named this house, “Steep Stair.”

Steep Stair has noises, smells, ghosts, trap-doors, creaks and more character than any house I’ve ever lived in. Everything has a tale to tell, the beat-up floors, the wavy windows, the bumpy walls, the rickety door knobs and everything is absolutely beautiful. There are bright, happy and comforting emotions in this house. It was our home before we even moved in. Whoever built this house, way back when Ulysses S. Grant was President, built it with The Becks in mind.

Fast forward to a hot summer night in June of 2016. Exactly two years ago from right now. A thunderstorm came pounding through and we got several thousand inches of rain. On the left side of our house, next to the driveway, stood an old, leaning retaining wall. We knew we’d have to get it repaired at some point, but it didn’t seem to be a big deal. At about 4:00 in the morning, I heard a sickening sound from outside and I never want to hear it again. Between the downpour and the lightning was a deep, low, thick rumble-crumble-boom. I knew it had to be the wall. We looked out the window and as the lightning lit the sky, we saw the mess. What a disaster.

Even though we had been assured that the retaining wall was not structural before we bought the house, its falling down uncovered problems that no one knew existed. Unavoidable. Complicated. Scary. Infuriating. And oh yeah, not covered by insurance. What followed was months and months of shaking our heads and writing gigantic checks. Who knew you could lift a brick house?! Yup, you totally can, although, it’s a bit more like dropping it a teensy-tiny bit onto a monstrous steel beam, cradled by a dozen other smaller steel beams. It’s all a bunch of engineering ridiculousness.

Anyway, in the midst of jackhammers, no water, no electricity, delayed permits, a looming Minnesota winter and a lot of sleepless nights, Annika was playing at a park on Labor Day and fell off the monkey bars. No big deal, right? She’s a kid! She jumped off the ledge to grab them, missed and landed with a thud, flat on her back. I’m not a mean mom, but I legit said, “You’re fine, you just got the wind knocked out of you.”

But. She didn’t calm down. She was delirious with pain, so off to the ER we went. Also? I swear, John always seems to be away on travel when we get to go on an adventure to the ER. Sheesh. I can’t be the only one.

Labor Day was the beginning of months and months of medical adventures with Annika. “Multiple vertebral compression fractures.” “Unknown, varying origins.” “Highly Unusual.” “Mutation of a collagen gene.” “Incurable.” “Degenerative.” “Spine of a 90-year-old woman.” But she had just turned nine years old.

Hospital after hospital, test after test, referral after referral, expert after expert, we were just trying to determine her exact diagnosis (Idiopathic Juvenile Osteoporosis with a side of Hypermobility and Hyperhydrosis) and treatment (Zoledronic Acid infusions every six months with a side of hydro and physical therapy for a year).

Being from Boston, we used to roll our eyes at everyone here in Minnesota always raving about the Mayo Clinic. But guess what. We sing their praises now, too. No one could figure Annika out until we got to the Mayo. Our poor baby girl. Oh my heart, I can hardly write about this. Maybe someday I’ll write more, but not today.

Not only was our house falling apart, our daughter’s bones were falling apart. Enter The Tank, right? Actually? Not so much this time.

I used to love it when it rained at night in the summer. I used to love it that my daughter was overactive and adventurous. But my perspective has changed. Steep Stair is now fixed and is structurally sound. Annika is being treated for her disease and is getting stronger. But, I haven’t caught up. I’m still stuck. To float or not to float?

Perhaps it’s because the year of broken things ended up reflecting what has been rumbling inside of me for decades. Itching me and nagging me. I used to say I had a wonderful and happy childhood. But guess what I’ve refused to face? My childhood was traumatic and I needed The Tank to get me through.

But The Tank wasn’t able to protect me this time.

I’ve been fighting this for decades and it’s catching up to me, breathing down my neck. All I have done for my whole life is just barrel through crisis after crisis, hurt after hurt, loss after loss, thinking I’m tougher/better than most, because “Hey look mom, I’m still smiling!”

Except.

It’s too many crises, hurts and losses. It’s dragging me down. My insides are suffering under the pressure of holding it all together. So, I’m gathering the courage to peek out of The Tank. It originally protected me and made me powerful and I’m so grateful. But I’m claustrophobic and The Tank is strangling me. And yet, leaving the comfort of The Tank feels like a life-and-death proposition. But the weight of the armor is crushing me, so it is a matter of life and death either way.

Is it a Cosmic Clue that Steep Stair spoke to us through music? Is it a Cosmic Clue that all this shit broke in one year? Is it a Cosmic Clue that my body is physically reacting under the stress? Is it a Cosmic Clue that the author of the book about healing of trauma basically has the same last name as my mother? Is it a Cosmic Clue that much like my house broke and my kid broke a couple of years ago, that I’m realizing that I broke as well? And like them, I need some re-engineering and treatment, too?

I think I need to follow these Cosmic Clues, because trust me, The Tank cannot float.