The Adventure Begins

Whisperings of @HWsWhisperer

Welcome, my friends, to the blog that never ends. I’m so glad you could attend. Come inside, come inside.

I appreciate you stopping by. I’m about to start a blogging journey into the world of reality TV, coping with depression, life as a real-life housewife, and occasional images that I capture as a hobbyist nature photographer. If that sounds eclectic and all over the place…welcome to my mind.

I hope you’ll join me on this adventure, even if it’s only for the topics that interest you personally. Grateful, to be honest, that you found your way here and were willing to take the time to see what it’s about.

Stay tuned for updates, or better yet, subscribe so they come directly to you! Wishing you a blessed day!

A Fond Farewell

A little over a year ago, I delved into a whole new world of blogging and then podcasting for Kiki and Kibbitz. Brianna and Jordan had already started the venture and they were kind enough to not only let me join in, but also have a voice in avenues we might want to explore, as well as topics. It was so far out of my comfort zone that I was sure I’d crash and burn and be an anchor, rather than an asset. They encouraged me through my fears and I learned those fears could be conquered through their support and the support of the friends I made on social media.

The real life introvert morphed into a social-media extrovert with opinions on everything under the sun (probably more than I should’ve shared!) Then, when the pandemic hit, our original goals became more keenly focused on connecting our individual hamster habitats with tunnels of laughter to break the sense of isolation we were all feeling during lockdown. I cannot express in words how much having this outlet carried me through the craziness that was 2020. Being able to break down and discuss the shows that were keeping us entertained added a whole new dimension to my world. Any time I felt lonely, I knew it was only a matter of time before laughter was right around the corner and I could be silly and feel connected again.

What I hadn’t openly shared is that I made a foolish error early on in the pandemic. Those of you who have followed this blog are aware that in 2019 I was diagnosed with depression brought on by caretaker fatigue. Now that John’s surgeries were in the rearview and he was back to work, I assumed I’d be fine. The meds I had been given were giving me massive headaches, so I (in my infinite stupidity) figured that it was my brain telling me I didn’t need them anymore. I did consult my doctor, because while sometimes stupid, I know better than to completely self diagnose, and they recommend I start taking half doses. Then the height of chaos hit and in-person visits became impossible and my doctor’s small office didn’t offer tele-visits. So, I weaned myself off completely and spent March through October completely unmedicated.

Suffice it to say, that was a bad move on my part. By October I was spiraling and made an emergency appointment with my doctor. Through tests and questionnaires, it was determined that I still suffered from mild depression and moderate anxiety had been added to the mix. Considering the state of the world, that’s not all that surprising, but it still made me feel weak. I had to abandon one of the two podcasts I was doing to lighten my load and allow me to focus on getting better. A new med regimen helped make that possible, but also added its own set of difficulties.

We had just had a very successful season with Below Deck Med and I wanted to keep the momentum going with my favorite show, which is Below Deck. Brianna and I both enjoy it so much and our Tuesday night podcasting sessions were an escape into laughter with a little rum thrown in. We’d gone from two gals chatting it up to getting guests and doing interviews and it seemed like a dream. Getting to hang with Adrienne, Courtney, and Jess and hearing behind-the-scenes scoop was a realm I never thought I’d enter from my little country life in Ohio. It was an absolutely blast.

Unfortunately, having fun doesn’t stop your brain chemistry from doing what it chooses to do. My sleep patterns were way off and insomnia is not a friend to depression. Even with great and exciting things happening, I was taxing my body and my mind beyond its limits. I was raised to keep my commitments and not leave people in a lurch, so I plugged on, attempting to keep everything going as not to let anyone down.

I’m not the best at saying no or at failing. I jokingly blame it on my Aries sun sign, but in truth…it’s a choice, not a force of nature that can’t be overcome. Several weeks ago, I hit a wall where I neither had the energy nor the mental capacity to do a weekly blog and even though everyone was so supportive and understanding, it wrecked me to not fulfill that commitment. I was determined to podcast that night to make up for it, but when I got off of Zoom I broke down in tears. I was doing what many people do and trying to give from an empty cup.

It was then that I made the decision to focus on getting healthy and being self-interested. I had always confused that term with selfishness in the past, but I’m learning there are distinct differences. Much in the same way that when flying the attendants tell you to put on your oxygen mask first before assisting others, I needed to be whole and healthy and put my needs before those of others before I crashed and burned completely.

Once I had that epiphany, I was faced with the difficult task of disappointing people who had supported me over the last year. At the top of the list were my podcast partners. I let them know that once the Below Deck cycle ended, I was going to be leaving. Rather than risk have moments where I couldn’t fulfill commitments and leave them hanging, it was better that I exit. It struck them out of the blue, and I sincerely apologize for that. It’s hard to let people down, and even harder when you’re already feeling low.

Fortunately, once the shock had passed, they were very supportive of me and wanted nothing but my happiness and health and for that I am very grateful. I’m also thankful for all of you who supported me in this journey. I will still continue to blog here on my personal page as inspiration strikes and my mind allows me to organize muddled thoughts into coherent writing. In the meantime, I will still be my opinionated self on Twitter, so it’s not like I’m falling off the planet. It will just be a more informal and possibly more sporadic version than the weekly podcasts and blogs have been.

It’s my sincere wish that you continue to support K & K and the fun and light it brings. Thank you once again for all that you are and have done, and I’m sure we’ll be chatting again soon. XOXO -Jen

Two Pair of Normal Investigators (Plus One)

It will take us a while to go through our recordings to see if we have anything noteworthy that could perhaps convince a skeptic to be open to the possibility of a realm beyond. In the meantime, I am jotting down some of our experiences on the ride home and the following day while they are still fresh.

For those of you just stumbling across this missive with no background or context, I’ll bring you up to speed with a little history of how our family ever wound up thinking this would be one of our favorite ways to spend quality time together. When shows like Paranormal State, Ghost Hunters, and Ghost Adventures came on the scene, I became, let’s say…more than a little obsessed. From the comfort of my couch it seemed fun and exciting. My husband assured me I was one of the suckers P.T. Barnum had spoken about. His engineer’s mind couldn’t fathom any of this being more than produced entertainment, and he conjured all manners of string and pulley contraptions that could pull off the scares the girls and I got each week.

Feeling the gauntlet had been thrown down, my eldest booked us on a tour with a paranormal group of what was then Windsor Elementary School in Cincinnati. They provided us with various gadgets akin to what we’d seen on TV. Boxes with lights that would measure electromagnetic frequencies which they assured us was our sign that a ghost was present….or an electrical outlet, or a working refrigerator, or a lot of things. I became disheartened, while John became increasingly chuffed with himself for being right all along.

That was until we used a device called a spirit box in the school’s gymnasium. Basically it’s a radio that rapidly scans through stations creating “white noise” that the spirits can use to speak through. This is where my smile started to grow because Rube Goldberg Jr. couldn’t come up with a way that the voice we were getting over multiple channels was answering direct questions we asked. Mr. Skeptic, while still yet to have had his “Road to Damascus” moment, was opening his mind to the possibilities of things beyond this plane of existence.

And so began our love affair with ghost hunting. With our youngest away at college, it was most often John, me, our eldest daughter and her then fiance, now husband. We stuck with group tours until we had a large enough knowledge base to go out on our own. Christmas and birthday gifts began to consist of detection devices, recording equipment, and a spirit box. We began renting out purportedly haunted places and using those as our mini vacations.

With the arrival of our youngest grandson, and John’s multiple spinal surgeries, our hobby got back-burnered and we loaned out our equipment far more than we used it. That is until this past weekend. The girls had gone together and rented the Bellaire house for us for a night as a Christmas gift. Having seen it featured on Most Haunted and Paranormal Lockdown, it’s an understatement to say we were psyched. Being located on a ley line, near an old Native American burial ground and right off the bank of the Ohio made it seem like it was a recipe for all of the activity we could handle, and maybe more.

The Bellaire House

Even though his skepticism has waned by virtue of his personal experiences, John has always been correct in his assessment that real life ghost investigations are nothing like what you see on TV. For one, they are edited for time, so you never see the long lulls where no activity occurs. If they have an investigation that’s a total dud, it likely will never even air. Another huge difference is that there is no production budget and no show runners to help out when things go wrong.

Take this weekend for instance. John and I were awake into the wee hours the night before charging devices and putting fresh batteries in the ones that aren’t rechargeable. We also brought along back up batteries and charging cords, since we’ve repeatedly experienced our batteries being drained during an investigation. (In the paranormal community this phenomenon is attributed to the spirits drawing on that energy to communicate.) Only one of our devices uses a 9 volt battery, so we brought 4 replacements just in case. Within the first two hours all four as well as the fifth one we put in the night previous had been drained rendering our SB-11 spirit box useless. With no interns to make a battery run, we we forced to stop and make the run ourselves.

The other challenge we faced was equipment malfunctions. Our infrared camera repeatedly shut down inexplicably and refused to record any potential activity being captured. Without a van full of gadgets and gizmos, we were left to wonder whether it was a glitch in our device or spirits playing tricks. (For the record, when we got home, the camera worked perfectly, so take that however you’d like.) We were lucky that our audio devices seem to have worked properly, but again with no staff to help us go through it all, it will take hours. If we get anything exciting, I’ll be sure to share.

One thing we’ve learned through our years of investigating is that while electronic gadgets are fun and make for good television, they are not the only forms of communicating. While we were investigating with a group at Ohio State Reformatory one of our guides introduced us to the use of dowsing rods and pendulums. These simple apparatuses allow for communication via Yes/No questions and have saved us more than once from having a hunt that’s a total bust. It’s not an experience you can carry home and share with your friends, but trust me, while it’s happening in the moment it is cool as heck.

The first room we entered. If spooky was the intended vibe, the succeeded.

We had great luck communicating with a child known to occupy one of the bedrooms on the second floor. We sang children’s songs and recited nursery rhymes. As we did the rods would sway back and forth to the rhythm, or as it was during a rousing rendition of Ring Around the Rosie…spin wildly in full circles in our hands. The joy in the room was palpable as we got to experience the connection and the entity had a chance to play.

Not all experiences are pleasant though, and amateur investigators should know the risks. In the owner’s former bedroom both of my daughters and I experienced splitting headaches and that pit-in-your-stomach feeling upon entering. We tried to push through the discomfort several times, but found it difficult to stay in there longer than a few minutes.

After hours of investigating late into the night, we decided we should all get some rest in the few rooms that felt were the least threatening. What resulted was a scant three hours of sleep and several personal experiences. Our youngest had vivid dreams the details of which I’ll leave to her to share if she ever feels comfortable doing so. I had something playing with my hair, but that’s happened to me several times in the past, so it didn’t disturb me too much. My eldest daughter, however, had the most frightening experience of being held down by an unknown force. By her account she was unable to move until she called out my name and I shot upright in bed without even knowing what woke me. It was only at that point that she was able to sit up in the bed.

She was overheated and sweating,while John and I were convulsing in chills even though we were only feet apart from each other in the same room. What made that all the stranger to us is that she’s always cold and bundling up in blankets, while I’m always too warm, partially due to what I call self-insulation or extra padding. We decided to try and sleep downstairs instead, but the activity was so adrenaline-inducing, that only John managed to muster a little more sleep.

Our safe haven after the bedroom we were in gave us more restlessness than we bargained for.

My eldest daughter and I chose to stave off our fears with the treasure trove of donuts she’d brought and got back to seeking more evidence while we waited for everyone else to wake up. Through the dowsing rods and the K2 meter we “yes and no’d” our way through confirmation of our experiences not being figments of our imaginations. Someone or something was taking credit and seemed pretty proud of their accomplishments.

Once everyone was awake we realized that the whole night had drained all of us physically. With a three-plus hour drive home still ahead of us, we wrapped. We collected our gear (some of which had been mysteriously moved into drawers or under furniture and wiped down all of the surfaces we had touched because in the non-sprit realm, Covid is a real life foe to battle.

All-in-all it was another fun and exciting adventure to add to our many others. For those interested in a place to investigate, we’d all highly recommend The Bellaire House. It didn’t disappoint. I would add that it’s probably not the best place to go for a first time investigation. It seemed less willing to interact with the more skeptical members of our small group of five. It was the first ghost hunt for our youngest daughter’s beau and he left with the fewest personal experiences. Whether it was his lack of familiarity with the process or the possibility that he’s saner than the rest if us is a decision for you to make.  However, if you go in with an open mind…the possibilities are endless to experience all that the house holds.

An Apolitical Look at November

I’ll be perfectly frank and say that quarantine has sucked the inspiration to muse and opine right out of me. Part of my malaise is due to the fact that the extra free time once spent going to the movies, or the museum has now become occupied with a seemingly never ending supply of documentaries, true crime stories, and crap TV in general. I’ve also been spending much more time on social media than I ever have previously and I’m not sure it’s for the better.

I was late to the Twitter game and only joined in a year and a half ago, the same goes for Instagram, where I’m to this day still learning the ropes. Living in relative isolation in a small Midwest town, I was seeking a community with whom I could discuss ideas and topics that entertained me. I’ve had similar bastions throughout my life in the form of message boards, AOL chat rooms, and my small Facebook family. Twitter, however, was a whole new ball of wax, and occasionally I found myself burned as if it had just dripped from beneath the flame.

In years past, I had not only dabbled in the discussion of politics, but also at times had an obsessive need to know everything about it. I gleaned what I could from multiple sources and dove head first into topics without thinking to check the depth of the discussion waters. I thought that the facts and figures I had so painstakingly accrued would prove useful in aiding others and also myself in the navigation of the murky waters. In the early days of it I had fun. It boosted my self esteem to be listened to and boosted my knowledge as I listened. When discussing objective ideas the waters remained calm and we all bathed comfortably in the warm waters of enlightenment.

However as the moon changed position the tides turned as they’re wont to do. Subjective matters flooded in and I was left on an island alone. My swimming companions were all splashing and dunking each other based on the misconception that opinions were facts and there was a right and a wrong to them. On my own deserted island I felt no need to argue over opinions. As the saying goes, there are many roads to Rome, so what did it matter if the someone wanted to take the road that led through the mountains while another preferred the landscape of a bucolic countryside?

This wasn’t the first time I had found myself stranded on a political island. In truth it has been my whole existence since I was old enough to register to vote. Having been born from the union of a Republican and a Democrat, I always had the ability to see both sides. I could see when they were objectively correct and also when they were objectively wrong. When it came to matters of subjectivity my parents either remained silent on the topic or discussed it briefly and then agreed to disagree. An amazingly civil arrangement in light of today’s factions. One that kept them together in wedded bliss for 57 years until my Republican father left this mortal coil.

He was an amazing man. Hard working, deeply rooted in his Christian faith, charitable, and kind. He was never wealthy in financial terms, but held treasured ideas and principles that I cherish to this day. When I hear a Democrat’s ideas of what type of person a Republican is, it couldn’t be further from the image of my father.

Along the same lines, when a Republican offers up a characterization of a Democrat, my mother’s face never springs to mind either. Her visage isn’t remotely what they describe and nor are her beliefs. I am regularly baffled by how narrow a view people have of people who don’t hold the exact same thoughts as them.

And then there’s me. Having come from a two-sided world, I chose to make it three dimensional. When I turned eighteen I registered as a small “i” independent, and haven’t changed my affiliation since. A piece of that decision came because I didn’t fit under all of the major banners beneath either flag. I’m anti-death penalty, but pro-2nd amendment. I don’t think what anyone does in the privacy of their own home or bedroom is any of my business as long as they aren’t infringing on another’s rights in the process. I believe that the best defense is a strong offense as far as military matters go, but I’ll always favor diplomacy over war where innocent lives are concerned. When it comes to social programs I’m all about helping those who can’t help themselves, but unless prohibited by a severe mental or physical impairment I believe that from 18-70 you have to figure out how to care for yourself.

All of those seemingly juxtaposing ideas left me with no party to cling to, and I don’t consider that a bad thing. I’m not in the middle because I don’t want to make a decision, I’m in the middle because my decisions are firm and they don’t fit the false dichotomy of a two party system.

From my island’s vantage point I’ve seen a great shift in the political seas. The spectrum used to be occupied from one side all the way to the other, with different people and their ideas hovering back and forth closer to the center. In the past decade or two, however, the center has been demonized as wishy-washy or ineffective or even worse…too stupid to choose a side. It was at that moment that I chose to remove myself from political discussions and just be a quiet observer. Silence is a wonderful thing that allows people the freedom to say what they truly feel because you aren’t actively contradicting them or their ideas.

In my muteness I’ve discovered something that I think you may find helpful when November rolls around. I am no soothsayer nor time traveler here to forecast a winner. I have no knowledge of how these elections will go. But from my silent perch I can predict this. Regardless of who wins, a good third of you are going to be gobsmacked. You are going to get an ice cold bucket of water to your faces and after the shock and awe passes you are going to be enraged.

How can I possibly know this without knowing who will win, you ask? Because two thirds of you are living in echo chambers that are so tightly sealed that you can’t fathom an outcome other that what your own voice hollers out into the void. You’ve completely lost the ability to hear anything but validation for your own beliefs and ideas and you’ve even gone so far as to demonize anyone who doesn’t hold the same ones. You’ve cast off your family members, potential loves, and childhood friends for the sake of feeling right. It would be heart-breaking if it weren’t so karmic.

Your hatred of your fellow man who thinks differently than you has carried you to the precipice of the closest thing to civil war that I’ve witnessed in my lifetime. Allowing yourselves to be caught up in the extremist narratives put forth by the media mouthpieces of both sides has polarized you to a point where I’m regularly seeing death wished upon your opponents. Think about that for a second. As you scream your modern day Bud Light mantras of Black Lives Matters and All Lives Matters back and forth at each other, you’re actually at the same time saying Life Doesn’t Matter when you wish your political enemy harm or death.

The only light I can see that might prevent this from happening, is the light I see in each individual I speak to. The light emitted from the soul of a fellow human being who listens to you and you listen to in return, connects with you, laughs with you, and hopes with you. If we can get back to being brothers and sisters again who see that light in each other, we stand a chance.

What I misunderstood about the word Privilege

When the use of the word “privilege” came into common use in reference to being white, I’ll admit that my initial reaction was to rebuff it. I thought it was a broad brushing term that didn’t apply to me, as I was neither affluent, nor had I been afforded any opportunity for success that anyone else didn’t receive as a result of hard work.

I never had a chance to get a private education, or even a college degree despite my scholastic efforts and high grades. I had no trust fund to rely upon, no rich relatives with connections to bail me out of any trouble I got myself into. If I screwed up, I paid the price that anyone else in my position would have. Or so I thought.

I had even experienced an encounter where I was followed around a high end store as if they were expecting me to stuff some item of clothing under my shirt or in my bag. Every step I took a worker shadowed me. Upon entering the changing room, she took the garments I was going to try on to personally count them. Then she gave me the tag with that number and counted them again when I was finished. The whole experience was so humiliating to me that I left, refusing to buy anything from the establishment again, nor even to step foot in one. I could empathize with their plight, right? Wrong.

What I didn’t understand or take into account was the fact that I only had one anecdote to offer. One humiliating experience in my lifetime, in only one store. I had no idea what it felt like to have that occur daily, in every store I entered. I had been judged only on the clothes I was wearing that didn’t adhere to the attire of their typical clientele. I could change my outfit and have an entirely different experience in the same store with the same worker if I wanted to. The people who experienced it daily didn’t have the luxury of being able to change their skin color.

That one small epiphany allowed me to open my mind to something that my defensiveness had refused to allow me to see. I also opened my ears and began listening to the pain behind the stories that my friends of all hues were sharing. I never had the experience of someone crossing the street to avoid me just because of how I looked. I never had someone lock their car door as I walked by to get to my own. I don’t live in a city, so cab rides aren’t part of my life, but if one passed me by I know my first thought would be that their shift was over or they had been called to another address, and not that they were afraid to ride with me.

I cannot possibly know what that constant pre-judgment would feel like. What it would do to my psyche and self worth to feel the weight of that pain. I can’t fathom the fear induced by being pulled over in a strange town for speeding. I, like I assume anyone who looks like me does, would expect merely to hand over my license and registration, wait for the officer to write the citation, and leave and pay it later. No thought of being asked if I have drugs or weapons. No assumption, in fact, that I had them in the first place.

When I stepped back to look at just these few scenarios, the word that kept resonating was the one that had previously caused me to recoil…privilege. The definition of which is a right or liberty granted to some and not others. I had the liberty of walking down the street without askance looks. I had the immunity of assumption of nefarious motives. I had the confidence that were I ever arrested, I wouldn’t feel the pressure of an officer’s foot on my neck. If after reading this you don’t see that as a privilege, then maybe you can learn as I did to listen to our brothers’ and sisters’ stories. Maybe one of them can change your heart like they changed mine.

As always, wishing you health, safety, and justice for all.

When Unity Unties

21 years ago a little movie called The Matrix came on scene. From my experience, people either love it or hate it, with very few on the spectrum in between. As a dyed-in-the-wool nerd, there’s some bylaw somewhere stating I have to love it, so thank goodness I did. While the premise is fiction, the commentary on humanity at times is keen and astute.

One of the most thought provoking bits for me came from Agent Smith when he was describing how the matrix works and said this to Neo:

“Did you know that the first Matrix was designed to be a perfect human world? Where none suffered, where everyone would be happy. It was a disaster. No one would accept the program. Entire crops were lost. Some believed we lacked the programming language to describe your perfect world. But I believe that, as a species, human beings define their reality through suffering and misery. The perfect world was a dream that your primitive cerebrum kept trying to wake up from.’

Pretty bleak view of us as a species, but how far off the mark is it really? Whether you believe in the Bible or not, the idea is at least as old as the story of Adam and Eve. Paradise doesn’t seem to be enough for people. They want to battle, conquer, see more, do more. A never-ending quest for that which is just out of our grasps, but that which we believe is ultimately attainable. Often times though it seems that it’s the very ideal we’ve left in our wakes that we’re reaching toward.

I’ve had the fortune of being on the planet for almost half of a century now. In that time there have come some glorious peaks, but also some soul-darkening valleys. In the darkest of times, there sprouts a sense of unity in humanity to go against whatever adversary is plaguing us or preying upon us. In the US post 9/11 you saw a resurgence of the “United We Stand” motto. It lasted shorter than most honeymoons, however, when it came time to move forward into action. Factions quickly broke off and the mindset quickly shifted to a more “anyone who isn’t with us is against us” feeling.

We’re experiencing it again in the era of COVID. “We’re all in this together” could be heard (and can still) through every radio and television across the world. Everyone joining together to battle the microscopic virus. Front-line heath care workers literally saving lives, sometimes even sacrificing their own in the process. Essential workers stepping up to make sure our day-to-day needs are met, while the rest of us do our part by staying at home and flattening the curve. But once again, the unity untied. Personal interest outweighed public interest and political interest did what it always does…divides us.

Have you ever been on a walk with a friend or a loved one and noticed something off in the distance? You try repeatedly to point it out, even stretching your arm in the general direction, but they still can’t see it? You try other means of communicating where and what it is and they look at you baffled with no signs of recognition? Then out of frustration…you just give up and say “Nevermind.” That’s where I am right now at this very moment.

I have repeatedly tried to throw up sign posts and navigational markers for my friends, and even for total strangers. I’ve tried to get people to see the perspectives of others and that it isn’t as cut and dry as “us” and “them.” It’s all for naught though. People are going to see the world in the way that makes them comfortable. For whatever reason, unity isn’t special enough for some. They want someone to rail against, someone to blame, someone to put beneath their feet to somehow elevate themselves. It’s an ongoing cycle that I, for one, am bone-weary of witnessing.

I’m not giving up on surviving this, or giving up doing my part to make sure it doesn’t devastate my family either physically, emotionally, or financially. I’m just ending my quest for people to see what it is I’m pointing to. My arm is tired. My brain has run out of adjectives. I will continue to write and share my own experiences, but leave out the parts where I attempt to compel. I, like many, need peace. That’s what I’m striving for. And in truth, I’m tired of leaving it to convince others how great it is, only to be fought tooth and nail.

So, as always, I wish you health, happiness, and a hope for a unity in the future that’s tied so tightly that it can’t untie so easily.

Pretty Little Lies

Bill the bard once penned, “That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.” Along those lines I proffer that a lie by any other name is just as fact-less. While I’ve had occasion to know a few pathological people who like to lie, I’ve yet to meet someone who enjoys being lied to. If you pay close attention to most any form of media in the era of Covid, you can witness lies on a daily basis. I’m not alone in seeing them, nor am I the first to speak of it, which makes it all the more puzzling when I see how many people are still ingesting them like mother’s milk.

One of the most prevalent seems to be the false dichotomy. I recently witnessed one governor equate re-opening to death. When called out on the comparison he quickly shifted and guaranteed that while it may not mean your own death, it would certainly mean the death of someone else. While that is a distinct possibility for some who may cohabitate with members of the high risk groups, it’s not the inevitable outcome for the majority or even for the minority. In the most recent research I’ve studied, the mortality rate for those under age sixty-five is around 1.4 percent. The Washington Post published an article on April 28th by Joel Achenbach stating, “..when all the serological data is compiled and analyzed, the fatality rate among people who have been infected could be less than 1 percent.” One tiny kernel of truth slipped in the mix of bloated statistics stoking the flames of panic.

When more than two choices exist, an offer of only two is a fancy way of lying

Another false dichotomy running rampant is the propensity for people to use death tolls from wars to show how much worse this illness is. This one on its face alone causes my blood to boil. First off, as a member of family who currently has a brave soldier deployed overseas in a war zone…stop acting like life here is more dangerous than what he faces on a daily basis. Less than half a percent of the US are currently enlisted in the military. If you want an accurate comparison, try taking the number who died in war time and dividing it by the number of people who were serving. For example, 16,000,000 soldiers served in WWII. 1, 076, 245 died. That’s a mortality rate of almost 7 percent. Compare that with 61,504 deaths in the US from the novel virus out of a population of 328,000,000. That’s .018%. Which would you rather face?

Since we’ve delved into the realm of numbers, another pretty little way of lying is by rigging statistics. One favorite quote of mine has been attributed to Benjamin Disraeli. In years since some believe this to be an erroneous attribution, but regardless of who said it the sentiment resonates. “There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics.” Statistics are actually very useful tools when wielded by honest hands. They condense large helpings of data into palatable morsels for the masses to consume. In essence, a straightforward statistical analysis allows any layman to understand a complex concept. The problem lies when experts find ways to skew those statistics in order to support the narrative they want you to believe. Much like the false dichotomy above about wartime casualties, many times an errant comparison is used to accomplish this task.

Early on in the coronavirus crisis this type of lie was aided by using global death rates to exacerbate fears. Hopes in this case were pinned on the fact that no one recognized that not every country has access to first world medical facilities. By adding in the number of deaths in developing countries and third world countries without access to cutting edge medical treatment, fear could be heightened. As the number of deaths have increased, that’s no longer necessary, so they’ve now chosen to merely withhold comparisons altogether. No one is pointing out, as I did above, the total number of deaths juxtaposed with the total population. Nor are they declaring what should be obvious but apparently is not, that population density is a key component. They’re focusing on the worst case scenario in the dense jungle of New York City rather than giving mean rates from across the entire country. If you live in New York City, it’s of course valid for you, but the majority of the US does not reside there or even in a similarly dense locale.

I was shocked earlier today by another manipulation that I came across when looking to the CDC for data surrounding the mortality rate of COVID in the US. The data currently being given is based on ILI or influenza-like illness. Those numbers include pneumonia, influenza, and COVID-19 rates. Despite trying to lump in more diseases to skew the statistics, percentages of cases are still decreasing and below baseline and mortality rates are decreasing as well. In correlation, recovery rates are increasing as more is discovered about treatment.

The last lie I want to discuss is the one with the least chance of exposure, or being admitted to: the lies people are telling themselves. In particular the ones people with good intentions are proliferating. Most of us want to be seen as compassionate people, some even want to put the welfare of others at the forefront of their day to day lives. However, if you are sitting from a position of financial comfort, whether it’s because you’ve been deemed essential, work remotely, or are wealthy, you cannot empathize with someone who is not in your position. You can attempt to sympathize, but without the bills piling up in front of you, the growl in your stomach caused by hunger, or the potential loss of the home you’ve established.. you cannot perceive the fear. Your world is largely unaltered, so preaching “musts” to those who aren’t as blessed needs to cease lest you become the new “one-percenters” in the era of COVID.

That’s not a condemnation without judgment against myself. I only recently became aware of my own culpability when a family member who had been essential was furloughed. Thankfully they have enough stashed away that they can ride it out for another few months, but my thoughts went immediately to those who didn’t have that luxury. Condemning someone for wanting to not have their family out on the streets when the worst of this passes is not something any of us should be participating in. As the saying goes, “Don’t judge someone until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes.”

The truth of our situation is enough to come to terms with. We don’t need lies, exaggerations, and well-intended scolding to muddy up the waters and impair our perception. If you want people to stop being mistrustful, start by being honest with them.

As always, wishing you health, happiness, and the ability to spot a lie even if it’s wrapped up in a pretty little bow.

Wet-Wired To Adapt

I don’t often borrow worry. Growing up I was raised that tomorrow is never promised, so you train your focus on the day ahead. That’s not to say that you don’t plan, but you should always prepare to hear God laughing if you do. Because of that trait, I find that I’m quite a bit more malleable than many people in my orbit. Many of my friends balk when I don’t get worked up and stressed out over things that are worrying them. Some actually quit speaking to me altogether in stressful times, as they tire quickly of hearing me reply, “Well, it’s not like there’s anything that can be done about it.”

It’s a mistake, however, to dismiss anyone who shares Doris Day’s and my “Que sera, sera” attitude as being unable to comprehend the severity of a situation. Knowing that earthquakes are destructive has nothing to do with the ability to affect change on shifting tectonic plates. Aside from researching where they are least prevalent and choosing to abide in that spot, there’s little more that can be done if Richter scale readings are the source of your angst. Equally, I can understand peoples’ fears of contracting the novel virus, but aside from following the protocols to the letter (which I do) not all of the possibilities of contracting it are left within my control.

I surmise that it’s that lack of control that has much of the populace skittish at the moment. That’s where the analytical realist in me feels lost and detached from much of the world, including some closest to me. If the world shifts on its axis, we’re all toast, but I don’t spend my days worrying if it will. I have other hamster wheels that occupy my neurons regularly, so adding to them doesn’t do me or anyone else any good. It’s all very black and white to me in the sense that it’s broken down in my mind in two distinct camps: can I do anything to change it or is someone or something else at the helm?

With things that fall under the former, I do whatever I can do. Things in the latter category though are largely ignored by me. Maybe it’s conditioned into me after years of tracking political movements and human behavior, but my bar of expectation is un-limboable when it comes to my trust in groups of others making any decisions I’d agree with. If you look at any large group, it’s unlikely you’ll get a consensus on even the weather. One person’s “balmy” is another person’s sweat fest. Heck, a mere ten dentists can’t agree on the best toothpaste to use, so how can one hope to reach a global accord on anything?

What I do know is, we are wet-wired as a species for adaptation. Our brains take in information regularly and use it to assess a situation, evaluate potential actions, and send signals to our bodies to act. For some, it’s second nature and happens without serious effort. For others it requires contemplation, a pros and cons list, hesitation, re-evaluation, and then action. Regardless of the time it takes though, we’re all capable of doing it unless we consciously force ourselves not to.

Standing resolute and immutable has merit in certain situations. If there is a moral law or principle you’re trying to uphold, I can understand the inclination. Contrarianism for its own sake, however, serves little purpose, especially in a pandemic. Far be it from me to prevent anyone from living their life how they choose, but in the same vein…don’t come crying to me when it doesn’t work out for you. I’m very justice based and my sympathies rarely incline toward people who expect the same results doers get when they do nothing. This is especially prevalent in my sentiments in regard to re-opening workplaces and stores.

The day before yesterday Governor DeWine laid out the plans for my home state’s re-opening. One of the mandates included was that people working at or entering a business were required to wear masks or some homemade PPE apparatus. The next morning I was online purchasing some washable and reusable coverings. In my head, logic dictated I do so. While I was perusing Amazon though, apparently a large contingent within my state were inundating the governor’s office with emails about their displeasure. Cries of slippery slopes, totalitarianism, and fascism filled the wi-fi waves. Equally loud were the angry retorts from people who felt like it was too soon to even contemplate re-opening. Most of which, I can almost guarantee, are not at the point of feeling the financial pinch.

Neither of these groups seemed inclined to stop and realize what their lack of adaptation would mean for anyone outside of themselves. Again, not shocking considering what we know about human behavior, but disappointing nonetheless. With PPE’s it’s in the name for crying out loud. It’s designed to protect you as a person. And as for not re-opening until there’s a vaccine…that’s not remotely feasible for a huge segment of the population. So, if you don’t want to be required to wear a mask, don’t go in public. If you can afford to live off savings and not work and are fearful of returning, stay home. But if you lie anywhere on the spectrum in between those two extremes…adapt. Do what is within your control to protect yourself, and have faith that the things out of your control will present a scenario that you can adapt to.

As always, wishing you health, less worry, and the ability to adapt. It’s in you.

This Side of the Dirt

I was born into a family of routine one-liners. Mom’s call from the kitchen of “Are you hungry,” would be met with a chorus of “I could eat.” Anyone who asked any other question involving an affirmative response was likely to hear “You bet your sweet bippy!” It didn’t matter that none of us had a clue what a bippy was or what made it sweet, it was what you said. Much like the call and response segments in a church service, everyone knew their lines, and if someone new came into the mix…they learned them quickly and joined right in.

My favorite was always my Dad’s response to some variant of “Good morning. How are you?” Without fail his mildly irreverent retort would be “I woke up on the right side of the dirt, so that’s something.” Having grown up in the hills of West Virginia, this was his folksy way of expressing gratitude for another day of life. It was also a tool to set his focus on the blessings any given day holds.

Each day is a blessing

It seems that until some untimely tragedy or premature death enters our lives, we’re wired to assume each day is a given rather than something to be grateful for. Phrases like SSDD (the second “S” being “stuff” or a swear depending on the strictness of the household) prove the expectation that the sun will rise tomorrow offering the same limited fare, but we’ll be there to drag our feet through it from dawn to dusk. Much like any stereotype or assumption though, breathing life into it through speaking it aloud doesn’t mean it’s true. Often when the stark light of reality meets the rose-colored tint of thought, we recoil.

That reaction is what has followed me so far throughout quarantine…a constant state of recoiling. At first, as I’ve written about before, it was the mandates. Always the hint of a rebellious teenager hidden within my 49 year old frame, I rebuff at anyone telling me what I can or cannot do. The bratty side is small in comparison to my typical authoritarian nature though, so I capitulated. My next jump backwards occurred after the Great Toilet Paper Shortage of March 2020. Still haven’t quite figured out how or why that happened, but happen it did. The idea of people lining their basement or garage walls with rolls upon rolls encased in plastic, while others had to resort to their glove box napkin supply made me shudder.

A veritable treasure trove in times of need.

Then came the nags on social media. Their bounty of free time dedicated to scouring the platform of their choice for any pictures or posts that violate their interpretation of the quarantine policies. Cringe-worthy indeed, especially considering they rarely if ever take into account that the object of their disdain might not be in the same circumstance as they are. So what if your daughter and her husband are essential and have a two year old child and daycares are closed? You aren’t supposed to cross state lines! Thank you for your input, Negative Nelly, but my grandson isn’t old enough to be a latch key kid. I found no argument I offered could sway their black and white view of our circumstances, so I’ve learned that the scroll button is my best course of action.

Most recently there’s been the Grand Re-opening debate. Yet another war of opposing sides where I fall in line with neither. The bittersweet fate of any independent thinker. Screaming and cursing at front line workers is daft…let me just clear that up right away. First of all, they aren’t making the rules. It’s like screaming at the janitor instead of the principal because of school dress code policies. It’s stupid, so stop it. I get that you might be frustrated that your small business is floundering, but direct your concerns to the mayor’s office or the governor’s mansion. Address someone who can actually affect change instead of harassing people who are doing their best in a bad situation.

The optics aren’t the only thing horrible about this.

The other far end of the spectrum doesn’t suit me either. I’m a realist. This shut down can’t go on indefinitely and we need a way to start functioning again. Allowing healthy, non-immunocompromised people who aren’t in the high risk segment of the population seems to be the best course. Keep the PPE measures in place as well as the social distancing. Excuse the segment of the population that is most vulnerable from attendance until it’s shown they have some measure of safety in returning. There is never going to be an All Clear. No Olly Olly Oxen Free to be had. That guarantee of an illness free tomorrow never existed, nor will it now. We need to stop trying to convince ourselves that it did. According to stats from the CDC in 2017, anywhere from 7-8000 people in the US die every day without a pandemic. There is no future death-free world, so kidding ourselves serves no purpose.

What we can do in the meantime is be vigilant, and compliant. We can also realize that in between those far reaching extremes that seem to possess the loudest voices, there is a ton of middle ground to be had. The false dichotomies need to cease so truth and reality can prevail. We can also start being grateful that, for today, we woke up on the right side of the dirt. It’s a gift and a blessing. Treat it like one instead of taking it for granted. As the Good Book says, “We are a mist that appears for a time and then vanishes.” Make sure what you do while you’re here is a benefit rather than a hindrance.

As always, sending hopes that you are well, have a reasonable expectation of safety, and that you’re can find gratitude for being on the right side of the dirt. XOXO

Fighting for Autonomy

They say that anger is a secondary emotion. By “they” I mean the often faceless cadre of professionals with mix and match letters after their names. Those letters denoting a devotion to sitting in lecture halls longer than many of us cared to or could afford. That dedication often confers upon them a freedom from questioning or doubt by the masses. Even so, through my own experience with anger (and my obnoxious need to question everything regardless of who says it) I find it to be a primary emotion lately, and particularly primal.

If I suspend my disbelief, however, and take their collective word for it, then anger stems from fear or sadness. So the obvious follow up question as I try to discover why I’m teeming with rage at the moment is, “What am I afraid of or sad about?”

What’s troubling you today?

When I wrote recently about the stages of grief, a friend of mine pointed out that she hadn’t looked at our quarantining experience as a grieving process. I, on the other hand, see every episode that causes my depression to flare up as a time to mourn. The key for me to get through it is to figure out what loss I’m mourning and why. The big three for me at first blush right now are the loss of freedom, security, and autonomy.

The concept of freedom has been watered down in recent years. It’s used as a catch-all and often politicized mantra. A major component of those inalienable rights of which our forefathers bespoke. Those of us in the US can sometimes take it for granted, because by way of gestational geography, we were born into it. It’s hard to comprehend the lack of something you’ve always possessed until it’s taken away. And much like the young tyke whose lollipop is stolen by a bigger kid on the playground, we cry and fuss and meltdown at the loss. If you look at it closely enough though, only a rare few off-gridders ever truly possess it it. We’re all governed by laws that detail how free we really are at any given moment, so freedom in its broadest sense is therefore born into confinement. Following that line of logic, we’re only having our playing field adjusted slightly, and if you’re deemed “essential” it’s an almost imperceptible loss.

Security, or more pointedly safety, is next on the list and something that’s been tested quite frequently in my lifetime. Those raised in nurturing homes are blessed with it for eighteen years straight and sometimes longer. Sheltered by helicopter parents from the ways of the world, and like Linus from Peanuts we toddle out from under their rotors gripping it tightly in non-blanket form. The myth of it is shattered, however, when we step from the shadow of the blades into full sunlight and our vision is unimpeded. Random acts of violence, illnesses, inebriated drivers, or warring combatants can steal any sense of it from our grasp. So our actual security only exists until it doesn’t. That kind of crapshoot can’t be the underlying fear I’m bucking.

Security blanket STAT

By process of elimination then, it’s the stripping of autonomy that I’m railing against, or to quell my ego…fighting for. It’s a concept that’s often danced around, but rarely do you see it caressed and called by name. Merriam Webster (sorry OED fans) defines it as “self directing freedom and moral independence.” It’s basically the ability to do what you want, when you want. That, my friends, is what has many of us in knots right now, and with social distancing we can’t even hire a masseuse to work them out! The laws of the land have always been in place, so while we don’t necessarily have the total freedom we’re told we possess, we do have the ability to work within those laws on our own terms. Or at least we did.

That imperceptible shift in the playing field lines that I mentioned earlier has actually forced a major shift in our daily lives. Picking up a package left on your front porch has now become an exercise worthy of Chemistry class. How much bleach in conjunction with sunlight over time equates to COVID-free? Our places of refuge outside our four walls are also no longer viable getaways. Stepping into a building with your mouth unfettered by some PPE apparatus is an act of, at minimum, shunning and at peak…ejection from the premises. We no longer have a say in what we wear outside of our domiciles, where we go, or how close we stand to someone. That autonomy, that choice, has been snatched from us. Our lollipop is in the hands of someone with more power than us and our brains are creating their individual Tyler Durdens ready to form Fight Clubs to take it back by force.

Oops, I just broke the first rule of Fight Club!

It appears that the degreed ones were right. My anger may be primal, but it isn’t a primary emotion. It’s stemming from the fear that my autonomy will never be recovered. With no end in sight, my mind is extrapolating my circumstance out to the worst case scenario. One where I no longer get to do what I want, when I want…and that is scary. It’s also sad, which doubles down on their assessment of where anger derives its fuel from.

So the next time the rage bubbles up, rip its mask off. Like Scooby Doo’s band of misfits, we can reveal that it’s not anger that’s been has been chasing us through our hallways. It’s the fear and sadness of these uncertain times. Without access to some scrying mirror or one of Dionne Warwick’s psychic friends, I have no way of predicting how this will all pan out. I do have faith, however, in the adaptability of human beings and in the collective ability of our spirits to find our way back to some sort of peace within ourselves. As ironic as it sounds, peace is what we need to be fighting for.

As always, I wish you health and safety, and now also a prayer for some semblance of peace to quell the fear and sadness.

Stages of Grief, Rinse, Repeat

Since I began the journey of introspection back in my early 40’s, I’ve relied heavily on the stages of grief chart to help analyze where I am in processing a given issue. There are several opinions out there in regard to how many stages there are, but I’m old school and stick with the five: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. There have been occasions where I didn’t experience all five, but for the most part, they’ve been tried and true in helping me decipher my emotions and get past life’s obstacles.

As with anything that becomes rote, you stop questioning it and go along with the program out of habit. One less thing to analyze in this world of endless questions, right? With all of this free time on our hands now though, idle minds have unfettered freedom to wander into the under-explored habits…and wander I did. My mind actually took a hike equivalent to summiting Everest.

Where’s a Sherpa when I need one?

I ran through the stages that I had experienced since COVID entered my consciousness. Denial? Check! I had utterly denied that this was anything more major than the flu. That our hyper-focus on the issue was magnifying it to disproportionate levels. Akin to the graphic they use on every program of the virus itself. Blowing it up to the size of a baseball on our screens when in reality it is invisible to the naked eye. Much ado about nothing, as ol’ Bill would say.

Next came the anger. My friend, and as an Aries, my constant companion. Few people see this side of me, but my husband and kids can attest to its existence. I’m constantly railing against some perceived injustice. I like things to be fair, and let’s face it…they rarely are. So I’ll bemoan the government, the lack of compassion in the world, the price of produce. You name it, I’ve groused about it. In this corona realm it was the hyper-stringent mandates put in place by my state’s governor. Funnily enough, he’s being praised now for those same measures. Shows what I know.

Born of Fire

Then came the bargaining. Okay, Governor DeWine, I’ll wash my hands, but I’m not singing “Happy Birthday” while I do it. Deal? Sure, I’ll stock up on a few things, but I’m still going to make my weekly trip to the grocery for perishables. Fair enough? I rarely travel anyway, so your recommendation not to travel is an easy one, sir. But I will need to make the trek to Kentucky every two weeks to care for my grandson. It’s just one day in fourteen, so I’m doing my part.

The shortest of all of them, ironically enough, was the depression. As an introvert by nature, this reclusive life was pretty much my norm anyway. I secretly reveled in not being able to be asked to attend some event that I’d rather avoid. A lunch date you say? Sorry, we’re in quarantine. No can do. The perfect excuse handed to me on a silver platter! It would be rude to refuse a present like that. So despite my diagnosis, depression wasn’t really an issue.

So I sped on my merry way straight into the arms of acceptance. The one thing in the world I could still hug. I churned out blogs, both personal ones and TV recaps at record speed. Bon mots and offerings of hope in the darkness. I wanted to be sure all of my friends on the journey could join me in the Paradise of pacified understanding of all of the benefits this new way of life had to offer. My moment to shine had come, and I could be the introverted Moses leading all of the social extroverts to the new land of Canaan. Manna from Heaven provided for all who’d just listen.

Although s’mores do sound good right now!

Then something strange and unexpected happened. I was getting angry all over again. Miffed at the nitpicking Nellies who had nothing better to do than to nag people for not following mandates to the letter. Annoyed that things like my birthday and plans made months in advance to see Wicked with my granddaughter were now up in smoke. Deeply bothered by the inability to escape the mention of the virus and our circumstance. Every freaking commercial that came on about how we’re all together in this amplified my frustration. In my head I was screaming, “shut up…Shut Up…SHUT UP! Stop talking about it already!”

If Nancy doesn’t know by now to social distance and wash her hands, then screw her. If Fred wants to go out without a mask on and risk his own health…let him. If he winds up on a ventilator, well, he asked for it. Darwinian survival of the fittest in action. Vicious and vile thoughts about people were piling up and I barely recognized myself. What was happening to me? I had already processed these emotions step by step. Did I not delve into them thoroughly enough? Am I some medical anomaly that they no longer apply to thanks to my depression? So. Many. Questions.

I don’t have the answers yet, so I can’t wrap this up in a shiny box with a sateen bow for you. What I am discovering though is that the stages of grief may not always be linear. In some cases, it’s not unlike shampooing your hair. Lather, rinse, repeat as needed. Apparently with COVID…I need a second go.

As always, I wish you happiness, health, and the freedom to be uniquely you, no matter how many washes it takes. XOXO