White People: We're all Amy Cooper, but let's work hard to change that

When I saw on the news the video of Amy Cooper calling the police on Christian Cooper for the grave offense of being Black and bird-watching, my first thought was "what a racist bitch, how dare she?" When I heard she was fired, I thought "good." I saw a lot of white people on Twitter with similar sentiments, everyone of course thinking how wrong and awful Any is, and how they of course are the good, pure white people that would never do that. I too thought, "I am a good, pure white person and would never do that."

Then I started thinking more deeply about it. What if I'm not all that different from Amy Cooper?

When I was growing up, I first learned about racism in elementary school. It was taught to me in a very simple, straight-forward way: Racism is when one race (generally white people) think they are better and worth more than another race (in America it's often Black people, but also stretches to other non-white races). Basically, I thought racism meant that you dislike someone based on their skin color. So for me, it was very simple. Of course I'm not racist. I like people based on their personality, not their skin color. Therefore I am not racist, I am not a part of the problem, end of story.

Unfortunately, it is not anywhere near this simple, and I think what I was taught was how many white people were taught about racism. We were never taught how insidious it is, how it goes so much deeper than liking or disliking someone based on skin color. We were never taught about institutional racism, systemic racism, or unconscious biases. The irony of that is that not teaching us these deeper, more complex kinds of racism fed into the problem.

I spent about thirty years thinking I'm not racist. The truth is, maybe I am. But I don't want to be. It wasn't until my thirties that I really began to understand the complexities of racism and how I was/am contributing to the problem. I still want to say I am not racist, but I can't. What I can say is, "I do not want to be racist. I will try very hard every second of every day to not be racist, to not contribute to the problem. I will continually look at my biases and actions and strive to be better.."

I have chronic ankle issues and can't do a lot of walking or standing, so protesting in public is not an option for me. So I fill fight against it with words, donations, and anything else I can do. I hope my blogs and poems can help get through to other white people similar to myself.

I'm going to share a story. This story does not show me in a good light. I am quite ashamed of myself and have only shared this story with people I'm very close to. But now, in light of everything, I think it's important.

This is my Amy Cooper moment.

In 2011 I applied for a grad program for psychology/counseling. I'd gotten an interview, which was done in a group format. One of the many portions of this was a group discussion about racism. My group consisted of mostly white people, one Black woman (we'll call her Tanya), an open lesbian, and there may have been a couple other minorities present, but it was a long time ago so I don't completely remember. We started by watching a five minute video showing a racist scenario in a workplace. When it was over, we were given ten minutes to discuss. I am very shy. It is hard for me to speak in groups, and I'm also not very skilled at knowing when to just hop in. So, I decided to speak first. I can't remember what I said, but a white man replied to my comment. I then responded to him. In my response I said something along the lines of "I think we . . ."

Tanya interrupted me and said, "Don't say 'we'! You are in a mixed group of people and saying 'we' is dis-including those of us who are not white."  (not her exact words, but the gist of them.)
I was shocked and mortified. I'd offended a Black woman, something I never thought I'd do because I'm not racist. Due to my shyness, I shut down after that and was completely quiet the rest of the interview.

I did not get into that program.

Now, as if that weren't shameful enough, here is the worst part. When talking to my family and friends about the interview I said, "I didn't get in because a Black woman jumped down my throat." Yes. I said that. Many times. It was a horrible, ignorant, racist thing to think and say. The thing is, I didn't fully believe it was all her fault, so I don't even know why I said it. I think honestly I was angry with myself for shutting down after that, but I wanted to blame someone else. This is an example of how insidious racism is. I genuinely thought it was okay for me to say these things because "I liked Black people" and "I wasn't racist".

It was not okay. Absolutely not okay. I'm embarrassed and ashamed of myself. It was not Tanya's fault that I did not get in. It was my fault. I could've handled that situation so much better. Instead of shutting down, I wish I'd said to Tanya, "But I was responding to this gentleman, who is white like me, that is why I said 'we'." Tanya may then have explained to me how many white people make this same mistake, or do things like this that cause Black people and other non-white people to be left out of this discussion. I could've thought more about it and responded. It could have led to a very powerful discussion, that may have led me to see things about myself I didn't want to see. Instead, I took the easy way out, the one so many white people take: blame the Black person. This is not okay. Blaming anyone else for your own short-comings is always bad, but blaming a Black person or another minority is even worse. It's racism at its most powerful, because it fuels dangerous ideas, ideas like "Black people are to blame for the failings of the world."

I hate that I contributed to that. I wish I could go back and change it, but I can't. What I can do is move forward. I can learn from this experience and take this shame and do better. I'm sharing this story so other white people can see it, and maybe it will make them think of their own similar experiences. Maybe it will help them do better. I hope so.

To "Tanya": The odds of you seeing this are slim, but I am truly sorry. I'm sorry for saying "we" and not understanding why that was harmful. I'm sorry for not engaging with you and learning more about it in the moment. I'm sorry for blaming you for my failure. It was racist, and it was wrong. I can only say that I've recognized how wrong I was, how I contributed to the problem, and that I will consciously strive be the person I thought I was: "not racist".

Now, back to Amy Cooper. It's so easy for white people to be disgusted by her actions and to think "I'm not her. I will never be her." But let's stop for a minute and think about how we are her. I am going to make some assumptions about her for the purpose of the point I'm trying to make. I'm guessing Amy was taught, much like myself, that racism is simple. It's "I like Black people" or "I don't like Black people". She probably thought she wasn't racist. After watching her become increasingly escalated in the video, I worry, "Could that be me? Could I do that?" I'd love to think I wouldn't. My guess is that Amy really was afraid of Christian Cooper, but maybe she at first didn't know why. Another product of the insidiousness of racism. Amy had an unconscious bias that caused her to be more fearful of this bird-watcher because he is Black than she would've been of a white bird-watcher. When she "went to a racist place" by saying "I'm going to tell them an African American man is threatening me" she probably went there on instinct because of that fear caused by her unconscious bias. Please don't misunderstand me. I am not saying that what she did was okay. I'm saying it's more complex than "Amy is a racist and hates black people."  I'm also saying that a lot of us white people probably have more in common with her than we think. And even though we'd like to think "I could never be that woman" let's change that. Let's think "What if I could do what Amy did?" Let's be aware of that, constantly. Many racist behaviors are brought on by these unconscious, underlying biases. So let's be aware of them. Let's stop and think "Would I feel this way if this person were white?" "How would I behave differently if this were a white person?"

I hope that Amy is learning from this experience. I hope she is examining herself and her understanding of racism. But even if she isn't, us white people who call ourselves allies can use her actions as a way to examine ourselves. To see how we are her, or could become her, and to strive to do better. Part of that is looking at ourselves and our actions where we've behaved in a racist way. Like my story above. These are hard things to think about, because along with being taught that racism is as black and white as "you either like Black people or you don't" we were taught that racist people are horrible, evil scumbags. And yes, many of them are. But not all of them. Many people who behave in racist ways believe themselves not to be racist, and have a hard time admitting to racist actions, because we were told this makes us evil. No one wants to think of themselves as evil. But it does not make us evil. It makes us wrong. It makes us ignorant. It makes us products of decades of systemic racism. The first step to being anti-racist and fighting against racism is to recognize how we've contributed to the problem. It does not make us evil. Recognize where you've failed and learn from it. Strive to do better. Share how you behaved in a racist way with other white people so they too can examine it and learn from it. Many racist acts are unconscious, so let's make our anti-racism conscious. Think about it all the time. Racism is an insidious enemy, so we must stay vigilant.

Please feel free to comment on this post. If you disagree with anything I've said, or feel that I am wrong or maybe something I said is racist, please let me know. I promise to think critically about all comments and feedback. Knowing that, please do not rip me apart and cuss at me. Passionate comments are fine, but not ones that are aggressive and mean. Present your thoughts constructively. I am trying to help the problem, but I know I still have unconscious racist biases that have become embedded in my brain, so I might be saying something ignorant unintentionally. So just please, stay civil, and I promise to give your comment careful thought and consideration.

Thank you for reading.

And Then The Howling Stopped

And Then The Howling Stopped

We saw it coming, but it never happens to us,

so we didn’t listen.

It never happens to us.

Until it did.

We thought we’ve seen suffering, we thought we knew disaster.

And then this came.

It came and we listened.

We stayed inside and cried,

Laughed.

We watched crazy rednecks streaming

and put teddy bears in windows and discovered technology we thought we already knew.

We came together when we fell apart.

We came together and we howled; a pack separated.

We howled for the pain, the suffering, the missed parties, graduations, weddings . . .

The doctors and nurses and grocery store employees . . .

We howled for those without homes and those stuck in bad homes . . .

We howled for those who lost their jobs, their houses,

Their Lives.

We howled because the pain was a living force that needed released,

And we did it together.

Nothing is more important than life.

We stayed in for our lives.

We howled for our lives.

We’re in this together. We’re going to be okay.

Wait . . .

Something is more important than life.

Money.

Money is more important

and they need money.

They.

That’s the irony.

Those who need it the most already have it.

They rule,

We follow.

And they need money.

So they take our blood.

“It’s okay, the suffering is over,” they say.

You can come out now.

“The numbers are low, you don’t have to suffer anymore,” they said.

They. The false prophet.

Come out and make your money.

You’re making it for us, they whisper, so low we don’t hear.

And we didn’t.

We didn’t hear and we listened.

We listened because the suffering hurt; it tore us apart.

The irony is that we haven’t seen anything yet.

The suffering is yet to come,

That’s what happens when you listen to false prophets.

We listened.

And then the howling stopped.

Happy Mother's Day

Aww, my poor neglected blog. Once I went back to work full time, it got very difficult to keep up on everything. Still is, but I do miss my blog.

I decided I wanted to share my eulogy that I wrote for my mom, and ironically realized that my last blog post was from Mother's Day 2018, sharing my eulogy. But I'm gonna share again anyway.  So here it is.

I wish you weren’t hearing this right now. I wish I’d never had to write it, not because I don’t want everyone to know how amazing Mom is, but because I want her to be here so you can see for yourselves. Though chances are, if you’re sitting in this room, you have some idea of how great Mom is. But I’m writing to tell you that she’s even more amazing than you know.

            When I say words like “great” and “amazing,” I don’t mean perfect. No one is perfect. What I mean is that Mom tried to be perfect. She put everything she had into everything she did. She learned from her mistakes, apologized when she knew she was wrong, and constantly strived to be better.

            I am proud to say that I have a lot in common with Mom. People say I look like her; they’ve been saying it my whole life. I got so used to hearing it, I took it for granted. But just this past week, several people have told me how much I look like her. Now I hear those words with fresh ears. The words are now more comforting than I ever could’ve imagined, because it’s as though she’s a part of me.

It’s not just looks we have in common. I inherited her ridiculously good memory for dates, times, what we were wearing, what we ate for dinner , and other random facts (it makes for a neat party trick). We’re both shy—insanely so—but quirky and funny when we’re in an environment we feel safe in. We don’t like to lead, but we can if we have to. My mom never stayed silent when something needed to be said, and she taught me to do the same.

            Some people think shy people are weak, that they can be walked on. This isn’t the case with Mom. She got very nervous about making phone calls, large work events, and anything else where she might have to speak or be put on the spot. But when it came to standing up for Angie and me, she never hesitated. She was fierce when it came to protecting us. Once, in middle school, I was selling Girl Scout Cookies door to door. We were fairly new to the neighborhood, so not everyone knew us yet. I went to the house two doors down from us, and the woman who answered the door started screaming at me and saying something along the lines of, “How dare you come to my door! This is my daughter’s neighborhood to sell cookies in! Get out of here!”

            I came home in tears. Mom immediately marched over there to give that woman a piece of her mind. I didn’t hear it (kinda wish I had), but the lady came over and apologized, and invited me to play with her daughter. I have many more memories like that one. If I shared them, we’d be here all day.

            The irony is that Mom didn’t know how good she was. She worried so much over all the things she did wrong. When her illness worsened, I started to think of some things I wanted to tell her, and I worried I wouldn’t get the chance. But one day in January, I had the gift of visiting with her while Scott was out, so it was just the two of us. I got to say the things I needed to. One of those things was telling her how lucky I was that she was always there for me and to thank her for being my mom. She said, “I can’t believe you love me. I was horrible.”

I told her, “Of course I love you.” It makes me sad to remember that she said that, but that was just who she was. She worried that she didn’t do well as a mother. She worried that she wasn’t good enough. But she was the best; I hope she knows that, wherever she is.

            No one knows how to be a parent until it happens. But parenting is even harder when you’re a single mother, and even harder still when a certain teenage daughter named Becky does everything she can to make it more difficult. I was a troubled teenager, and there were times when Mom feared what would become of me. There were probably times she wanted to rip her hair out and scream. Even though she didn’t know how to help me, she did. I got through what she called my “lost weekend.” I got through it because she never gave up on me.

She continued to be there for me, even once I was an adult. It’s a good thing to, because I’ve had my fair share of crap. I’ve walked through hell, swam through floods, sank into quicksand, and gotten lost in the labyrinth of life. I’m not exaggerating. I’ve been through so much, and boy do I have stories (it’s a good thing I’m a writer). But I’m not here to tell those stories. I’m here to tell you who carried me out of hell, who dove into the water and pulled me out—and she can’t even swim!— who rescued me from the quicksand, and who traversed the labyrinth to guide me home. That person is my mom, and I honestly don’t know where I would be without her. She gave me the strength to traverse the steepest mountains. I believe in myself today because she believes in me.  

I once told her I had her to thank for where I am today, for the accomplishments I made and the things I did. She said, “No. I didn’t do that. You did.” Maybe she was right, but I couldn’t have done it without her. Now, I’m terrified because I don’t know how to do this life thing without her. I’m afraid I might crumble to pieces, that I don’t know what to do or where to turn. I’m afraid, but just before she passed, I told her I’d be okay. I honestly don’t know if it’s true or not, but if it is, it will be because she gave me the strength to be okay, because she believed in me and stood beside me. She can’t hold my hand, or give me advice, but she’ll be in my heart. She gave me herself, and that is a gift I will keep forever.

My Mommy

I've wanted to share this, but I haven't put it up yet, because it's hard. But I feel like it's important to be shared, especially now that it's so close to Mother's Day, it's important that people know who my mom, who passed away 3/26/18, was. (I can't wait till I can stop seeing Mother's Day commercials.)

This is what I wrote and had read at the memorial service.

I wish you weren’t hearing this right now. I wish I’d never had to write it, not because I don’t want everyone to know how amazing Mom is, but because I want her to be here so you can see for yourselves. Though chances are, if you’re sitting in this room, you have some idea of how great Mom is. But I’m writing to tell you that she’s even more amazing than you know.

            When I say words like “great” and “amazing,” I don’t mean perfect. No one is perfect. What I mean is that Mom tried to be perfect. She put everything she had into everything she did. She learned from her mistakes, apologized when she knew she was wrong, and constantly strived to be better.

            I am proud to say that I have a lot in common with Mom. People say I look like her; they’ve been saying it my whole life. I got so used to hearing it, I took it for granted. But just this past week, several people have told me how much I look like her. Now I hear those words with fresh ears. The words are now more comforting than I ever could’ve imagined, because it’s as though she’s a part of me.

It’s not just looks we have in common. I inherited her ridiculously good memory for dates, times, what we were wearing, what we ate for dinner , and other random facts (it makes for a neat party trick). We’re both shy—insanely so—but quirky and funny when we’re in an environment we feel safe in. We don’t like to lead, but we can if we have to. My mom never stayed silent when something needed to be said, and she taught me to do the same.

            Some people think shy people are weak, that they can be walked on. This isn’t the case with Mom. She got very nervous about making phone calls, large work events, and anything else where she might have to speak or be put on the spot. But when it came to standing up for Angie and me, she never hesitated. She was fierce when it came to protecting us. Once, in middle school, I was selling Girl Scout Cookies door to door. We were fairly new to the neighborhood, so not everyone knew us yet. I went to the house two doors down from us, and the woman who answered the door started screaming at me and saying something along the lines of, “How dare you come to my door! This is my daughter’s neighborhood to sell cookies in! Get out of here!”

            I came home in tears. Mom immediately marched over there to give that woman a piece of her mind. I didn’t hear it (kinda wish I had), but the lady came over and apologized, and invited me to play with her daughter. I have many more memories like that one. If I shared them, we’d be here all day.

            The irony is that Mom didn’t know how good she was. She worried so much over all the things she did wrong. When her illness worsened, I started to think of some things I wanted to tell her, and I worried I wouldn’t get the chance. But one day in January, I had the gift of visiting with her while Scott was out, so it was just the two of us. I got to say the things I needed to. One of those things was telling her how lucky I was that she was always there for me and to thank her for being my mom. She said, “I can’t believe you love me. I was horrible.”

I told her, “Of course I love you.” It makes me sad to remember that she said that, but that was just who she was. She worried that she didn’t do well as a mother. She worried that she wasn’t good enough. But she was the best; I hope she knows that, wherever she is.

            No one knows how to be a parent until it happens. But parenting is even harder when you’re a single mother, and even harder still when a certain teenage daughter named Becky does everything she can to make it more difficult. I was a troubled teenager, and there were times when Mom feared what would become of me. There were probably times she wanted to rip her hair out and scream. Even though she didn’t know how to help me, she did. I got through what she called my “lost weekend.” I got through it because she never gave up on me.

She continued to be there for me, even once I was an adult. It’s a good thing to, because I’ve had my fair share of crap. I’ve walked through hell, swam through floods, sank into quicksand, and gotten lost in the labyrinth of life. I’m not exaggerating. I’ve been through so much, and boy do I have stories (it’s a good thing I’m a writer). But I’m not here to tell those stories. I’m here to tell you who carried me out of hell, who dove into the water and pulled me out—and she can’t even swim!— who rescued me from the quicksand, and who traversed the labyrinth to guide me home. That person is my mom, and I honestly don’t know where I would be without her. She gave me the strength to traverse the steepest mountains. I believe in myself today because she believes in me.  

I once told her I had her to thank for where I am today, for the accomplishments I made and the things I did. She said, “No. I didn’t do that. You did.” Maybe she was right, but I couldn’t have done it without her. Now, I’m terrified because I don’t know how to do this life thing without her. I’m afraid I might crumble to pieces, that I don’t know what to do or where to turn. I’m afraid, but just before she passed, I told her I’d be okay. I honestly don’t know if it’s true or not, but if it is, it will be because she gave me the strength to be okay, because she believed in me and stood beside me. She can’t hold my hand, or give me advice, but she’ll be in my heart. She gave me herself, and that is a gift I will keep forever.

The Cemetery in the Rain

I went to the cemetery today. I haven't been since the day we put my mom's urn in the ground. It was freezing that day. I chose today because it was raining and I love rain. It seemed appropriate, and I also really wanted to be alone, and I figured no one else would go to the cemetery in 45 degree rain. I was right, and that was nice. I brought an umbrella and my headphones, some paper (all I had in my car were random scrap papers and a wrinkled folder) and a pen, and a sweater to sit on.

Because I have no sense of direction, I couldn't remember where my mom's grave was, so I wandered around for about twenty minutes, stopping and sitting on the gravel path whenever inspiration struck me. I finally found my mom, after I decided to give up looking and head back to the car. Her grave was ten feet from the car and I'd walked right past it.

Anyway, here are the poems I wrote.

Raindrops Above You

I don't know who you were
but I cried for you today.
Or maybe that was just the rain;
but either way I thought of you--
who you were and what you once wanted.

An angel statue, and a cat, tall and majestic.
The cat drew me to you; it made me think of you and cry for you today.
Maybe others were thinking of you, but maybe not today.
Today it was cloudy
Today it was rainy
Today the mountains were shadowed and gray
and cold raindrops dampened the ground above you.
Today I walked by.
Today I thought of you.


Lost in the cemetery in the rain

Lost in the cemetery.
In the rain.
It's a great title. There's so much in that one sentence.
Or is it two?
How lost am I? In what way am I lost?
Have I lost my map or made a wrong turn?
Or am I lost in my grief, lost without you.

But maybe it's only a title.
Maybe there is nothing more.

I'm only lost.

In the cemetery.
In the rain.

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Thanks for reading! If you haven't seen it yet, here's a link to the Go Fund Me my friend set up to send me to writer's conferences. https://www.gofundme.com/help-this-amazing-writer?member=51762

Another Way To Help

Hi, everyone!

By now many of you may have seen the Go Fund Me my wonderful friend set up for me. If you haven't, I'll link it at the bottom. It's to help me raise funds to attend a couple of upcoming writer's conferences. These events are very important in helping me to achieve my goal of becoming a published and full-time author. I am very close to finishing my literary mystery "Pieces" and will soon be ready to shop it to agents. These events will allow me to meet with agents and editors, network with other writers of all skill levels, and attend workshops that will help me grow my craft. If you know me at all (online or IRL) you know how important writing is to me, and how hard I've worked over the years. You also know that it's been a rough three years for me, which is why attending these events without financial assistance is difficult. With the help of some friends, an anonymous person, and a former friend and coworker of my mom's, I am closer to having what I need to attend, but I'm not quite there yet.

Aside from writing, I've also been an avid jewelry maker. Some friends and I sell our jewelry for charity on our Etsy shop, Pins With Purpose. It's been very rewarding. To date, we've raised over $3000 for various causes. In addition to making jewelry for our shop, I also do much of the social media advertising. It's been great to know that I've been able to help people, especially while things haven't been going well for me. I've enjoyed making jewelry so much, that I have more than we really need for our charity. With the encouragement of my fellow craftivists, I've opened up my own for-profit Etsy shop, My Voice Boutique. There are just a few items up so far, but I'm always adding more.

I mention this here, because the money I would make from My Voice Boutique is extra money, therefore I could use it for things like writer's conferences. So, if you're not into just donating/giving me $ (which I totally understand) you can buy something from me. It's a win-win. Here are a couple of the items I have for sale:

You can view more at my shop: etsy.com/shop/myvoiceboutique

And here's the Go Fund Me page if you'd like to learn more:https://www.gofundme.com/help-this-amazing-writer?member=51762

Thanks!

A Long Journey Indeed

Hello friends, family, fellow writers, and the few random strangers who maybe clicked on my blog (I like to be positive and think that this is happening).

It's been awhile since I've blogged. I've been a little scarce in the blogging/Twitter world. My mom has been sick with COPD for several years. In January, her illness took a turn for the worst, and it's been terribly painful watching her go through that and not being able to help her. She passed away at the end of March, and I miss her terribly, though I'm glad she is no longer suffering. I couldn't have asked for a better mother. I'm honestly afraid of making it in this world without her.

My mom has helped me through many rough times, especially in the past few years. I wouldn't have made it through my most recent ordeal without her.

For five+ years I worked at a non-profit job as a community connector (this is a title that encompasses behavioral analysis, counseling, driving, CNA-type duties, care-taking, paper-work, janitorial work, etc. etc.). I took care of older adults with developmental and degenerative disabilities. I loved my job, mainly because of the wonderful people I had the pleasure of meeting and serving.

One day in June of 2014 I was assisting a client with gait issues walk. This is something I've done dozens of times over the years. Even with assistance, he was so unsteady that he fell frequently. He fell this day, but it wasn't like any other fall. He bumped my knee and took me down with him. I landed with my foot trapped underneath me. I immediately got up to assist him. It was a few minutes before I even realized I was hurt.

A visit to the urgent care revealed that I'd incurred a mild ankle sprain. The doctor advised rest, ice, compression and work restrictions, and said I'd likely be fully healed in two weeks. Except I wasn't. I was no better than I was immediately after the injury. I was referred to a specialist, where the injury was re-diagnosed as a high ankle sprain (less common, more severe). I continued working on restrictions and began going to physical therapy. After several weeks of PT, my injury was still no better. I was in pain all the time and miserable. It was very difficult to get through the work day, even with the restrictions. It was too much on my body. Finally, I had an MRI, which showed that surgery would be necessary to repair the damaged tendon and ligament.

Just after surgery, I was let go from my job because the company did not have a position that could accomodate my needs. It was past 90 days, so they were in their legal right to do this.

The surgery went well, and after a month of wearing a cast, I returned to physically therapy. Things were starting to look up. I was working hard in PT and gaining more function and the pain was lessening. But just when I thought I was ready to return to work, the pain began to worsen, and the swelling in my ankle returned. After being referred to a new podiatrist and having another MRI, it was revealed that while the ligament was well and good, the tendon was not. It had had a bad reaction to the sutures and was torn again. So once again I went under the knife, this time with a rather attractive surgeon holding said knife. I told him so while recovering from surgery and possibly a little looped on medications.

I went through the drill all over again: rest, non-weight bearing, crawling on the floor to carry hot coffee, cast, and finally physical therapy. And more physical therapy. And pain. And more pain. Continued pain and swelling. The function in my ankle returned, while some swelling and pain remained. The surgeon admitted that he did not know where to go from here, while the physical therapists tried various techniques, including weird electric things and tape. Yes tape. I guess their reasoning was that what two surgeries couldn't fix, surely some freaking tape could. As shocking as this might my seem, the tape didn't work. I was sent to a pain specialist, an occupational therapist, and a psychologist, because at this point, most doctors believed the pain was in my head. I had a new worker's comp doctor put in charge of my case, and she did a pretty terrible job of listening to me and assessing my needs.

At this point, I had to become a strong self-advocate, something that is terribly hard for me. I had to fight tooth and nail to get necessary treatments. It took forever, and I wanted to give up many, many times. The insurance company was ready to kick me to the curb and my doctor was no help. She did not listen to me and accused me of wanting money, despite my insistence that I only wanted treatment. At this point, the pain had spread from my ankle, to my foot, and up my leg. This is called  peripheral neuropathy, and it's a real asshole. It hurts like hell and is the weirdest kind of pain you can imagine. It has to do with angry nerves and can be caused by compression or surgery. Burning, pounding, crushing pain spread through my whole foot and up my leg into my knee. After a while, it moved to the other leg. Yes, it did. It sounds crazy, but it can happen. I was put through a number of tests to see if I had Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, a severe form of neuropathy that occurs in a limb. All my test results were negative, but every symptom I had fits perfectly into CRPS. Several physical therapists said they suspected I have CRPS. In much of the research I did, it was stated that none of the tests are fully accurate or conclusive. According to my research, CRPS is the only condition in which the patient experiences mirror pain--pain in the opposite, uninjured limb, like I had.

I was in pain all the time and severely depressed. My doctor didn't believe me and was closing my worker's comp case, meaning I would no longer receive disability benefits or any treatment. I was in no shape to go back to work. I was forced to hire an attorney. Just finding an attorney was yet another trial. Most attorneys won't take ankle cases, mainly because they don't pay much. Attorneys want severe car accidents and back injuries, and they told me this point blank. After talking to close to ten attorneys, I finally found one who was willing to take my case. But even so, it was still a battle. I had to see an independent doctor for an exam, and convince this one man that I needed more medical care. I couldn't just go to any doctor, I had to go to one my attorney and the worker's comp insurance company agreed on. It's a pretty messed up system. My attorney was not thrilled about the doctor I wound up with. Lucky for me, my attorney was wrong.

Dr. Regan listened to me and heard my frustration and agreed that I needed more care. He diagnosed me with CRPS and ordered more tests, and also thought I needed to see another ankle surgeon (something I'd been trying to tell my primary WC doctor, who wouldn't listen.) It was actually pretty satisfying taking this report back to my WC doctor. I wanted to wave it in her face and say, "I told you so!" I of course didn't, but I didn't have to. The report said it for me. She was wrong, and she knew it. Ever since then, she's listened to me and what I have to say.

Of course, the insurance company wasn't ready to give in. They filed for a hearing to dispute Dr. Regan's assessment, but it never got that far. The new surgeon used a more appropriate test than an MRI (dynamic ultrasound) and determined that my tendons and ligaments were a giant mess, like spaghetti noodles all clumped together. Likely there was an angry nerve trapped in that mess, causing all that awful nerve pain. So after jumping through more hoops, the insurance company was forced to back down and accept that I needed a third surgery, and reinstated my benefits. That was one year ago. My ankle is now strong. It still hurts, and I still have neuropathic pain in both legs, but it is much less than it was. The surgeon believes the nerves will likely calm down with time.

I've mostly made it through that ridiculous ordeal. I'm exhausted. It was a nightmare fighting so hard against the insurance company and doctors. The whole thing made me feel like shit mentally, on top of the physical pain. I felt like a worthless loser. I was unable to work, yet most doctors said I was fine. I was terrified about money running out and had no control over anything.

Luckily, I had a lot of support from friends and family. They played an important role in getting me through it, but they couldn't stop the depression, or that feeling of uselessness. Nothing stopped it completely, but there is one thing that helped it a great deal, and that's writing. Writing is my passion, my long-term career goal, my obsession, and my great love. I wrote before my injury and continued after. On good days, I pretended I wasn't disabled, but instead a full-time writer. My stories were my saviors. They gave me hope and purpose. I can say with perfect honesty that I don't know how I would've survived that time if I didn't have my writing. It gave me purpose. Without it, my depression might've taken over. I'm not exaggerating. It's just the truth.

I'm now back at work, and it feels really good to be out in the world again. It also feels good to be helping people again. My work is very different than what I did previously, but still rewarding. I work at a large non-profit helping homeless veterans find housing. I enjoy it and hope to continue it. The irony is that the book I've been working on for the past two years is called Pieces, a literary mystery about a combat veteran with PTSD trying to put his life back together.

I went back to work in December, just before my mom got sicker. She was thrilled to know I was doing better; she'd been very worried about me. In early March, she asked if I was better, and I said yes. This wasn't completely true, but true enough. This was about two weeks before she passed. I think she needed to know I would be okay.

Even though I have a job again, writing is still my goal. Pieces is almost ready to send to agents. My strength as a writer has grown over the years, but there is always room for improvement. The best way to improve is to network with other writers, attend workshops and meet agents and editors. Lucky for me, there are several events like this in Colorado. One is in June, called LitFest. The other is in September, the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers Gold Conference. I plan to enter Pieces in the RMFW Gold Contest this May. The winners are announced at the conference. It would be wonderful if I could be there, whether I'm a finalist or not. There will be many agents and editors at this event, and I would love the opportunity to meet them and discuss my novel with them.

Unfortunately, conferences are expensive. Really expensive. But this is where my wonderful friends come in. One of my best friends set up a Go Fund Me for me, to help me fulfill my dreams, and some of my friends have already contributed. It's starting to seem possible that I might get to attend these conferences, and I couldn't be more grateful. The link to the campaign is below. I would appreciate any contributions anyone can give. If you can't, please share this post with your friends. Thank you so much! Love to all!

https://www.gofundme.com/help-this-amazing-writer