Feelin' Good

It has now been 10 months since that last shot of Depo Provera in August, 2013. In the past few months I've felt this slow shift inside me, the gears grinding into action, glands awaking from their long, dark RipVan Winkle slumber. This month, I had another period. It was momentous, in that it:

1. Happened almost a month after the last one (regulation!!)
2. Though it only lasted 3 days, it was a normal, pre-Depo kinda period, with surprisingly little pain.

Since that last period, my life has been a series of "Can You Believe It"s and "Did I Really Just Eat That"s:

1. My weight is melting off. Melting away. Just slipping off these bones and vanishing.
2. I am currently living at over 11,000 ft. with nary a cough or chest pain (other than the normal Holy Crap I'm Living at 11,000 Ft pain).
3. I am living off of chocolate, avocado, tomatoes, leftovers, pisco sours--the kinds of things that would have had me clawing at my face and writhing on the ground in pain. Instead, I have had 3 hives.

3 Hives.

Tonight I ate puuuuuuuudding. Sweet chocolate puuuuuuuuuuuuudding.

Can you believe it?

No, I'm not totally better. I still can't eat the standard Gluten Trio of Evil: Wheat, Barley, or Rye. I've tried a few times and it feels like my colon is going to squeeze out of my body from the inflammation. But even that is no minor miracle. Where I once stopped breathing, my lips turned blue from lack of oxygen, I clung to my antihistamines and a slim prayer that I could get oxygen past my swollen throat, I now have slight discomfort while seated and vague regret about bad label-reading.

And I haven't performed the ultimate test: Running. I don't think attempting to run at 11,000 ft is a fair trial for my new-and-improved body, so this Most Important Final Challenge will have to wait until I'm seaside again.

To those of you still waiting out the Depo Prison Sentence:

It Gets Better. It's Getting Better All the Time.

Full Stop.

When I drank the juice box that began my downfall, I was sure that I was getting better. I was sitting in the School of Social Work, finishing up a PowerPoint presentation on US Imperialism and the Commodification of Bodies, dancing to Gumbo's and my new favorite running song:

I was full of sunshine when I walked into my student council meeting, and there are few greater symbols of happiness in my life than a juice box, imbued with memories of full moon bike rides, whooping down hills, the trees illuminated by our headlamps, the night illuminated with laughter. So when I casually brushed aside all of the snacks set out for our meeting (I wasn't going to risk possible gluten or histamine reactions) and reached for a juice box instead, I was making not only what I thought was the healthiest choice, but also the happiest.

Mere minutes after sucking it down, I knew I was in trouble. I had left my antihistamines at home and was an hour and half from home. My legs were shaking uncontrollably, and I could see the woman next to me glancing over to see if I was okay. When histamine hits me cognitively, it's accompanied by legs tremors, rapid breathing, panic, uncontrollable emotions, and inertia. I sat gripping the sides of my seat, periodically clenching my teeth together in imitation of a smile to throw people off of the fact that inside I was cowering under my chair and screaming. Finally, the conversation came around to me. All eyes, on me, and I had to finally gasp, "I'm having a reaction."

Most of the students in the room had no idea what was happening, but a couple knew what I had been going through the past few years and jumped into action. A crushed Benadryl was found, and I poured it down my throat, tears streaming down my face in front of this audience of astonished peers.

Oy.

After the meeting, I sat in the program director's office, weak, and finally lied that someone was on the way to rescue me. I went withou eating the rest of the weekend, save a couple of smoothies, hoping that the histamine in my body would soon settle down into a semi-safe range.

For 5 or 6 days, I was in agony. Hungry, faint. It felt like someone was driving a butcher knife deep into my lower abdomen. "Do I have kidney stones?" I had a friend who had described kidney stones quite vividly to me and it definitely involved butcher knives in sensitive areas. I also felt like my breasts were 50 pound water balloons on the verge of eruption. "Are these new histamine reactions?" I didn't think I could handle it if these were my new repertoire of symptoms.

And then, something bewildering happened. Something I hadn't seen in over 4.5 years, like my body grinding back to life.

I started my period.

And for 2 months, every period I didn't have over those 4.5 years decided to all come at once.
For 2 months.

And then, as suddenly as it had started, like a Michigan spring storm, it simply vanished.
AND I FELT FUCKING GOOD.

No food reactions. I even ate chocolate and DRANK BOURBON.
I slept EVERY NIGHT.
I DID NOT HAVE A SINGLE HIVE.
I could think clearly, articulate myself like some nominally intelligent being, remember what I was doing from one second to the next.
Turning my head too fast no longer made me want to hurl.
I CALLED PEOPLE ON THE PHONE WTHOUT PANIC ATTACKS. Ask my mom: This is a miracle.
I made jokes! Hell, I even made a friend!
I could eat a meal and still fit in the same clothes I'd put on that morning. (Yes, I swell up THAT much.)
I didn't want to crap myself every time I coughed!
I felt so healthy and charming and alive and hopeful and sweet lord in heaven I am getting BEEEEEEETTTTEEEEERRRRRR!

Then my lungs blew up and I started my period again,

But while it's certainly annoying to be on this neverending period (Atrayu!), I think it further proves the hormone/histamine connection. And for now, 6 healthy days and a little validation means everything to me.

Hey, everyone, it's Positive Spin Saturday!

Gumbo was up most of the night having an existential crisis, so we went out for a run in the rain to clear our minds and rinse off this pile-up of worry.

I have been concerned as of late about the ways in which I express my pain and the magnitude of that expression (I'll delve into this at a later post.) So I wanted to write something light and celebrate the little things that come from these strange new illnesses inhabiting my body. Plus, who doesn't love a list?

So today is Positive Spin Saturday!

First up: 

Things I Don't Have to Worry About Since Becoming Gluten Intolerant

1. Being overwhelmed by choices at a restaurant. Can't be indecisive when you only have one choice! (Hey, lookee here, I guess I'll have fries!)
2. Eating too much at the office party (Mini carrots, anyone?)
3. Obsessing over "OMG when are they going to serve the wedding cake?" j/k. Who cares, I can't have it anyway! Pass the carrots.
4. Impulse pastries! Unless I tote some donuts around in my purse, it's almost like I'm purposefully making healthy choices. Hooray for forced smug satisfaction!
5. Hurting family's feelings by not eating their fruit cake
6. Soggy noodles in the sink drain! AHHHHHHH!!
7. Spending too much during airport layovers (I totes have some Kinnikinnick in my backpack, y'all) or having to eat bad airplane food. Hooray!

These are just a few of the marvelous aspects of being a gluten-free vegetarian. Positive Spin FTW.

Ain't No Party Like a Progesterone Party

Today my speckle-headed pup and I paced my man for 2 miles of his 24 mile out-and-back run to Auburn. At 2.2, Gumbo and I panted goodbye and turned back toward the house. Barring a couple of squirrel-induced sprints toward the finish line, Gumbo spent the latter half of our run several steps behind me, periodically trotting up to butt his giant Tricerahops head into my outer thigh in a gesture of gratitude.

This slow run together is my weekend multiple miracle:

1. Gumbo is, at 10 years old, several decades my dog-yeared senior, yet his mileage build up has been remarkable the past 2 weeks.

2. I hardly coughed, just tiny gasps and throat-clearings.

3. I had been so sick the past few days that yesterday I hardly moved from the couch for fear of barfing onto my backpack and table from vertigo and nausea.

I had been dutifully taking my micronized progesterone for 4 days, and it had leveled me. It was like my health had regressed several months, and I was reacting severely to everything. My throat would instantaneously swell shut when I ate, I felt knocked out and feverish, and all I could do was lay on the couch and try to ignore the pain.

Oh, and cry. I cried a LOT yesterday.

"Are you feeling emotional today, Button?" I nodded, tears welling up in my eyes. "I think it's the Progesterone." I nodded again as the tears spilled down my face. "Shut up!" said my brain, but despite my rational protestations, there was some disconnect between my brain and my emotional reactions.

Oh, micronized progesterone. Alas, you were not to be my endocrine system's savior, as the welts spread thickly across my thighs could attest.

I'm unsure of the mechanism that caused my severe reaction to micronized progesterone. While studies have shown that increased progesterone improves sleep and decreases migraines and anxiety, my reaction was polar opposite and sadly paralleled all listed side effects to micronized P:

1. breast discomfort
2. anxiety
3. depressed sexual interest
4. unusually hunger
5.  stomach cramping or discomfort
6. headaches
7. feelings of moodiness, melancholy or despair
8.  upset stomach 
9. water retention
10. frequent urination
11. barfing

What I assume I had was Progesterone Toxicity (which, conveniently, has all of the same side effects as micronized P) paired with still incredibly low levels of estrogen.

Laying on the couch late Friday night, my boyfriend crouched next to me and repeated his support for my decision, whether I wanted to continue on the P or stop. I had been hoping, if I had to be treating a symptom (lack of period) rather than my endocrine system, that for 10 days my HIT symptoms would subside and I'd have a glimpse into my future with a functioning body. I couldn't imagine another week of incapacitation; I left my meds alone that night, and woke up today after 12 hours, fully rested and ready to run.

I am, for now, done with desperate quick fixes. A woman in my HIT group has recommended an herb called Vitex to stimulate my pituitary gland, and I may look into it in the future.

Today, I have the simple pleasure of a man, a pup, and 4 slow miles in the Seattle spring sun.

Progesterone, Progestogen, Progestin, Oh My

There is a stark power differential in the medical profession, one which I am acutely aware of as a social worker. Patients, and particularly patients who often find themselves under-represented in and stigmatized by the medical community, can find it difficult to advocate for themselves within a power dynamic that casts them as the passive receptacle of medical wisdom. As someone who strives to help those populations advocate for themselves and equalize power within the doctor's office, it's enlightening to watch that differential shift throughout a conversation, to see my own power deflate from the grip of stereotypes.

"Hrrrrggggrrrllllppfft," my stomach stated emphatically across the near-empty waiting room.
"Shit," said my brain, as I scanned for knowing looks and near-by restrooms. A child seated across from me glanced up from her book before nestling into her mother's side, and I became suddenly consumed with identifying all of the fish in the large aquarium at my side.

"It's a fish of some sort," I thought. "The yellow kind." I pressed my hand against the cool glass, envisioning myself in some cold, disembodied space of mottled light and crackling water.



My histamine reactions have recently ramped up, and my face is a red patchwork of hives. Inside, I imagine welts rolling across the surface of my intestines as my stomach clenches and re-clenches in pain. "There's nowhere to retreat, dear stomach. We're in this together." The nurse calls my name and I arrange my face into a semblance of a smile and walk with her down the hall to the scale.

Momentarily, I consider kicking off my shoes -- marbled, forest green flats that I had lucked upon at Goodwill's MLK Day Sale -- then chastise myself and step onto the scale. The number soars up in seconds as my heart lurches down into my knotted stomach. "Sweet merciful shit," I try not to say out loud, sensitive to the presence of the much-heavier nurse just behind me. I have been struggling to accept and love my body as it is, but the number in front of me was one that I had only seen once, ever, in my life, a time of heavy drinking and emotionally abusive relationships, a time when running was no more than a memory of a part-time, long-lost friend.

Then.

Now.

As a writer, I couldn't shake the symbolism; as a feminist, I was frustrated at the failings of my philosophy, my railing against unfair portrayals of feminine perfection while striving to attain them myself. "Stop beating yourself up," I whispered, my mantra for the week, repeated in notes tucked into pockets and notebooks to remind me.


When my doctor walked in, I was ready for solutions. "I want my hormone levels tested." I assumed my most Graduate School, Educated Woman demeanor. I explained my research, my histamine intolerance, my food reactions, not getting a period in over 4 years. He nodded, he questioned, and he seemed genuinely curious, up until I mentioned my Depo.

"Generally we don't test for hormone levels right away. Given your age, your weight, I think we should start with a course of progesterone. That should help shed your endometrial lining and start your period. When progestins enter your body..."

"Whoa, whoa, sorry, wait, progestin or progesterone?"

"Well, they're the same thing."

"Um, well, except they have a different receptor, right? I mean, that's what Depo is, a progestin. I can't... I don't want that again, that's what put me in this mess in the first place." I felt my Educated Woman demeanor begin to falter. (C'mon, Cass, you know this stuff.) "I mean, it's not my period that concerns me, it's my pituitary. It's not producing it's own progesterone. Will taking progesterone give it a little kick in the nads and get it going?"

"Like I said, progestins-"

"Progesterone?"

"I'm not sure what you mean..." His usually kind face tightened, lips pressed together. "They are the same thing. Progesterone will help stimulate the shedding of your endometrial lining and you should have a period within 10 days. If you don't, we can look into hormonal testing. Or maybe you're really active?" I could sense my hista-meanies starting to flare up. (Down, Girls, wait this out.) I stammered out my exercise routine and qualified it with a comparison to where I had been before beginning birth control, my face flushing with histamine and embarrassment.

"You can lose your period due to intense exercise and weight loss." He turned and started typing into his computer.

"Yeah, that's, that's not it." I looked down at my legs and shifted toward the front of the examination table, then tugged at my dress. "When I got my last shot, you know, in August, there were times where I couldn't even eat between the hours of 9 to 5. My reactions were so bad!" I stared at him, hoping he would turn and see the eager pleading in my face.

"That's not good." He continued to type as I picked at a fingernail.

"I'm sorry, I just... I was just weighed, and I am the heaviest I have ever been in my life, and I feel like there's nothing I can do about it and it has completely thrown me for a loop." It is a last desperate strategy, this self-blame, and suddenly Feminist, College Educated Cassie deflated, and there I was, uncovered, insecure, overweight--the patient, the receptacle for clinical knowledge, and I burned with shame and large thighs and Goodwill shoes and government healthcare (I'm losing my private insurance at the end of the month) and internet research and a mere Master's degree.

"Okay, let's try the progesterone. That sounds good. Sure. Let's do it." There was a small tear on the heel of my flats, and I lifted my foot to try and press it back in to place.

He typed out the prescription and left the room. "Hashtag: Awkward," I muttered, and showed myself out.

In the lobby, a group of teenage women were waiting for TB tests. "Oh my God let's go run in the rain!" one shouted as the others punched her in the arm and laughed. I struggled with the heavy wooden door and stepped outside, gripping the side of my dress against the wind. "HrgggrrRRrr!" shouted my stomach to a woman scurrying by, a tiny white dog tucked into the chest of her jean jacket, its curls matted with rain, and I wished for some small, warm being, pressed tightly against my heart.

My Journey on Depo Provera - HIT, the Aftermath

Hot gooey chocolate pain

It was my birthday, and along with celebrating another year of existence, I was celebrating a milestone of rebirth: My Deliverance from My Depo Due Date.

It has now been 200 days since my last shot of Depo Provera, and the medication should, according to research, be undetectable in my body. But just because a medication is no longer detectable, does not mean that my body has returned to its previous state. Like some cellular typhoon, Depo Provera has devastated me, slashing receptors and cellular walls, wiping away whole neurotransmitter systems and destroying my endocrine infrastructure.

The typhoon has abated, and I am left sifting through wreckage.

One clear example of the aftermath is the way that I still respond to food. It is, thankfully, better than just 6 months ago. I can eat, and regularly, with little more than hives springing across my shoulders and face, and a tightness in my chest that settles down after a couple hours of rest.

But give me some chocolate and my endocrine system is sent into upheeeeeeeeaval.

Sometimes, for the sake of chocolate, I take my risks, especially when that chocolate comes from Hot Cakes. Oh... lord. It is about half an hour of pure Heaven before the nausea hit me. I made it out of the restaurant and around the block before getting PLOWED with histamine.

"HUUUURP! HUUURRRP!" I gasped, trying to stay upright as my chest caved in with each breath. My partner grabbed my hand and led me to the car. We were on our way to do laundry after a full day of birthday snacking, and I spent the car ride with my eyes squeezed shut, trying not to throw up a day's worth of pastry all over my only remaining clean clothes. Every bump in the road, every deceleration of the car, was like being tossed around on a slingshot after downing a bottle of wine in the carnival parking lot.

Less fun, more crying.
And all of it from my baby shots.


You see, Depo Provera is synthetic progesterone, but with a slightly altered receptor in order to make it patentable. When you receive your shot your body is flooded with progestin, tricking the endocrine system into shutting down natural progesterone production and increasing estrogen production in order to maintain hormonal balance. Unfortunately, because of its altered structure, progestins can not bind to other receptors in the body that rely on progesterone in order to properly function.

Progesterone

Medroxyprogesterone Acetat

And what bodily functions, besides ovulation, rely on progesterone?

The nervous system, including synaptic functioning, memory, and seratonin.
Sleep regulation
Pancreatic function and insulin release.
Anti-inflammatory and immune response.
Mucus regulation.
Bronchial widening.
Gallbladder activity (bile production)
Regulating estrogen (this is a whole world of issues, including histamine regulation)

With all of this increased, unregulated estrogen, your body is put into what's called a state of Estrogen Dominance. And one of the more interesting things that estrogen does is make you randy.

Estrogen acts as a major histamine-releaser, which in turn increases lordosis behavior; or Assuming the Position for Gettin' It On. (Read more here!) This is why ladies often find themselves especially randy shortly before their period. And this is why, as someone who probably had low-grade, undiagnosed Histamine Intolerance (HIT) my whole life, I had a bit of a one-track mind. Not my fault, see? (The Low Histamine Chef provided a great explanation of the estrogen-histamine relationship here.)

Git it.

What this also means is that, with histamine levels already higher-than-normal, my body incapable of breaking down excess histamine at a normal rate, and progestins disrupting my liver's ability to break down carbohydrates and lipids (Liew et al, 1985), any excess histamine added to my body (see: food) results in a histamine overload.

"Female sex steroid hormones do alter the activity of mast cells which release histamine. For example, asthma (an allergic, autoimmune condition) is known to worsen around the menstrual cycle, and postmenopausal women taking hormone replacement therapy are more at risk for developing asthma.

"These results may support previous findings of histamine release by estrogens in uterine tissue but may also reflect an elevated histamine formation. The allergic woman excreted constantly increased amounts of histamine and its metabolites, especially when her allergic symptoms became aggravated pre-menstrually."

Since the 1980's, scientists have warned that women should not remain on Depo Provera for longer than 2 years. Unfortunately, that information has rarely extended beyond the pages of scientific publications, barring a small black box warning added to the packaging in 2005.

Never, have I ever, seen my birth control shot's packaging. 

And for that, I have been sick for 4 years. My ability to eat has been drastically altered, I can no longer run without swelling internally, and my unmedicated sleep cycle has been reduced to about 4-5 restless, itchy hours per night. 

It's like getting hives on every surface of your being, on the cells themselves, and your very blood itches and you would carve out your flesh to make it stop. It has been like this for 4 years, and the itching is the least of my concerns (See: cough, aka simulated drowning).

Pfizer is well aware of the complications of its drug, and the dozens of side-effects that women have endured. Yet this shot continues to be given to women. It continues to be spread around the world. And it continues to be aimed at women of color in poor, resource-scarce settings.

And with my every gasping breath, I will continue to fight against it.

Baby Steps to Bliss

Fog and Lace

"Night run. Cold rain. Wet leaves. Steaming shoulders. Rain-flecked eyelashes. Monstrous shadows. Quickened heart. Dimming lights. Closed eyes. Heavy breathing. Whiskey n' Cider. Good night."

"tunnel vision through shimmering trees, heart pounding in my ears, flurry of hundreds of wings across an unseen lake, hot cider and alcohol, and endless conversation. that's a damn good run, son."

When...

Back in 2009, when I had mice in the rafters for company and self-forgiveness was a rare act of kindness, I ran the streets and trails of Kalamazoo daily, nightly, constantly. Back when my frozen breath hung in the air like a lover's lost whisper, when I gazed over silent snow-filled expanse and watched the sky fall and erase me, running meant more to me than perhaps most anything ever had. 

When I began to get sick, and each rattling breath shook the foundation of my love for running, there finally was nothing I could do but stand back and helplessly watch it erode. 

When I stepped back from running in January, I hardly meant it as a last kiss goodbye. Yet with the turning of winter, extra work hours, nagging knee pain, and this cough 

this cough 

this cough

                                             this cough                                  this cough

                      this
                                                                                     this cough 

this cough, I slipped further and further away from what had once coursed through my very veins.

Poetry Aid Station (Poets not pictured) *Photo: Alexis Vergalla

And then, today, was The Run of the Ancient Mariner. This was an off-site event held in conjunction with AWP, the annual Association of Writers and Writing Programs Conference, this year held in Seattle! Jeff put this event on to combine three of his favorite things: Running, Writers, and Beer. There was a poetry aid station and many wonderful people who came out to participate. I spent a great deal of the time running with a PhD student from Louisiana who indirectly nudged my memory. Later that night, headache firmly in place and starving after a long Tukwila Commission meeting, I found myself galloping through the frozen food aisle of our local grocery store. Perhaps it was partially fueled by my search (in vain) for Ben and Jerry's new "Core" ice cream (What? I ran 5 miles!), but more than that, it was that forgotten afterglow that I only get after a good, long run.

Sure, my lungs suffered the aftershocks walking up the hill to the car, arm-in-arm with my man, post-run. All of the usual symptoms flared to life. But that run was respite from my unquiet mind and this unease that has settled into me as a constant companion. 

Someone had responded to a previous post of mine that I had helped her recognize the "consistency of spirit" that makes us runners. I had said that back in 2009, when running was a primal drive, an imprint on my DNA. "Where was my consistency of spirit now that the going got tough?" I'd thought, troubled at this confrontation from the Self That Was in '09. 

And then a few hours ago I found out it was there all along. It just needed some writers to come help it out.

Everyone Deserves Our Protection

To the rooftop parties that were and will ne'er be again. Photo by: http://www.jenniferharnish.com/

The past couple of months I've been doing grassroots organizing with homeless women. It is a needless reminder that homelessness can strike anyone, and that there are hundreds of thousands of people in WA who are precariously holding on to homes. When I lost my home to a housefire (a home that I was already squatting in), I camped in the woods for a week and then slept in the back of my place of employment until I found something affordable. I was lucky. I found an attic room with little heat and bats living in the walls and young drunk men banging on my door at all hours of the night, for NO downpayment or first/last month's rent. Cheap as Shit. I was single. I had family nearby to help if need be. I had the keys to my work with a comfy chair and a shower in the basement. I was damn lucky.

Washington State is on the precipice of LOSING the MAJORITY OF THEIR FUNDING FOR PROGRAMS THAT SERVE THE HOMELESS AND UNDERHOUSED.

Please. If you have a moment tomorrow, call 1.800.562.6000 between 8:00am - 8:00pm and ask all of your lawmakers to:

"Please make sure the homeless housing and assistance surcharge fees don’t sunset by supporting ESHB 2368. And neither the House nor the Senate Capital Budget invests enough in affordable housing. Please help ensure all Washington residents have opportunities for safe, healthy affordable homes by making a deeper investment in affordable housing."

If you're not sure who your lawmaker is, check this: http://app.leg.wa.gov/districtfinder/

And if you're confused about bills and representatives and committees and budgets and oh-what-a-mess then check out the Washington Low Income Housing Alliance's Facebook Page and Bill Tracker.

Homelessness: The Forgotten Women

http://travel.ie.msn.com/adventure-travel/under-the-sea-underwater-wonders-1?page=4

I have, for the last 7 weeks, been facilitating a women's grassroots organizing group as part of my practicum placement. The group I'm working with are women living in transitional housing, and the process that I am taking them through is presented as a scheduled, mandatory class for the house. This situation is unique to this group; most groups form because the women have already identified something in their lives that they want to change. But these women, my women, have no choice but to show up every Tuesday, regardless of how tired they are, how much they worked, if their child is sick, if they're just feeling cranky and want to be alone.

And so it has been hard, and the learning curve parabolic. The women warmed up to me quickly, but not to the forced sessions, the extra work, or the continual time spent around each other--these strangers plucked from the streets. I've watched the tension build in them and between them these past two months as women got sick, were forced out of the house, found other living situations or jobs, and stared in the face of the crushing constriction of poverty with no real end in sight.

The culmination of my time with them is supposed to be an action on a social justice issue of their choosing. Naturally, we gravitated toward housing. Yet I realized that the women were having a hard time getting behind the cause: writing letters to our legislators defending housing funding. Little progress was being made on their work, and I needed to open them up and learn why.

I sat in the office before my last meeting, listening to the stories of in-fighting, belittling, avoidance. I heard about how they were shutting down, even with the simple task of writing a letter according to the outline I'd submitted. And I thought about what it was like -- this loss of choice, or freedom to move around; not knowing where you'll be the next day; your housing hinging on the whims of those around you. And so I decided to bring that discomfort to our session, and ask them to tell me what they thought of when they thought of being a woman with no home. 

The following speech is an excerpt of what came out of that process. One of the women will deliver it Friday in Olympia, in front of 600 advocates there to meet with their district representatives.

"This is the face of a homeless woman: mothers and mothers-to-be, washing dishes and cleaning houses, looking for work, anywhere, to be able to stay close to their families. Women with back pain, anxiety, hot flashes. Women who have survived rape, domestic violence, addiction, the deaths of their children. The work they find doesn't pay nearly enough for market-rate rent, let alone downpayments, background checks, registration fees, first-and-last month's rent. 

http://pelfusion.com/underwater-sculpture-projects-by-jason-decaries-taylor/

These are the words they use to describe themselves:

Fearful. Incomplete. Destitute. Limited. Muted. Tense. Desperate.

These are the words they use to describe their lives:

I feel on hold. And even though I know that there's no escape, I also know that at any moment, I could be out on the street. I feel like a naked woman under a magnifying glass. Never alone, always expecting someone around the corner. And yet still alone, because my family is so far away. Everything is magnified when you're homeless: fear, risk, rage. Addiction. Every problem you thought you'd overcome, comes back, and you can't get away. 

My sisters wanted to tell you this: Home is choice. It's family. It's comfort. It's knowing that you can have your candle, and a glass of wine, and a cat at your feet and a dog in your lap, and feel safe. It's where you feel free, enclosed, and safe. 

My Circle's Motto is: I'm every woman. A woman who works, loves, hurts, survives, births, and mourns. A woman who deserves safety. A woman who deserves a home.

I ask you, think about us, your mothers and sisters, and hold us in your hearts today. The need for low income housing and services to empower the low income population in Seattle is so great, and unfortunately, still not nearly enough."

I'm proud of them, and I hope that on Friday I can make them proud of me, too.

http://www.beforeiforget.co.uk/2008/06/

Am I a Runner? (From my Kalamazoo Farewell.)

Am I a runner?

This wasn’t a thought that I had really developed before, but there was the question, all the same. The first time that I’d ever heard of someone making a differentiation between Running and Jogging was during a conversation with a man I’d briefly dated, a Runner by any definition of the term. It was during a discussion about marathon times (me trying desperately to mask mine, he freshly proud of his Boston qualifying time) that he brought up “The 5 Hour Marathoner”.  That’s not running, he’d said, it’s jogging; it’s not in the same category as what I do.  I uncomfortably brushed the comment off until I kept meeting people at the store, buying their first pairs of shoes, full of nervousness and questions, and I’d ask them, “How much do you run?” Invariably, these women — and it was almost always women — would flutter their hands at me and sigh, “Oh, no, I’m not a Runner. I Jog.” If I pried, I’d find out that they were just beginning 5k training with groups of women at work, lunch break office runners with t-shirts thrown on over pleated black pants, arms pumping as they hoof it around the park. They’d always downplay their training – “I can’t even say I jog. I’m more of a walker who accidentally and sporadically finds herself running and can’t figure out how to slow down gracefully.” I’d shake my head and laugh with them and offer my encouragement. We’ve all started out the same way, I'd say. But this past weekend was the first time I’d put any real thought into our need to make a distinction between the two.

Saturday morning was the Borgess Half Marathon and 5k, and I put on my rain gear, grabbed my bike and rode out to cheer on the community I’ve had the pleasure of serving for two years. As I stood in the parking lot of Mackenzie’s Bakery, screaming out names of runners in between longs draws of coffee and a cranberry bran muffin, the man standing next to me marveled at how many people I seemed to know. ”I thought I knew a lot of runners, but you’ve called out the name of almost every person who’s come by! Who are you?” Before I could swallow my muffin, a man went racing past and screamed, “You sold me my shoes! They’re awesome!” and was gone in an instant. The man next to me nodded his head and said merely, “Ah. You work at Gazelle,” and turned back to the race, smiling. The middle of the pack was coming up, and I jumped on my bike after a few more hoots of encouragement and tried to track down my runners. After several failed attempts to catch them at different points, I gave up and rode back to where the race doubled back on itself before heading down Riverview. There I found two overwhelmed volunteers trying desperately to supply GU to the throngs of runners streaming past. After failed passes they’d fling the GU after the runners in a futile attempt to fulfill their role, but at this point, most of the runners – fast, front of the pack, don’t-want-nor-need-to-slow-down-for-no-carbs runners – didn’t need anything. Then the crowds coming by picked up, and I grabbed handfuls of Gu and started hollering my encouragement. I was supposed to ride to the finish. If I stayed much longer, I’d miss my friends crossing the finish line. But as the 9-9:30 minute milers passed by and we got into the 10:00′s, I was too caught up in the race to leave. Here, in the thinning out rush of runners, were the people who needed that encouragement the most. Here were the pale determined faces, hunched shoulders and limping legs, form sloppy from exhaustion. Jog: A series of disconnected motions. Well, that seemed to fit in some instances here, but not in its second definition: to run at a leisurely, slow pace. Ask anyone moving past you, and if they had the energy, they would laugh in your face if you asked if this was leisurely. 

And that’s when I saw her.

She was someone I had helped with shoes within my first few months on the job. I’d watched her go from I’d-jog-but-it-makes-me-convulse-until-I-puke to her first 5k, her first 5k through winter training, winter training through Summer Safari, and suddenly this woman had dropped a width from her shoes, two sizes in clothing, and built such calf muscles they could have rivaled the colosseum in structural strength. She never became fast but she grew graceful and confident, and I had ridden with her on her 20 mile runs as she kept pace for hours. Now here she was, striding past me with a grin and a wave. I felt so much pride – for her strength, for what I’ve done to strengthen others, and for the people who have given up that quiet dismissal to claim the title of Runner. Being a runner isn’t about speed or skill for most. It’s about determination, overcoming frustration, the mental unraveling the first time they hit that distance they don’t think they can finish, and then running anyway. It’s running into obstacles, and running into oneself, literally and metaphorically, the emptying of ourselves into something greater.

I guess this is my good bye to the community I’ve served and taught and laughed with and learned from for two years. In one week, Seattle will be my home and I’ll have to learn all over again the faces and names and stories of the runners in my new community. What I know I can count on is their consistency of spirit.

Now that’s a runner.