Jane Austen’s Persuasion and the Moral of Persuasion as a Virtue

Persuasion is a story about Anne Elliot and Frederick Wentworth who were in love eight and a half years ago.  Her friend Lady Russel persuades Anne that it's not wise to marry a penniless naval officer when she is only 19, so she refuses Frederick.  Eight and a half years later Anne's father has spent so much money they must move to Bath and rent out Kellynch Hall to tenants.  Admiral and Mrs. Croft, the sister of the now wealthy Captain Frederick Wentworth become the tenants of Kellynch Hall.  It's a story about pride, choices, persuasion, and second chances.  Or perhaps even third chances.  It's moving, emotional, and mature in a way that appeals to those of us who have lived through some difficult choices, that is to say, lived.

Part of the charm of this story, and one might argue, every Austen story, is the thoughtful way it deals with flawed traits.  A casual observer might say that Anne is flawed because she is too weak-willed, too willing to be persuaded to other points of view.  In fact, Frederick believes it at first when he is still bitter about being refused.  However, as the story progresses it becomes increasingly clear that persuasion, like any trait, has its good sides.  A person's strength is often their weakness.  So the story goes about telling us how the weakness of Anne at 19 is actually her strength at a more mature age.

The story of Persuasion tells us repeatedly that being capable of being persuaded to see reason and amend one's own position based on logic and rationale is a good thing, even when it has difficult consequences.  Those characters who cannot be persuaded to be sensible, who act only on feelings, end up feeling the consequences in visibly negative ways.  People who can't be persuaded end up: insolvent because they can't be persuaded to spend money wisely (like Sir Walter), friendless because they cannot be persuaded to see value in people outside of social rank and flattery (like Elizabeth), severely injured because they cannot be persuaded that their ideas are foolish and dangerous (like Louisa), or even alone because they cannot be persuaded to overcome their pride (like Captain Wentworth at first).

Persuasion as a Force of Good

Sir Walter judging the appearance of a naval man

At every turn success and well-being of the characters comes with the ability to be persuaded to see and act rationally.  Sir Walter and Elizabeth enjoy better society in Bath once they are persuaded to go there to live more cheaply and attempt to pay their debts.  Captain Benwick is able to rejoin the happy and lively world of the future once he is persuaded that he should read more prose and should think of moving forward now, not living solely in the past.  Only after he realizes that he must, does he find Louisa agreeable enough to pursue and marry.  Anne is persuaded that the Elliot pride is directly hindering her happiness and starts to act against it by fighting to maintain friendships her family does not approve of and ultimately trying to show Captain Wentworth her feelings.  Captain Wentworth is persuaded to overcome his pride and finally pursue Anne in Bath, and it is from that decision that his happiness ultimately stems.

Persuasion can be a moderating force.  It can help you balance out your tendencies towards pride, towards vanity, towards making rash decisions.  It can help encourage good behavior and ameliorate foolish ideas.  No person is without flaws.  This is part of the reason why it is important to have intelligent people around you who want good things for you.  These friends can help you balance out mistakes and misunderstandings with different perspectives and smooth out flaws in yourself with their influence, their persuasion.

Persuasion as a Portion of Duty - Material Considerations

At the heart of the story is that first act of persuasion by Lady Russel, which led Anne to be persuaded by duty and logic not to accept Captain Wentworth when she was only 19 and he was a young penniless naval officer.  Some people and adaptations think this was a bad thing, but Jane Austen tells us it was not.  Anne doesn't regret being persuaded to not accept Captain Wentworth when they were so young and he was penniless.  I think both Anne and Lady Russel were aware that Elizabeth was not likely to make a good match, none of the daughters were going to inherit the estate, they weren't even on speaking terms with the heir.  They had no dowry, considering that Sir Walter had spent every penny and was in shocking piles of debt.  It looked as though Anne would have to marry well to be safe and possibly care for her sisters once Sir Walter had gone.  Was it fair that she was therefore persuaded that love was not enough?  No.  But it was a very rational choice at the time.  Even if he had been prosperous straight off, if he had died immediately (a possibility in a war), she would have been left a widow.  We see in both Mrs. Clay and Mrs. Smith, both widowed very young, that such a situation leaves the women vulnerable and leads to some difficult choices for them.

  And Anne says that she considered it a duty to Lady Russel who she considered a mother figure, to listen to her advice in that matter.  She did not regret being persuaded in that case.  Anne tells Wentworth "I was perfectly right in being guided" by Lady Russell "to me, she was in the place of a parent.  I am not saying that she did not err in her advice." Only that "I was right in submitting to her, and that if I had done otherwise I should have suffered more in continuing the engagement than I did even in giving it up because I should have suffered in my conscience.  I have now, as far as such a sentiment is allowable in human nature, nothing to reproach myself with; and if I mistake not, a strong sense of duty is no bad part of a woman's portion".

Being persuaded not to accept Captain Wentworth before he had made any money was a wise decision at the moment that is was made at the behest of a person she considered a mother figure.  She regretted that it had kept them apart after Frederick had returned with money and a promising future in the navy, but not that she had been persuaded those eight and half years ago.  The reason this novel feels like it has a more adult perspective is because it is many ways concerned with analysing past choices and learning from previous mistakes, a thing all adults must do to grow.  It is possible to look back and think that a decision was the right one at the time but also regret what it's current consequences are.  To be able to say you were glad that you were guided by your parent figure, Lady Russel, but also that you know her advice was wrong.  And to blame neither yourself nor her.  That's a very difficult thing to do but is a part of having an older perspective on life.

Persuasion vs. Pride/Stubbornness 

As with all Jane Austen novels, this story has a subtlety and a nuance that I love.  It does not advocate for anyone to constantly be persuaded out of the things they want and should do, nor to be incapable of being persuaded to do the right things against what your current desires may be.  Jane Austen, this story demands that a balance of these qualities is necessary.

Captain Wentworth almost loses Anne because his hurt pride leads him to stubbornly not reach out to her when he returns that first year with money enough to keep her.  After they have finally reconnected at the end of the book he admits to her that it was pride that had prevented him from writing to her when he had a few thousand pounds a ship under his command.  They both realize they could have avoided the last few years of misery and separation if he had done so.

Captain Wentworth nearly loses Anne again when his pride, still hurt, eight and half years later, leads him to court Louisa.  He only learns his lesson when, at Lyme, he realizes that Louisa and her whole family are expecting him to offer Louisa marriage as soon as she is well.  He says he removes himself from Lyme to allow her to heal and lessen her attachment as much as is honourable.  But he was willing to marry her against his wishes because it was the right thing to do.  If the whole family expects an engagement, he is toying with Louisa's reputation and that is unpardonable because it could affect her chances for a happy future.  The moment he realizes he must balance his desires against the realities of his actions is the moment he grows as a character.  Luckily, Louisa and Captain Benwick become attached during her recovery and Frederick is free to pursue Anne as he wishes, swallow his pride, and come to find her in Bath.

Anne and Henrietta show different sides of the same decision.  Henrietta was almost persuaded by Mary's nonsense that she shouldn't marry Henry Hayter.  Jane Austen sets this up as an example of being too weak-willed and gentle.  She is not being persuaded against Henry Hayter for good and logical reasons.  Henrietta is being persuaded out of Mary's unreasonable dislike of him, and a foolish desire to continue flirting and being flattered with Captain Wentworth who is so dashing and charming and new.  She ought to have stuck to her purpose when there was no logical reason to be persuaded otherwise.  She learns this in time to win back her intended.  Then there is Louisa who is a foil to Anne.  She is too stubborn and heedless to be persuaded of anything.  This is a character trait that first attracts Captain Wentworth who is trying to forget Anne by courting someone completely unlike her.  Louisa who is too stubborn to even see reason (let alone propriety and duty) ends up unconscious on a pier, nearly dead because of it.

For Anne, being persuaded to give up Frederick at 19, was the right choice.  However, when they meet again, she is too proud to express her feelings, as is he and they suffer through a few more things before it all works out in the end.

Finding the Balance

When Anne and Captain Wentworth are reconciled and together at the end of the book he tells her how he finally had begun to see Anne's true character at Lyme when he had occasion to witness what being far too stubborn could be dangerous.   Captain Wentworth describes Anne as being the "loveliest medium of fortitude and gentleness"  At Lyme, he says he had "learnt to distinguish between the steadiness of principle and the obstinacy of self-will, between darings of heedlessness and the resolution of a collected mind. There he had seen everything to exalt in his estimation the woman he had lost; and there begun to deplore the pride, the folly, the madness of resentment, which had kept him from trying to regain her when thrown in his way."  Anne was in that elusive middle ground between firmness of character and capable of being guided.

Jane Austen urges us to consider that it is the middle ground that is ideal.  Being capable of sticking to your purpose but also knowing when logic must prevail over feelings.  Having both learned their lessons, Anne and Wentworth are now adults who have addressed some of their flaws and are ready to enter into a healthy relationship.  Anne learned that she must be more firm in her purpose now that she is an adult and refuses to be persuaded into marrying Mr. Elliot or from canceling her plans to visit Mrs. Smith for an impromptu visit of the Dalrymples.  Captain Wentworth learned that his pride and stubbornness were preventing him from being happy and he learns to act less on his surface emotions and more on rational plans to pursue his own real happiness.  Jane Austen argues the couple is happier for being reunited, "more tender, more tried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other's character, truth, and attachment; more equal to act, more justified in acting."  We know that Anne and Frederick have grown as people and will have a very happy marriage indeed.

More Jane Austen Please!

If you are interested in more discussion of Jane Austen, I have more for you.

For a start, you can see my ranking of every movie adaptation of Persuasion on this page here.

And if that's not enough don't worry you can see my discussions of the movie adaptations of all the other Jane Austen novels and even, a mad attempt at ranking them all together.  Why did I do this?  I think I must be crazy.  Oh wait, we already knew this.  Anyway...

To see my ranking of Every Jane Austen Adaptation, go here.
To see my ranking of all the Pride and Prejudice adaptations you can go here.
To see my ranking of all the Emma Adaptations you can go here.
To see my ranking of all the Sense and Sensibility adaptations you can go here.
To see my ranking of all the Mansfield Park Adaptations you can go here.
To see my ranking of all the Northanger Abbey Adaptations you can go here.

For my discussion of the Lady Susan Adaptation (Love and Friendship), you can go here. 

To see my ranking of all the "Not-Quite-Austen's" you can go here.

I have a whole page dedicated to Jane Austen where you can find my rankings of different movie adaptations and essays etc.

All Things Jane Austen

Hope Writer Challenge - Remember

Today for @hopewriters writing challenge #hopewriterlife the topic is Remember.

When we talk about remembering it is important to keep in mind that memory is not perfect. It is perfectly possible to forget something that felt momentous at the time whereas seemingly insignificant things can linger for years to come.

I find that it is almost more important to record the little things that happen. The small moments that mean so much in life because life is not a straight forward journey. For me, I'm making sure to record the little things that surprise me during this time of global pandemic. I want to remember in years to come the things that made me smile in the midst of tragedy, the moments of friendship that lightened my load and encouraged me. I want to record for posterity the things that surprised me during this time and the things that I learned.

I used this double photo (in a spinning double sided frame) for today's image because I feel it represents life both in its journey and its singular strength and beauty. There are things I wish I could forget about this time, burdens I do not wish to bear. This frame sits on my desk to remind me that life is a journey much like a spiral staircase. It's as much about going sideways and around as it is about going up. Progress in life is often accomplished by going many steps sideways before you go forward.

On the other side is a photo of two buildings from two very different ages, both beautiful. It is straight lines and reflections. These buildings tell me that strength and beauty look different in different times. Every age of your life holds a different piece of your truth. Your strength and beauty grows and changes with time reflecting your progress, your journey. You are no less strong or beautiful for having different shapes and emphases in different ages of your life. Even as you reinvent yourself, it is built upon your old strength, just as the older building is reflected in the windows of the newer one.

May this remind you, as it does me, that even if you're different from the other buildings, you are still beautiful. You are still strong. You just need to keep following your own lines. Be your own building, for that is where your strength and beauty lies. 

Remember that and it will help you through the tough days when all your steps go sideways and you cannot see the end of the winding stairs. 

Remember too, that even when nobody around you looks like you, you are strong and beautiful and that your steps will wind upwards slowly even when you can't see it.

My Phlebotomist and My Living Metaphor Morning

This morning I woke up and everything was as though I was living in a metaphor come to life.

How to begin?  Let's see, I've been having a bunch of tests run.  So, this latest one involved a mobile blood draw person who came to my house.  Modern technology being what it is, my personal, mobile phlebotomist showed up this morning and promptly got lost.  He called me from nearby, unsure of how to find me.  In his defense many people get lost on the way to my house.  They see the dirt driveway and assume it can't be mine and call from the road confused.

So I woke up and got a phone call that went something like this.
"Hello?"
"Hi, this is your phlebotomist"
"Hi"
"I'm trying to find you.  Are you at the construction?"
"Ah, no, I'm one driveway further up the hill.  I'm the dirt driveway right before the giant rock and the gate is open for you."

I then went out to meet him, but let me digress for a moment.  How hilarious is this idea?  Can you imagine if I was working a construction job and I called my personal mobile phlebotomist to come out to the construction site?  Because I'm now imagining that I'm a massive lumberjack looking man, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, wearing a hardhat and having my blood drawn in one arm while I jackhammer one handed with the other.  Or smoke constantly with the cigarette between my teeth while I bend rebar with one hand and my phlebotomist ties a little elastic cord around my other beefy arm.  I think it's a hilarious mental image.

I can just imagine these guys having their blood drawn while working, can't you? - "F-327-CVFriant Dam Construction" by Bureau of Reclamation is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0 

Ok, now back to what actually happened this morning.

So he sets up and it seems that phlebotomists, not unlike dentists, tend to fill the silence with a bit of chatter.  The distinct upside being that you can actually talk and reply in this scenario.  He asked about my job, I said I was working in a museum.  He asked what I do.  I said I was a glorified secretary but I was staying in the history field since I was a history major.  And he began talking about how much he loves his job and how much that makes a difference.  Do what you love he says, and it won't matter how little the money is.  And then I look at my arm, in this living metaphor, feeling very much like he's implying that NOT doing what you love is to have the life literally drained out of you.

And then he started talking about how you just have to be open to opportunities.  That sometimes things are just first steps and you never know what will come from it.  That it's important for me to work in a museum and be open to the possibilities that can flow from there.  Again I look at my arm as he continues to fill vials.  Once a door is open, things flow through.  Maybe it was just the blood loss, but it all felt very surreal and dream-like.

"Don't quit your day dream" by Lindsay_Silveira is licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0 

Then we were all done.  He pet my dogs and said you could tell they were happy.  He said when he was little he wanted to be a dog and his dad told him, "you don't want to be a dog, you want to live life like a dog".  And with that last bit of wisdom, my phlebotomist departed.

So, there I was contemplating my mobile phlebotomist wisdom of the day.  Such a nice man.  And I ate breakfast and felt tired and I decided, no offense to my phlebotomist, who was amazing, that the world is full of bloodsuckers (metaphorical you know) and with that I went back to bed for an hour before work.

Mending a Heart of Glass

So what do you do with a life when your heart lies in shattered piles of glass on the ground?

You cry.

Broken things need to be cared for, grieved over.  You can't pretend the trauma didn't happen, you can't push it down and just carry on.  You have to take the sad, broken things out of the pile at the back of your closet and bring them tenderly into soft morning light and grieve over them.  You need to weep for your pain, for your broken dreams, for yourself.

It's now June, nine months after I wrote about the wreckage that was once my heart and how it was first broken into a million jagged pieces of shattered dreams. (In the post When a Glass Heart Shatters).  And I think it is no coincidence that nine months after this accident I'm ready to revisit this topic and give an answer.  Nine months, the amount of time it takes for a baby to be born with a new heart, or, as I see it, the amount of time it takes for a broken heart to be reborn new.

But a new heart is not reborn without work.  At first you cannot even begin this work.  You must live from one moment to the next.  Trying to do otherwise is overwhelming.  In my other post I spoke about instinctively knowing that forwards and backwards were not options.  After a shattering the past is too painful.  There is no going back.  After a shattering the person you were and the life you had are broken and will never be the same again.  Thinking about the past only reminds you of how painful and broken you are in comparison to the whole person you used to be and your reality cuts you all the deeper.  The future is also too terrifying to contemplate; filled with unknowns and consequences that you know must arise from your shattering, but you do not have the courage to think about at first.  Instinctively you know that you can only change directions, but with the sudden way that all your old plans shattered, all new things feel unsafe.

So until you are strong enough to face anything else, you live only in the now.  Only living in this exact moment.  That is how you survive until you are strong enough to face new things and the implications of the shattering you lived through.  And you must keep crying.  You must grieve for all your pains, all your losses.  You must grieve in many different ways and you must allow yourself to feel as hurt as you are, pushing it down and pretending you are not hurt will not aid in your healing. 

Then slowly with determination not to allow yourself to die in a heap in the gutter you pick yourself up.  You stagger, you trudge one foot at time away.  Anywhere.  Just away from the wreckage.  Maybe you go right, maybe you double back to the wreckage and go left.  Maybe you fall a few feet away and cry.  But every time you slowly pick yourself up and trudge one step further.  You cling to family and friends for support.  The ones that stick by you are the ones you cherish as true friends.  Throughout this process of healing you will need them all the more.

And slowly in your stumbling steps you live in the moment and find that you notice things around you.  It may be a funny shaped crack in the pavement, or a brightly coloured leaf that has caught your eye.  You may notice a broken sign or a beautifully exuberant dog.  Noticing the broken things will touch on your pain and gently, ever so gently you will start to think about those wounds and heal.  Noticing the bright, beautiful and living things will slowly remind you of the beauty that can still be found in your world and you will gently begin to heal.  Always in noticing and gentle reflection there is healing.

One day, after who knows how many months of grieving and living in the moment, your staggering steps will find a hint of a path.  Just the beginning of one.  You allow the love of family and friends to sustain you and you let them gently guide you towards a straighter path, pushing you gently towards something that almost looks like progress.  It doesn't always look brave and big.  Progress can be as small as admitting that your past is staying in the past.  Progress can be admitting that you need to continue to stagger away from the wreck.  Progress could be finding a flower growing from a crack in the sidewalk and letting yourself believe that there can be hope in a sea of despair.  Or perhaps you just admit that you are still looking for answers, a way forward and you don't have them yet.

Looking eventually leads towards finding.

In September I decided I would curl up by the wreckage and wait for answers.  That was as brave as my looking was capable of being at that time.  I was waiting for God, for direction, for an answer for a start and a path.  My path had shattered.  I felt alone.  But out of a stubborn determination not to let my brokenness consume me I got up and moved one step.  Determination, and the love of family, and friends (and a few animals), kept me putting one foot in front of the other.

I admitted that my past was broken, that I was different.  I found that I could still find a sad beauty in the world and I left the glass shards of my heart in the back corner of my mind until I was strong enough to deal with them.

Don't get me wrong, I didn't wake up one day and find myself strong enough to do it.  I needed prodding and coaxing to even start.  The friends who care about me have pushed me closer to the pile of shards.  And some days I did a bit of clean up.  Some days I honestly sat on the curb by the glass shards and sobbed, grieving the injuries and the events that led me to this state.  Grieving for the wounds and the losses I've sustained.  Slowly there were days where I was finally able to make halting progress of consolidation and tidying.  I was starting to work on myself.  I went to therapy, saw a doctor, started caring for myself, for my physical, mental and emotional well-being.

And I personally think that God must have been listening to my silent cry in September because I think he sent me the people I needed in my life in order for me survive it.  He sent the right friends to be there for me.  He sent steadfast friends who knew the depths of my pain.  He sent me people to support me, cry with me, lift me up and love me.

Lastly, he sent me an artist.  I didn't know I needed one until he arrived.  God sent me an artist who saw all the broken pieces of my heart lying hopeless in the gutter and still found beauty in them.  And so I sat beside my heap of jagged, broken pieces of heart and I decided to grieve the injuries done to them and finally start to straighten up the mess.

When my artist would see a new wound I would see a sadness in his face that finally allowed me to feel as though I could openly grieve the deepest cuts.  I couldn't always see the beauty in my brokenness that he saw, but I was tired of avoiding the scene of the gutter and leaving that mess hanging around to loom over me and shadow my days.  So, slowly, ever so slowly, I picked up small pieces of jagged glass flung far out into the street and I grieved over them and put them in the main pile, consolidating.  One piece of glass at a time I tried to straighten up the carnage of my broken heart and dreams.

Cleaning up such an accident is more of a journey than a task.  It involves grief, and pain and it's a long painstaking process.  And when a heart has broken in such a dramatic fashion your body builds knots of emotional walls around it to try to prevent the damage from spreading.  So, you have to spend time carefully unraveling the knots of distrust, broken promises and other hastily constructed emotional walls in order to even come close enough to start cleaning up the scene of the accident.  This process is painful, but it is necessary for healing.

Some days you make real progress, you find a way to take three steps forward; you deliberately pull down small portions of the walls you worked so hard to build.  But there are also days where the emotional pain is too much and you kick pieces of your heart further into the gutter in frustration, despair and black misery.

But sitting beside me, bending down to reach into the gutter, not shying away from the dirt, jagged edges and misery is the artist that was sent to me.   Every time I fell he picked me up.  He grieved with me.  He took the broken pieces of my heart that I kicked into a corner.  He gathered them up gently and he told me that light shines through the cracks where the heart has been broken before.

He helped me go searching for words I could speak to my fear.  We embarked on a journey together; going through the Artist's Way which has taught me enough to be the subject of many future posts.  For now, however, it is worth mentioning that it is teaching me to practice gentle self-care and to speak back against the dark, doubting thoughts of fear in my mind.

My artist helped me find my words for safety by always being a safe place for my emotions to rest and by searching with me for the right words to fight back against the darkness.  I found them in an unexpected place.  Alongside my Artist, I had the privilege of hearing a Mayan Tribal Elder speak at a Cocoa Ceremony where she spoke about the tribulations of her people.  She said "We do not admit that we were conquered.  We were invaded, yes, but not conquered.  They may have tried to kill us.  They buried us.  But they didn't know they were planting seeds."  The moment I heard these words I began to cry.  These were the words I had been searching for to bring the piece of hope I couldn't find on my own.

How does one live in a world where bad things happen, where you know they can happen at any time to you, and still feel safe?  Here is where I find safety.  That whatever bad things may come, whether or not they kill me, they will only be planting seeds.  I may not be the same after.  But I will grow back, I will be stronger.  I am unstoppable.  And in this lies my safety.

On this journey, my Artist helped me notice the beautiful things.  As time went on he kept showing me the beautiful things in life, in the little moments as well as the big ones.  Every time I saw beauty in the world I would discover a small piece of my heart that wasn't completely broken.  The mess in the gutter was less daunting.  And slowly, he helped me gather all the pieces together with love.  He melted the broken pieces of my heart back together and he added new material, new glass, and my heart is now encased in this protective case of new glass that has no memory of fragility and is therefore stronger than ever.  And the cracks in the old pieces of my heart shine with the tenderness of empathy that brokenness pours into a heart.

I am old and new.  No, you cannot undo the brokenness, but you can decide what happens next.  I have found a seed at the bottom of the shattered heap and with the heat from a forge I have brought forth a tiny plant, my heart a Phoenix rising from the wreckage.  And my new heart, born with work and patience was given so much love by friends and family that I can never adequately express my gratitude to those who gave it.

Therapy might just be therapeutic... who knew?

Today I went to my first ever therapy session with a psychologist.  Don't worry, I'm not going to air my dirty laundry here.  I just want to muse over the idea of visiting a therapist.  I found it an interesting experience and I would like to consider it as a thing unto itself.

I have to admit that I was nervous to go there and share my story, or rather all the stories that add up to my story.  I mean, I know it's a psychologist's job to be supportive and non-judgemental, but my experience with people is that they aren't always what they are meant to be.  So, how can you trust them with some of your darkest thoughts and closest guarded feelings?

Well, I mean, it helps that you can tell that this person was genuinely listening.  You can tell when people are distracted or don't really care.  Or perhaps worse is when you are going through something and someone points out to you that it could be worse.  They invalidate your pain, your struggle, your suffering.  It's not about how it could have been worse or how somebody else has gone through worse.  Your pain is real and it's your pain to deal with.

Perhaps that was the most surprising part of this for me.  I sort of expected the therapist to be professional but more distant.  I expected them to calmly and matter of factly tell me that what I was dealing with wasn't that bad and could be dealt with.  What I did not expect was for the psychologist to close their eyes like they were suffering on my behalf.  What I expected less was for them to explain to me that layers and layers of trauma were informing some of my outlook on the world.

Trauma.

That sounds like a harsh word.  But honestly using the word trauma was freeing.  It made me feel like I was allowed to be as crushed and upset as I am by what I've been through.  I don't have to compare or stand next to a measurement and be found wanting on a scale of who has dealt with the worst things in life.  It is irrelevant how many worse things could have been done to me.  The only thing that is relevant is how the trauma, my particular trauma, has left scars and what to do with it now.

In a way, acknowledging that my pain is real, was the kindest thing anyone could do.  And letting me know that it really is hard to sort through these things is in a strange way a reassurance too.  It means that if you struggle to fix it on your own it's not because you're broken.  It's because some things are too big to be dealt with alone.  And that's not some failing on your part.  If it was as simple as do x, y, and z, you would have done it already.

So, I very stereotypically cried through a majority of this, the very first session.  But it was cathartic in a way.  It felt more productive than the times I've cried over these traumas with friends.  Maybe because I was allowed to be completely and unabashedly traumatised by them instead of trying to keep it together and present a strong side so as not to worry anyone. 

So, I hope that seeing this professional will help me deal with my trauma going forward and help me reclaim my life a little bit.  I refuse to let past trauma and fear rule who I am today and in the future.  I don't know if this resonates with anyone but that has been my experience today.

My Immune System was Trained by the German Imperial Army

It's January and the rains have not missed their cue.  Weeds are popping up, joyfully coating Southern California everywhere in a haze of unexpected green.  Green everywhere and it's pretty for a moment until you blink and they've grown up into stinging nettles and the molds are proliferating with the best of them.  I mean really, they put rabbits to shame.  And it just so that happens that I have begun expressing my appreciation for this season by sneezing.

Mornings usually being worse, I have been known to wake up and declare with only a hint of melodrama that I am allergic to the entirety of Southern California.  On most days I have a fine vocabulary for expressing a great many sentiments.  But sometimes when my allergies are overwhelming I have no patience or brain power left to employ it and I curse my allergies with invective that could shock sailors.

Now don't go and misunderstand me.  I love my immune system.  It keeps me reasonably healthy and it has fought off all the crazy things that life and coworkers keep throwing at it.  I know that immune systems are complex and difficult to understand and I do appreciate that mine is tirelessly working to keep me healthy and happy.

What I have a problem with is its training.

Yes, training.  You don't think that the little army of immune responders called your immune system got to where it is today without training, do you?  They drill and practice and work.  They keep themselves in trim fighting condition all year round.  They are trained, tireless, professional killers in the defense of my immune system.  They are trained in the style of the German Imperial Army of old and they are extremely efficient.  And that's the problem really.

My immune system doesn't have that much to do.  I don't generally eat gently poisoned foods or sit around drinking mildly toxic water or have prolonged chats with infected herds of sheep for really any length of time.  So, without any real threats, they drill.  They are constantly on high alert for practically no reason.  They've read the manual; I could be subjected to typhoid, mumps, cholera or trench fever at a moment's notice.  And so they march, with a long list of rules and no credible attacks of dysentery in months and they are extremely bored.  So they begin to frisk everything that crosses the borders out of sheer lack of something productive to do.

Molds and pollens accidentally land on my body due to the fickle air currents that brought them nearby.  And my immune is waiting for them at the border in orderly lines and pointed helmets dating from the first world war and belonging to the German Imperial Army.
"Vat iz your name and rank!" Barks the leader of my immune responder patrol.
The harmless pollen blinks at them blankly.
"Vell, it must be a foreigner.  Ve vill bring you to Herr Colonel"
My little Immune Colonel sees a foreign body and consults the manual.  "Vell, vell vat do ve have here.  Dis leeddle pollen seems to be having ze fun with us.  Diz pollen does not have ze papers for being in dis area."
"But vat does ze manual say, Herr Colonel?"
"Ze manual says that all foreigners are invaders."
"Das ist richtig"
"Vait, vat iz dat?" A helpful immune soldier shouts, "Ze pollen iz bringing his friends."
"Dis iz definitely an invasion!" Herr Colonel says excitedly.

My immune system patrol falls into place behind the Colonel in perfectly distanced rows.  Helmets gleaming they await the commands.
"Rechts!  Rechts!" shouts Herr Colonel.  And they stride off on their right foot in perfect order.
Herr Colonel begins a World War I version of beat-box and using only his God-given talents he sounds a trumpet tune mixed with a drum beat for their march.  It would be enough to fill any military heart with pride.

And so my immune system, trained by the old German Imperial Army organizes itself thus.  It puts on its pointed helmets every morning.  The trumpet is sounded.  It marches in orderly lines.  The manual is consulted and everything that even looks like a pollen or potential invader is attacked.  I appreciate the sentiment and devotion to my well-being.  I really do.  But I don't care much for the result.  My body has decided, on the advice of my German Imperialist Immune System I might add, that the pollens and molds must be toxic and I should attempt to expel them with vigorous sneezing, eye-watering and a delightful but as yet not appreciated general itchiness.

Have you ever seen the film Those Magnificent Men and Their Flying Machines?  If not, you should.  Not only is it hilarious, it is filled with amazing and terrifying old flying contraptions.  If you are wondering what this has to do with this post you should simply watch a portion of the clips that deal with the German flying team.  You will know exactly what sort of thing my immune system is doing over here.

A sample of the German Imperial Army's finest trumpet/drum beat-box moments and a sample of what my immune system looks like while trying to maintain my good health.

History was Made This Very Evening

Most evenings do not find me communing with the collective spirit of sport frenzied enthusiasm.  In fact, most evenings that involve me and sports in the same room usually involve my unbridled invective against the barbarity of this sport or the stupidity of that one.  It's not even that I hate sports.  I simply hate watching other people play them.  I'd so much rather play the sport myself, or do anything actively, rather than watch others play sports.  However, this evening was different.

Now, maybe it's my deep American roots, but I've always had a fondness for a good ballgame.  (Not that I watch baseball often, but I tolerate the odd game here and there because I like the game.)  As a child I remember cheering on my Dad while he played in corporate ballgames.  I remember playing t-ball and Dad teaching us to bat.  My brother and I loved it when he would do the "real pitcher's wind up".  No doubt he went easy on us but we felt like pros when we would hit these real pitches.  As slightly older children we taught our dog to outfield for us so that we could take turns batting and pitching without having to run and get the ball ourselves.

So, this evening found me captivated by the world series game between the Chicago Cubs and the Cleveland Indians.  Mom, who has always been a die-hard Cubbies fan was too nervous to even sit in the room.  She feared that if she watched the Cubs would lose.  So she hovered in the adjacent doorway, fretting and finding busy work to keep her hands occupied between running in to see a play and running out of the room so as not to jinx her beloved Cubbies.

And there is something special about Cubbies fans.  They've been fans, dedicated fans, for the last 108 years without any world series wins to their credit, not since their last win in 1908.  To be fair, the Indians hadn't won a world series since 1948.  So, the stands were full of tense faces, hands over mouths and distractedly holding nervously onto baseball hats as fans of both teams watched 10 close innings.  And what a game it was.

The enthusiasm was high throughout the game.  It was exciting because it was such a close game.  With the batters who nobody expected anything of sometimes bringing it home.  So, when the Indians hit a ball at the bottom of the tenth the atmosphere was tense up until the moment that the Cubs' first baseman caught the ball and made the final out, winning the world series and delighting Cubbies fans everywhere.  A historic moment, 108 years of bad luck, curse, dryspell or whatever you would like to call it, was finally broken.  Just think about that for a minute.  People were born Cubbies fans, lived their whole lives and died without seeing the Cubs win a world series.  Almost two generations of people passed while waiting for tonight.  It has been pointed out that the last time the Cubs won the world series, Al Capone, Mark Twain, and Thomas Eddison were alive.  Tonight linked us back to a time that was a full century ago.  And I was caught up in the magic of the excitement, camaraderie and importance of this moment.  I watched history being made.  What a great feeling, knowing both teams played so well, were so close and wanted it so badly.  What a great game!  What a moment to remember.