Why?

I’m quick-cleaning the house for guests, to gather and celebrate a festival of freedom in which I don’t feel especially free.

What am I even doing this for?

I and the world feel so broken these days.

There is no one to give me the kind of comfort and reassurance I need so badly right now, and I cannot self-hug and self-love my way to finding it.

I feel useless to my Sweetie, who is working so hard to keep us housed and together and who is herself exhausted by it all, and surely by me as well.

Everything feels so hard right now.

Why would I want to make it harder by observing Passover?

And yet, here I am.

I have no more responses about Israel right now. Because fuck.

Iran fired missiles on Israel last night, supposedly as retaliation for Israel firing on the Iranian embassy in Syria, which may have been in retaliation for support Iran has lent to Hamas and Hezbollah against Israel.
Nearly all the missiles were intercepted by Israel, the US or Jordan.

It's new because it's the first time Iran has ever fired on Israel directly.
It's old because Iran has funded other anti-Israel groups for years, and will continue to do so going forward.
It's really, really old because Israel was established in the midst of an otherwise hostile, Arab Middle East.
I know it probably had to be at the time. A third of the world's Jews had been murdered in WW2, and almost no other country wanted the remaining Jews to settle within their borders, so they had to go somewhere. Why not the land of Jewish biblical history? It made sense. A lot more sense than, say, Uganda. (Really, Herzl? Uganda?)

Unless you already lived there, and had to be moved aside to make room for so many refugees.

And this conundrum, this unbreakable Gordian knot, is why there will never be peace in the Middle East. Not in my lifetime, or in yours, or in your children's.

Sorry.

Forgive me while I struggle to find the purpose of praying for something that will never come about.

Forgive me for a lifetime of detachment that has effectively prevented me from buying into the whole story.

Forgive me for going small and inward just now. I am one of zillions who is fully aware of just how fucked we are, and how little any of us little people can realistically change the outcome.

All I can do is right here in my little corner of the world.

And God? What, even?
God didn't save the six million.
I am not convinced that God can save us now.
Is that because God isn't real, or because we didn't live up to the image of Godliness we've sold ourselves for millennia?
I don't know.
But right now, all I can really trust is other people close to me.
And whether or not that will be enough may not matter in the end.
It just has to be enough to keep me sane, that's all.
So I will love my people, my beloveds.
Not all of them are Jewish, and in the end that doesn't matter.

Love your people. Do it.

It won't save any of us from death, and it won't make the world more peaceful in the long run; but it will make our lives more tolerable in the times of despair and more beautiful in the moments of grace.

And at this point, that will have to be enough.

Because WTF, even.

This is just how crazy things can be in the world today, in any ten-minute span of time.

5:20 pm — nice lady whom I don’t know knocks on the door, smiles and hands me a nicely boxed piece of special matzoh, made in Israel and courtesy of the local Chabad house. She wishes me a happy Passover. I thank her, and wish her a sweet Shabbat.

5:25 pm — a FB contact that I know through the drumming world sends me a message. A few years ago, I mistakenly sent this guy a message meant for another of my friends who is Jewish. I apologized for the goof and he said it was all good.

I hadn’t heard from this guy since, and we’re not FB friends. 

The unsolicited message is a video that contains disturbing, graphic images of the suffering in Gaza, with a voiceover by Democracy Now! Host Amy Goodman.

**Both of these things came unsolicited.**

One was someone offering me a joyous gift and friendly greeting.

The other was someone who thought sending me graphic images of violence — timed just before Shabbat — was a good idea.

After my head stopped spinning, I blocked the guy who sent the video. 

Because WTF, even.

Filling out an intake form can ruin your whole day

I spent two hours this morning filling out intake forms for the ADHD clinic where I am finally going to be seen. I had to share my life’s mental health history, including the ways in which I’ve self-soothed, the struggles that came with ten years of being bullied by classmates without teacher intervention, the years of trying to get mental health counseling for the growing pile of trauma and depression that was never effectively helped, and the years of pain between me and my mother that will remain unresolved because she’s inconveniently dead now.

Damn. Because of my place on the timeline and so many other factors, I sort of didn’t have a chance NOT to be fucked up.

Laying all of that out in the naked light really hurt.

Worse, how much do I really want to poke the sleeping bear, especially if my closest beloveds aren’t also doing this work? Can I withstand and survive the explosions that might come about as a result?

Meanwhile, back at my hands

I was referred to an orthopedist for my hand issues a couple months ago. She examined my hands, looked at the x-rays and said I had tendinitis. She told me to take several months off from playing guitar, reduce my drumming considerably and wait and see.

I learned after the visit that she's actually a plastic surgeon (whaa?) with orthopedic training. So after some lag time, I asked my doc to refer me to someone else.

She sent me to an Occupational Therapist, who re-examined my hands, re-checked the x-rays, and came to a different conclusion. He told me I don't have tendinitis, I actually have advancing osteoarthritis, in greater intensity than the previous specialist would concede.

He showed me all the mechanics of how the hands work, and explained to me how and why certain of my hereditary side-issues lent more credence to his diagnosis. He took a lot more time and care with me, gave me some exercises to begin using at home and said that at some point, I might regain enough strength and mobility in my hands to play guitar again for fun, on an occasional basis. He also advised me to take things very slowly, heat my hands regularly and to keep using them in moderation in the ways I can do so without pain.

I am now waiting for Medicaid to approve a second visit and the addition of a hand brace to wear while sleeping.  And while my touring days are quite probably over, I am glad that I can hope for a return to the guitar just for pleasure at some later date.

Upshot: Always ask more questions, and always try to get another opinion if you can.

Taking stock, 2020 to now. No wonder I’m overwhelmed.

A timeline.

February 2020 — successful touring and the release of my fourth CD.

March 2020 — tours cancelled, CD release crashes, the world shuts down.

April through August 2020 — we learn to Zoom. We feel incredibly lonely. We struggle to pay our bills until the government approves Covid stimulus checks. I learn to provide live music performances on Facebook. I go for solo bicycle rides, though I have nowhere to go except in circles and back home again.

September 2020 — I lead High Holy Days music for a congregation in Washington State from my studio in Portland, Oregon. leading services on Zoom is hard, depressing, maddening.

October 2020 through April 2021 — the checks keep coming. we meet with “pod” groups indoors and at a distance outside. The weather warms up and things begin to open up as the vaccine becomes more widely available.

June 2021 — I play live music for a Shabbat service in town as a guest artist. I have sniffles on the bimah and the next day it’s noticeable worse, like the flu. I get tested and it’s confirmed that I have come down with Covid. I have to notify the synagogue I subbed at and I feel awful.

August 2021 — my symptoms subside enough that I can get vaccinated. I can also plan for an in-person High Holy Days up north in front of a very tiny, rotating gathering. 

September 2021 — While it’s challenging logistically (with groups of ten adults moving in and out for each service), it’s a whole lot nicer doing it in the synagogue than from home. Between services, I struggle to catch my breath while carrying my bags from the shul to my AirBnB five blocks away. I also feel a little lightheaded if I change positions from sitting to standing or change directions while walking too quickly.

October 2021 — I continue to have shortness of breath, and notify my doctor. Blood work is done.

November 2021 — I am advised to stop taking iron pills (prescribed because of autoimmune issues) because they are elevating the strain on my liver and kidneys. I am advised to simply stop, not to taper.

December 2021 through March 2022 — my shortness of breath, positional change distress and fatigue worsen. I become more brain-fogged. I undergo a blood transfusion, followed by several weeks of iron infusions. Three infusions in I start to feel better. When the iron infusions end, it takes two weeks for me to feel poorly again. Since these symptoms are reflective of both low iron intake and the new problem called Long Covid, I have blood work drawn, am put back on iron pills at half my previous dosage, and referred to the Long Covid clinic for further review.

April 2022 — I am not seeing significant improvement with the return of iron into my medication routine, which causes the doctors to suspect Long Covid. I am approved to be seen at the Long Covid clinic, but the demand is so high and staffing so low that I cannot be seen by anyone there until July. So I have to live without meaningful treatment or even coordination of care for over three months. I spend a lot of time in bed, fatigued beyond belief. My appetite is inconsistent, my physical activity goes to nearly zero, and my brain fog is so bad I cannot keep track of doctor appointments, medications or friends’ names. I cry and sleep through the spring and summer, waiting for things to improve. Instead, they get worse. I am also struggling with deepened depression as a result of being out of work for so long, but counseling is impossible to find. Many providers are not taking Medicaid clients, and it is all happening onscreen. So I allow my doctor to prescribe antidepressants.

July 2022 — I finally have my very first Zoom appointment with my assigned Long Covid care coordinator, whose job it is to connect my regular doctors, my autoimmune doctor and the specialists at the Long Covid clinic to determine a course of treatment for my multiple issues. My care coordinator, a  nice lady I’ll call Claire, appears onscreen wearing a colorful scarf that’s very much like one worn by a cancer patient. This is because, I learn, she is ill (not with Covid, though she prefers not to discuss it). She walks me through the process of getting the tests I’ll need to determine my heart and lung functions and help fix the course of treatment. However, the Long Covid clinic, like the rest of the hospital, is woefully understaffed and appointments are pretty far out in the schedule. I cannot get my first appointment for at least six weeks.

August 2022 — Still waiting for my first lung function assessment, I feel like crap and it is clear that I will not be able to return to Washington State for the High Holy Days. I call the rabbi on August 2nd and tell her I am not well enough to do the job and advise her to find someone else. We are both sad. I am also stressed because as the world continues to open up more, I am unable to take gigs and the government checks are coming to an end soon. So in addition to being sick, I will also continue to be a burden on my partner.

September through December 2022 — I have three lung function tests, am prescribed an inhaler and physical therapy to learn how to walk in a straight line again. The physical therapy is frustrating, infrequent and in the end not very helpful. The inhaler is useful for awhile. I return for a lung function test in December and am told that my lungs are stabilizing, though at a slightly lower level of efficiency than before I got sick. Near the end of the year, the worst of my symptoms have leveled off and I begin to feel less brain-fogged and dizzy. I am also experiencing issues related to my autoimmune issues, requiring outpatient surgery in early January. Surgery is successful and recovery takes about six weeks.

Late January through February 2023 — still depressed about the failure of my fourth album to go anywhere, I’ve been writing songs as I’ve felt better, and compile them with some older, unrecorded songs into my fifth album, which I record entirely at home using a simple computer program. Friends do the mixing and mastering for me, and I release the album in early February. I don’t expect to sell many, but I am glad to get the songs out of my studio and out into the world. I suspect it will be my last full-length album, because I am feeling a little burned out and not sure how much longer I can hustle so hard for gigs that seem more difficult to come by in a post-Covid landscape.

I am slowly improving in terms of my breath and energy, so I begin to plan a mini-tour for June that will take me to several gigs in the New York area, which will culminate with a stop at a Jewish professional conference. I play out at some open mics, my Sweetie and I are able to attend live concerts, and the world is open for business again.

March 2023 — I get a letter from the Long Covid clinic telling me that Claire, my care coordinator, has passed away after a lengthy fight with cancer. Understaffing continues, and so Long Covid services are reserved for patients without any meaningful improvement. Since I am improving, I do not call the clinic again and instead try to get on with my life.

June 2023 through September 2023 — I am playing out again locally after a successful New York tour. I play once a month at a local synagogue and am feeling hopeful about resuming my music career. I return to Washington State for the High Holy Days., where two things happen during services: during the services, I experience several moments of self doubt, uncertainty and severe mental fatigue; and my hands are hurting after playing each service. By the end of the High Holy Days, when I play for more than ten minutes at a time, they are incredibly sore. It takes me some time to get referrals to specialists, and I power through the fall and early winter in order to earn some money at music again. I also return to some previous medical documentation because I have decided that, with all my issues and my age, I feel unable to find full-time work anymore — or an employer who will accommodate my multiple issues. So I contact a lawyer and, with his help, I file for disability in late September.

October 2023 — while assembling paperwork for the disability lawyer, I come across an old discharge letter from a counselor dated July 2019. I’ve seen this letter before, having sent a copy to my doctor. But there ia piece of information that I have not noticed before: under the diagnosis of depression is another diagnosis for ADHD. I send another copy of the letter to my doctor, who refers me to an ADHD clinic for further help. When I am told there will be a waiting period of several months, I seek out counseling on my own, and find someone who takes Medicaid clients. It is hard going, mostly because I’ve never had a healthy relationship with mental health counseling and never really learned how to utilize it well. It’s also hard because of how much I feel like things have just piled on. I am reeling. The more I learn about ADHD and how it plays out in women, the truer my diagnosis feels because I recognize many of those characteristics in myself. 

December 2023 through February 2024 — I take an out-of-town gig in California, and my mother-in-love is able to travel to see me perform. But by the time I get on the plane to go home, my hands are on fire every time play. By mid-February, I am given a diagnosis of tendinitis. The treatment for this is to cease activities that aggravate the condition for as much as three to four months at first, in hopes that the rest will allow me to return to the activity later. I ask if there’s a possibility that I will be able to return to playing at a frequency and level of excellence to resume touring, and am told that I may hope to return to playing guitar on a more occasional basis. There is no guarantee that I’ll return to my former days of daily practice and performance. I feel very sad for a few hours. Then, because I am also wrestling with my ADHD diagnosis and coming to terms with that, I realize that I am very likely on my way to something resembling retirement. It’s not the way I want it to happen. Sadly, but also with a sense of relief, I call the rabbi up in Washington and tell her that she needs to find someone else to do music for High Holy Days in the fall. I’ll miss doing it, but while I try to figure out who ai am going forward, it does take the pressure off of me professionally while Intake the time to sort things out.

Since playing musical instruments is a form of chasing dopamine and I can’t do it right now, I am struggling to figure out how to deal with the mental and emotional pain of everything that I have learned and experienced medically, socially and financially since 2020, I am positively reeling. 

It has been one knockdown after another during these five years, and I am feeling some really big emotions as I come to terms with everything. 

March through April 2024 — I struggle with my emotions as I begin to let go of a lifetime of behaviors that I’ve used to mask my ADHD. I experience a great deal of sorrow, grief and even anger at learning this information so late in my life and at not having the support I needed to deal with a lifetime of difference and confusion. I reach out to the ADHD clinic, which received my referral months ago but didn’t have openings for months, to see if they could at least screen me to see what kind of ADHD I have. I continue to work with my counselor and struggle with my emotions in between sessions. And I frustrate my partner  because she must struggle with all the changes in me in a short time, and cannot help me while I struggle. I have become hard to live with. 

I try to find things I can do, reasons to take myself out of the house, and have been only partly successful — a couple of bike rides a week to meet up with other bike riders, trying to remember and keep my appointments, learning how to organize regular details of every day life now that I’ve unmasked enough that my struggles are on the surface. It is clear that I will not be able to return to enough work that I know how to do and that filing for disability was probably the best choice I could make.

It’s a lot to experience and to feel.

Most days it’s too much. 

And I realize now that I am going to have to slow way the hell down — something people with ADHD aren’t good at — and do some heavy work with the help of counseling, medication and some changes in how I process my feelings. 

I am not looking forward to how hard this will be.

What IS Judaism to me in this moment? What is IDENTITY?

Why am I Jewish? 

What IS Judaism to me in this moment?

What am I here for right now?

I wish I knew.

Hamas attacked Israel and I got my ADHD diagnosis the same day, last October 7.

And everything — I mean absolutely EVERYTHING — has been called into question ever since.

Is Israel “my” place, any more than New York supposedly once was? Do I have a soul, or is that something humans made up because dying scares us shitless? Is there actually a God, or is that made up too? Do Jewish people have a special “task” or “mission” in this life, or is that part and parcel of the exceptionalist myth that’s been used to prop up Jewish life, perhaps beyond the point of common sense? Is everything Jewish that I’ve done in my life colored by a layer of fear and marginalization that renders it all less than fully authentic now? 

Should the State of Israel have been established when, where and how it was? Could it have come about any other way, or were we backed into a corner, forced to choose between survival and destruction? What about the people who were already living there? Why couldn’t they have stayed, either in a state of their own or in a new shared state of coexistence? Was it ever going to be possible to crawl out from under the thumbs of control on both sides? Should Israel exist where and how it does today? Is there any alternative?

We’re all going to die someday. Does being Jewish just mean I risk dying sooner and more violently? If we’re all going to die anyway, does it even matter? And if we’re all going to die anyway, why should any of us see ourselves as exceptional? Does that make us somehow more worthy of consideration, of favor, of saving? Saving from what? And who gets to be saved? Only the ones with the means to travel and the passports to go where they want to go? And should it matter when the whole world feels like it’s on fire anyway?

I honestly don’t know anymore. 

Learning that I have not just a different brain chemistry, but a different brain construction, a different brain design, has forced me to reexamine almost everything I’ve held dear. It has compelled me to wonder how legitimate everything I’ve done up to now has really been. And it forces me to ask, what am I here for?

One thing that I have learned is that our exceptionalism won’t save us. And I fear that we cling to that exceptionalism at the expense of our humanity. 

And if all of that doesn’t mess a human being up, nothing else will.

I have largely avoided getting too deep into the fray, the pointed argument of who deserves to exist more. I made some missteps early on, then realized my error and basically extricated myself from the argument. Because on the one hand, I’m a pacifist, committed to doing as little harm to others and to the earth as I possibly can. And on the other hand, I have no control over how the argument will be resolved. And on the other hand after that, humans are still animals, with a compulsion toward strife and an impulse toward survival that will never be fully bred out of us. 

Along with the rest of the natural world, we human possess tooth and claw; and what sets us apart from other animals is our willingness to get carried away with using those weapons. 

The best anyone can do is to reduce one’s own compulsion to a more neutral level, and in so doing harm fewer people and other animals along the way.

Fighting for the survival of a specific identity seems to miss the point. Evolution takes care of a lot of that survival without my help. 

So in the end. I am left wondering what my life is for. And before anyone offers words of comfort or a persuasion that I’m already doing what I’m here to do, a great deal of what I’ve been done has been halted by my current medical conditions. I cannot do most of what I’ve been doing up til now. So, while I watch so many quarters of humanity scream and claw and kill each other to prolong their own survival, I’m left wondering what my task is now. And if I can figure it out, how do I implement it with the tools available to me?

I honestly don’t know. And while I am still deep in my time of grief, grief over all that has transpired in my life without sufficient self-knowledge to cushion the blows, it will be quite some time before I can arrive at an answer.

For now, all I can do is feel my feelings whenever they arise, and give myself time and space while I do it.