Kiki's Meltdown

The call I received from Yuta several months ago warning me about Kiki not only resulted in me going off on him, it cooled off our relationship for several weeks.  The "Kiki's wild," and "Kiki doesn't take care of her kids properly, going out with her friends at night instead" irked me and I told Yuta as much.  Pitting woman against woman is never a good idea.  He knows that now.  Never mind she was only doing what men in Japan do without being questioned--out late drinking, partying, letting off steam--when women do this, they're stigmatized as being irresponsible.  I lashed out at Yuta for having double standards and for not backing Kiki up.  Our chat ended badly.

Kiki and I hadn't seen each other in several months.  Both busy (such a terrible word), we'd wave at each other as we passed in our cars.  Facebook was our mode of communication, with a lot of "How are you" and "I haven't seen you in such a long time" messages flying back and forth.

Which is why when she called and said, "I have to see you" I dropped everything and made the time.  Something was up. 

I never thought I'd be celebrating the acknowledgement of a borderline breakdown.  On this particular Friday night, however, I find myself doing just that.  This woman sitting across from me is recounting her days, openly telling me of her emotional collapse.  I try not to show how happy I am for her while looking for the words to help her realize this was in the making.

Kiki starts out by telling me how difficult the second memorial of the tsunami was for her this year.  "Last year was tough, yeah.  This year, though....I cried for days.  I didn't know what was happening to me."  Through sips of beer she continues.  "Here," and she points to her face, "I was all smiles.  But, here," pointing to her heart, "I was screaming.  I couldn't take it any more.  All this pressure to be 'up' and 'perky' and 'positive.'  It was eating away at me.  I couldn't fake it.  It all came out around the memorial."

I choose to let her do the talking tonight.  There will likely come a point where I can inject my opinion, but for now, I know this is therapeutic for her.  I've been trying for years to get people to talk out their post-tsunami pain with little success.  Especially true for women, that Kiki, a local leader of young women and one many here look up to, that she broke now allows for others to follow suit.  I wonder if she knows this.

"Then in April, I finally collapsed.  I couldn't get out of bed.  I didn't want to.  I didn't care any more.  I stayed in my futon, bawling, crying, hyperventilating.  I didn't want to see my husband or kids.  I felt like everything around me was broken.  I felt broken.  I just wanted to be alone."

Kiki goes on to tell me she spent the whole week in bed, getting out for the occasional bath and for bathroom breaks.  Her husband brought her food and kept the kids away.  She ignored the calls, e-mails, and Facebook messages asking if she was alright.

"Clearly I needed it," she laughs uncomfortably.  There's nothing funny about fighting to keep a mental breakdown at bay.  "I knew I was in bad shape.  I mean, I really didn't care anymore.  I really couldn't get out of bed."

I listen and say very little, asking only a question here and there.  "I knew I needed help when I saw a poster somewhere about a suicide hotline and thought to myself, 'I actually know how they feel.  It would be really easy to die right now.'"  Here, I decide to speak.  "Did you call the hotline?"
"No.  I decided I wasn't suicidal.  I didn't actually want to die.  I just realized I knew how these people felt."  I nod.

"But, realizing I understood that feeling was a wake-up call.  It was several days after that I didn't and couldn't get out of bed.  Scary."
I agree with her that it's scary.  An hour or so has passed since she's been talking, Kiki recounting her various emotions, her analysis of how and why she let herself get this "out of whack."

Understanding the position she holds among young women in this community, I ask what is to me, the obvious question.  "Have other women followed your example?"
"Yes!"  Suddenly Kiki is really excited.
"How did you know?"

For the first time tonight I add my opinion in full.  "Your breakdown, if I can call it that, gave other women permission to follow your example.  You're a leader.  If you can break, if it's okay for you to break, then other women know it's okay for them to break as well.  You're lucky you're solid enough to work through it on your own.  Now you can help other women who might not have that network--a supportive husband like you have--so they can come out safely on the other side."
"Yes!  I've had so many women say that to me.  That they also stayed in bed for days after they heard about my little breakdown.  I didn't realize I was keeping everyone from releasing all this pain."
"Think of it as giving permission, and not that you were keeping people bottled up.  The important part is that you let it out."

While Kiki is indeed lucky, to have had the skills necessary to work her way through her grief, there's now a buzz through town about how "all these women are dropping like flies."  The men in town don't know what's going on.  There are suggestions the women are faking it, asking for attention.  Some recognize it's the women who have had to remain strong for the past two years with no outlet.  Alcohol helps the men by giving them a space where they can spout off, let out their complaints, cry, and in general cut loose.  The women in Tohoku don't have that option.  The kids look to mama to see if today is a good day.  Grandpa and grandma rely on the daughter-in-law for stability in the household.  With no source by which they can let out their pain, grief, stress, and trauma, it's no wonder Kiki and her friends started collapsing.  This breaking point has been long overdue.

The good news is with Kiki's self-imposed hibernation and reemergence comes permission for other women to say, "Me, too."  Kiki and I agree we must take care of ourselves first, cliche or not, because no one else will do that for us.  We talk about how to safely allow for these "breakdowns" as each woman's case is unique.  We acknowledge we aren't experts and that some women may require hospitalization.  We talk about the consequences and stigma of what it means to break.

Ultimately, this is good news--if a nervous breakdown can be considered good.  I will participate when asked in helping with the long walk back to being whole, and I will also watch from the sidelines, cheering my friends on if that's what they prefer.  A night out with Kiki left me with a mixture of hope, relief, sadness, and happiness.  Do I dare hope for more breakdowns to come along?  Do I dare ask for such a thing?

Life and Death at 17

I've often said here in Tohoku, the difference between who's a "local" and who's from "away" is pretty drastic.  Introductions are peppered with "I'm so-and-so's child" and "my dad owns the such-and-such store."  This places people.  Pecking order, family feuds, whether or not business transactions will take place, if friendships will be established, these are all set by these pronouncements of placement.  Exempt from this, I tell people I am from the outer most layer of the onion.

The onion is comprised first of family, then local block, neighborhood, city, locality, prefecture, region, country, and the rest of the world.  I'm from the "outer, outer, outer, outer, outer" layer.  The number of "outer"s I say out loud isn't the point.  It's more about the fact I'm from "way, way, way out there."

I long ago learned how much of an advantage this is.  Locals don't complain as it is, much less to their neighbors.  "We're all in the same boat," I've been told, over and over.  Everyone here is a victim of disaster in one way or another.  I'm not.  That I represent the furthest place out people can imagine means I'm safe to complain to.  That I can't possibly relate makes it easy to identify me as someone who can listen.  Most of all, that I'm anything but a "local" means it's okay to say to me what can't be said to family and friends.

There's another sort of "outsider."  There are several locals who have been anointed with this sacred bond of trust.  The unwritten credo of not complaining to anyone "from here" is broken, and blatantly at that with these few.  Takayuki Niinuma is one of the chosen.

His job description on Facebook is "Mayor of the Night in Ofunato."  If you knew him you'd see how perfect this was.  He drives a flashy car with tinted windows.  He swaggers just a bit.  He projects "bad." For those who can't see through to his inner core, he's feared.  Shunned.  He has a past worthy of this reputation.  A trouble-maker in town since he was a kid, his language is coarse.  He doesn't mince words.  People walk the other way when they see him coming.  This makes him, for some, the perfect confidant.

Those who are truly at the bottom, who don't know how to keep going, who've lost the will to go on, who have such tragic stories they can't possibly be real--these people find Taka.  The stories people tell him are nightmarish.  This is one such story.

The sports center in Rikuzentakata with its large gymnasium was a designated evacuation spot.  In the case a tsunami hit the city, residents were to come here.  Hundreds of people gathered here a year ago on March 11th to wait out the tsunami warning.  No one, no one ever expected the wave to be high enough to flood the gym.

"When the tsunami came, it blew in the front door, water poured in from the second story windows, and next thing they knew everyone who wasn't already dead fought their way up to these beams," Taka tells me.

"This 17-year old girl and her friends, they were all hanging on to these beams on the ceiling.  Below them is this whirlpool of water with crap in it.  They know if they let go they're dead."  I think back to what I saw in the gym when I visited last time, and I start to shake.

"Then the wall blew out."  The pressure from the water and the wave continuing to crash in did indeed blow out a wall.  "This meant the water that was holding them up, they're hanging onto the beams, right?  This water got sucked out through the hole in the wall with real force.  People couldn't hang on.  Some got swept out along with the pull of the water flowing out, and others clung on for dear life.  This girl clung.  This girl saw this.  She saw all this.  There's more.  Those who are hanging on just with their hands, they're hanging onto these beams by their hands, right?  They're wet.  They're freezing.  Some couldn't hang on anymore.  They started to drop.  One by one.  They fell down onto the floor of the gym where all this debris was.  Her best friend from childhood fell, too.  She heard the thuds.  She heard them scream.  She watched her friend lay on the floor, twitching, bleeding out.  Her friend finally died.  This girl saw all that."

The reason the girl telling the story survived is another unbelievable tale.  While others hung onto the beams with only their hands, she clung on with her hands and feet, her back to the floor.  After seeing and hearing everyone else around her fall to their deaths, she made her way down a beam, slithering essentially, moving inch by inch until she reached the end.  What the photo doesn't show is that the end of the beam hits a wall, and there's still a three-meter jump to the floor from there.  I follow each beam with my eyes, wondering in silent awe how this was possible.  Could I do this?  To save my own life, could I, would I do this?  Or, would I give up?  Would I let myself die?

At seventeen, I had boyfriends, snuck out of the dorm at night evading the headmaster that lived next door, riding around on motorcycles avoiding the eyes of any teacher that might be out for a nightly stroll.  I played, shopped, sometimes studied, and enjoyed being a teenager.  I've wondered over and over what I would be like today if I went through what this girl experienced--at seventeen.

The gym still looks like this, today, 16 months after the tsunami.  I'm not allowed into the gym but ignore the "Do Not Enter" signs.  These images need recording.  These stories need repeating.  Unimaginable pain and horror experienced by this 17-year old girl brings me to my knees.

That she sought out Taka to tell her story is a testament to his stature.  The trust she placed in him to unburden herself, to sob, to say she will never ever go back to Rikuzentakata is all a gift he has, "bad" as he may be.  In telling me these stories he's unburdening himself as well.  By writing this, I'm letting my grief out, too.  Here in Tohoku we support each other as the rings of friendship expand overlapping from person to person.  This is a key reason I'm here.  For this, I'll stay.

How Unintentionally Misquoting the Bible Led to a Revelation

I collect quotes.  I have lists of them.  One such list is to be read at my funeral.  It's sealed, and my husband knows not to open the file it until the day comes.  As much fun as I've had reading books and articles compiling this list, I've found myself unable to recite any of these quotes without actually reading them from paper.  This means I refrain from repeating them out loud from memory lest I butcher it, misquote the author, losing any opportunity of conveying the zing they so often have.  The list for my funeral is one I'm especially proud of, but it's tucked away in my husband's office.  I won't try to share the quotes with you now.  You will just have to wait.

I read somewhere recently, one of my favorite quotes from the Bible "God helps those who help themselves" is not actually in the Bible.  Well now.  That's a bit of a problem.  Evidently, I've been misquoting someone for quite some time.  That I've been mistaken in this quote, one that has to do with God at that is even more problematic.  Needless to say I've stopped citing the Bible lest I misquote, say, God this time.  Clearly, there's something to not quoting people or books unless I know it was really said.  Really written.

Which made me think of another verse from the Bible (this time I looked it up) about the "gong."  This is also a quote I've liked over the years.  The verse is from I Corinthians 13.  "If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal."  Often read at weddings (including ours), it always makes me smile.  I particularly like the "I am only a resounding gong" part.  I conjure up loud-mouthed gasbags who don't know when to stop talking, and people who stood on a box (I only imagine it to be a box) in ancient Rome, dressed in a toga, reading something out to the masses.  Resounding gong, indeed. 

The idea of being a resounding gong, or being thought of as a resounding gong, going on and on about the plight of people and communities in Tohoku has been on my mind lately.  A lot.  How long can I keep this up?  How long will people listen?  How many have stopped listening?  What am I doing?  Am I just making noise?  Am I a gong?

I had lunch with one of my best friends from university recently.  She made a joke, what she thought was a joke, about me being in Tohoku.  It hit a nerve.  It was the proverbial straw.  I told her I was "done talking."  If she didn't "get it" there was no way I could get anyone else to understand.  Apologizing, trying to get me to hear her out, she said, "You never told me why you're there.  You never explained.  I've supported you, but I honestly can't say I understand why you keep going back."

Ah yes.  The question I am still, to date, unable to answer adequately.  Why do I go?  I've tried explaining my reasons using analogies, examples, logic, emotion, and humor.  Most people nod politely.  Most people don't understand.  The question will be asked again.  And again.  I will likely still remain unconvincing.

I gave my speech.  She listened, trying to understand.  "I think I get it," she mused.  I wasn't sure I believed her.  We sat in silence for awhile, both of us frustrated.  The next thing she said ended up being an explosive statement, opening up years of pent up frustration.

"You're bilingual.  You're bi-cultural.  You can do things in Japan because you're white, female, foreign.  I get that.  You know the rules.  You get things done.  I understand that.  What you don't understand is that you're much more than that.  You have a unique world view.  Things make sense to you that many of us don't understand.  A lot of us just don't get you."  

She was right.  I am often misunderstood.  I am comfortable with who I am.  But, I know, rather I have known for decades, many aren't.  Take for example, my last two undergraduate years.  I look back now and can say I was bullied.  There was no physical violence.  I wasn't hit, beaten, or cornered in the bathroom.   There was, however, stupid and mean-spirited nastiness.  From women.  I didn't understand where it was coming from for a long time.  It hurt.  That it went on for two years took a toll on me.  I loaded up on classes, hoping to graduate early.  I wanted out.  Significantly more polite and timid than I am now, I didn't push back.  I didn't know how.

Then one day I had a break-through.  I was sitting in class.  I don't remember what it was anymore.  Three of the "mean girls" sat several seats down from me.  Evidently, I was clicking my pen.  It wasn't a conscious act.  Just something people do, right?  Click down once, the tip sticks out.  Click down again, it retracts.  I must have been bored.  I guess the noise I made with the pen annoyed these women.  I looked over and saw one of the women nudge her head over towards me.  They all looked at me.  One woman sighed out loud.  Another shook her head and rolled her eyes.  Passive-aggressive and catty they were.  Here we go again.  What can I do wrong today?

I smiled.  Had I not been in class I would have laughed.  The ridiculousness of it came crashing to the forefront.  Then, right there, I decided I was "over it."  Enough was enough.  I understood it then.  Something "clicked" (no pun intended).  I don't know what it was that made it so clear that day.  But, clear it was.  I was being bullied because I was "different."  You don't "get" me?  Fine.  Honestly?  I didn't care.  I put the pen down and ignored them.  I continued to ignore them for the remainder of my time at school.  Life became easier starting that day.

Here's the thing.  I look American.  I sound American.  But, evidently, I am not American enough.  This isn't a problem I have in Japan.  I don't blend.  I can't.  I look different.  I'm taller and heavier than almost all women there, and some men even.  I look foreign.  There's nothing I can do to change the fact I am not "one of them."  I'm totally and completely at peace with this.  In the US, I am expected to be American.  One of the gang.  That I'm not made me the target of bullying.  Today, it makes my choices harder for people to understand.

What is difficult to explain is how being different benefits my work in Japan.  I get things done precisely because I am not "one of them."  Doors open to me that don't for others.  Add to this, I know the language, play by their rules (for the most part) and I'm good to go.  I am uniquely qualified to be a gong right now.  So long as I pepper my reports, this blog included, with stories about life in Japan in general, not just Tohoku, I simply have to hope I'm not one of those annoying gongs that people tune out.  I like to think I make a gentle "booooong" as opposed to a loud clang.   

So, gong as I may be, I will keep telling stories, making every effort to quote people accurately.  This is my job right now.  While I will continue attempting to explain why I am there, why I keep returning, for now I am content with the knowledge I'm okay being a gong because there is love in what I do.

"We needed to keep her alive."

Stories come from the unlikeliest of sources. 

In the spirit of investing in the local economy, I make my way to see one of my favorite women in Ofunato.  I park in front of her store, and see the chiropractor's office near hers.  I have an appointment with him next week.  More on this in a moment.

We chat, getting caught up, exchanging gossip as only women can do.  It's lovely.  I tell her of my upcoming appointment with her neighbor-chiropractor.

"Is he good?"
"Oh, definitely.  He fixed one of my friends."
I'm relieved.  I tell her of my pinched nerve in my shoulder, causing my arm to tingle and spasm.
"You'll like him.  He's really that good," and she continues with the following tale.

Her friend was a student of hers.  "She was washed away by the tsunami in Rikuzentakata."  Now I'm confused.  Her friend was washed away?  As in, she died?
"This is the friend the chiropractor 'fixed'?"
"Right."
"She survived?  I thought she was washed away."
The term "washed away" is used, even reserved for those who didn't make it.  Buildings were "washed away" as were cars, and people.  Hence my confusion.  She was "washed away" and then treated later?

"It was a miracle," my friend says. 
The woman was with my friend twenty minutes prior to the earthquake.  The woman went home, the earthquake hit, and then came the tsunami.  The woman was at home with her three children.  After the earthquake she put her children and her parents in the car and began her escape. 

"The car was pointed towards the ocean," my friend says.  "Bad luck, you know?"  I nod.  "She had to turn the car around.  By that time, the water engulfed the car.  The tsunami swept the car away with everyone in it.  My friend says her oldest was gasping for air, and she told her to get towards the roof where the water hadn't risen yet.  That's the last thing she remembers."

The woman survived.  All six of them were tossed out of the car.  She was found later, the only one breathing.  Taken to a hospital in the next town by a stranger, she was there for days while people searched for her.

"She also lost her husband and mother-in-law.  Six people.  Everyone in her family.  She's the only one who survived."  I'm dumbfounded.
"How did she find the will to keep going?"  I'm not sure I would.
"I know.  I know.  Right?  We needed to keep her alive.  We were all worried about her."
I'm told of how my friend and a group of women kept tabs on her, calling, visiting, checking up on their mutual friend.  Here again; women helping women.

"She's not doing well now.  It's been over a year now, and she's finally able to grieve.  It's not good.  She's not well.  At all."

Filing six death certificates, trying to figure out what's worth living for, mourning, and mourning again--I don't know what to say.

The chiropractor I'm seeing, the one I'm hoping will fix my shoulder problem, "fixed" this woman whom other doctors said "couldn't be helped" because her pain was "in her head."

The good news is, I have hope my pain will be gone soon.  The bad news is, there's a woman in town who has experienced incredible pain who seems out of reach.  We are two different women with two entirely different kinds of pain. 

Not at all sure what to do, some days I just collect stories.  And repeat them.

Seismo-Psychology: The Need Thereof

Everyone should have a list.  Who do you call when a largish earthquake hits?  Whom do you check up on? 

Last April, a M 7.4 (or there about) hit the coast damaged several weeks prior.  The earthquake struck around 11pm.  I was already asleep.  Everyone in the room woke up, myself included.  Half-asleep, I checked my laptop to see where it hit, and how big it was.  The Japanese Meteorological Society is very good with up-to-date reports.  It was my go-to source.  Then the phone rang.

"You okay?"  It's my favorite person in Japan (who shall remain anonymous).
"Uh huh."
"Were you asleep?"
"Uh huh."
"Do you need to get out of the building?"
"I'm not sure yet."
"Go find a radio.  Get an update.  See what they're saying about another tsunami."
"Okay."
"Hey."
"Hmmm?"
"Wake up.  This is serious."
"I know.  I'm trying."

And, just like that, I know he's annoyed with me.  He thinks I'm not taking this seriously, which is not accurate.  I'm just not very good at waking up.  We hang up, and I head downstairs.  The electricity is already out.  People are huddled around the portable radio.  A tsunami warning, but maybe 50 cm.  Maybe a meter.  We're safe.  By the time I call him back, the phone lines are down.

When the M 5.4 hit north of Tokyo earlier this week, he called again.

"Where are you?"  I tell him.  I hear the, "why-the-hell-are-you-there?" in his voice as he asks me, "Doing what?"
"Dinner."
"You okay?"
"Yes.  Really.  I'm okay."
"Who are you with?"
"Why?  Are you jealous?"
"Don't be ridiculous.  That's your problem, see.  You're cracking jokes when I'm concerned.  I just want to know if you're with someone who will help you."  I feel bad.  No, he's not jealous.  He doesn't have to call, but he does.
"I'm sorry.  I'm fine.  I'm leaving now."
"Heels?"  We just had this conversation recently.  I read after the massive must-walk-home saga of those in Tokyo who spent hours walking back a year ago March 11th, and over and over marveled at the women who said they walked home in heels.  I've long since promised myself to carry a pair of flats in my bag.  I didn't today.  Again.
"Yes," I say, and quickly add, "But, I'll be fine.  I'm leaving now.  I'll be fine.  Really."
"Take a cab," he says, not as a suggestion, but more as a command.
"I'll be fine," I protest.
"TAKE A CAB."
"Okay.  I will."

I now call people up north with any jolt larger than a M5.  That I'm called by someone who doesn't have to is flattering, and comforting.  Being in Japan alone, it's really nice knowing there's someone out there looking out for me.  I need to offer that same generosity.  I now do.

Paying forward kindness is a part of the kizuna concept.  The connection, bond, friendship, and care so extended throughout last year is still alive and well today.  I now have a list of people I call, just as I'm on someone else's list.  Who's on yours?