On Resilience, Coping Mechanisms, and Differences of Opinion

To each their own.  Who am I to tell you the way you choose to cope is wrong?  I don't know your pain and your experiences are not mine.  Hard is just hard.  Your "my life is hard" is not a measurable event, and my version of "my life is hard" is just that.  Let's not compare.  Let's not one-up each other.

I spent time with Yuriko over the weekend, one of my favorite women in Tohoku.  She's strong, opinionated and honest.  She personifies "work hard play hard" which isn't a motto many think well of, especially coming from a woman, a wife, and a mother.  That I'm tired of this double-standard argument is not the point.  Not today, at least.  Yuriko told me of how Rio, her six-year old daughter got angry at her (and me) for the deed I meant as a good one which completely backfired.

"She was angry she didn't get to see you when you brought the Halloween candy," Yuriko tells me.
"I'm sorry.  I showed up without calling, I know.  I was on my way somewhere--I don't remember where now--and I saw your light on so I just popped in."
"When I took the candy back to Rio and the other two, Rio got really quiet, gave me one of her I'm-angry-now looks and said, 'You saw Amya-san today?'  So I said I had, and then Rio went off.  I got 'Why didn't she tell me?' and 'Why didn't you call me when she was there?' and then, 'Make sure you tell her I want candy next year, too.'  It was quite the tongue-lashing!"  Yuriko laughs.
"Oh, and then when I asked Rio, 'You wanted to see Amya-san?' she gave me one of these you're-so-dense-mom looks and said, 'Well yeah.  For awhile now.'"
Yuriko and I laugh but I realize my mistake and promise Yuriko I will stop by with more notice next time.

Rio is the girl who, at three years old, told (not asked) her mother to drive by the spot Yuriko's store used to be everyday for a month.  "Rio would put her hands up to the car's window and stare," Yuriko says.  "I have to assume that's how she was processing what happened.  I lost my store but so did she.  That place was just as much hers as it was mine."  This story ends with Rio announcing one day she didn't need Yuriko to drive past the store anymore. "She must have worked it out," Yuriko says.  "I don't understand it," Yuriko tells me, "but something clicked on that day.  She didn't need to see where the store was anymore."  It was on this day that Rio told Yuriko she would protect her mother if another tsunami were to hit.  "I'll beat it up," the three-year old Rio told Yuriko.  This was when I first fell in love with the girl.  I was then and still am today inspired by her resilience.

We cope with trauma and tragedy differently.  Here in Tohoku, a place still very much a disaster zone, there are multiple coping mechanisms:  some drink (sometimes to excess), some shut pain away, some cut themselves, some ignore it, some throw themselves into work to forget, others throw themselves into working towards progress, and a very select few try to work it out by talking it through.

I choose to read.  I need to escape into a world that is at times surreal, unreal, far-fetched, silly, and/or all of the above.  I won't take kindly to people saying this is not a legitimate way for me to process.  Nor can I support others who might think reading to escape is not a viable method of coping--not just for me but for anyone.

What about the other options then?  Rio needed to stare at the plot of land where she had memories.  Many around me drink.  Many who drink don't stop with just a few.  Medical professionals would very likely offer up facts on why drinking-to-forget is not a healthy way to deal with those parts of our lives we struggle through.  I am not one who drinks away my anxiety.  I read instead. It's not my business to be critical of those who choose a different way to cope.  Drink through your pain, deny it, work yourself through it.  I don't agree with the idea of suppressing feelings, drinking to excess, or overworking to forget, but I am constantly reminded of the fact this is not my country.  Who am I to say keeping things bottled up is wrong?  If drinking helps you process is it my place to say you shouldn't?  It's wrong for me, but maybe it's not for you.

I bring this up to say these are ideas I'm trying on.  I'm anything but comfortable with the idea excessive drinking and eating and gambling and the like as a legitimate and healthy way to process grief or trauma or pain.  That said, I'm not fond of those who easily right off my method of coping.  Indeed, I find myself surprised at how defensive I get when what is so important and necessary for me is easily dismissed or criticized.

Tolerance and patience:  the former I'm pretty good at, the latter I'm not.  Today's random musings are brought to you by kids whose resilience and strength I marvel at over and over.  Read away, dear child.  Talk back to your mother, Rio.  I hope it brings you peace.

On Death and Selective Visual Intake

One of my colleagues in Rikuzentakata City Hall came up to me yesterday saying he has something to tell me.  Ichiro has the ability to know when to be serious and when to cut loose.  Because I like all of my colleagues in my office, I can’t say, “Ichiro is one of my favorite people in city hall.”  That said, I enjoy his company immensely.  With each trip up north (even when we have spats of disagreement and hard feelings linger for a few hours or days) I’m reminded how lucky I am to have intelligent, interesting, hardworking people around me.  I like my co-workers.

Ichiro and I are alone in the crowded kitchenette.  I sense his news is not positive but I can’t imagine what it might be.

“XXX-san,” he starts, and immediately I don’t follow.  I shake my head to show I don’t know who he’s talking about.  Ichiro switches to the man’s last name.  “XXX-san,” and I nod, “he went into the hospital awhile back, and,” Ichiro pauses, “and he passed away.”

I’m often amazed at how our minds can process extreme volumes of information in a split second.  Here was one of those moments.  I’m struck by two facts immediately.  There are thirteen of us in the executive section of city hall.  I did some quick mental math and determined I’m the third oldest.  Of the thirteen, three are referred by title (mayor, deputy mayor, director), two are referred to by their last names, and the remaining eight, myself included are called by our first names.  I take back what I said about rigid hierarchy in Tohoku.  At the very least, in our department within city hall here, that rule doesn’t apply.  We are friendly, genuinely caring of one another, and aren’t all that concerned about who’s what age.  Nowhere else in Tohoku have I seen such casual use of first names.  The man who passed away was a manager, which usually means he would receive the courtesy of being called just “manager.”  Instead they referred to this man by his first name.  I didn’t, which is why when Ichiro first used the man’s first name I didn’t recognize whom he was referring to.  Add to this, it's been awhile since I've seen him.

This second fact hits me hard.  As I listen to Ichiro explain in more detail, it dawns on me I’ve not seen this man at his desk on my past several trips to city hall.  I just assumed he was on a business trip, had already left for the day, or there was some other reason for his absence.  It never occurred to me and I never asked whether he might be unwell.

What we choose to see, whether we choose to see what happens in our daily lives and routines isn’t evident until we’re forced to stop and look.  I noticed this yesterday on a different matter but kept my thoughts to myself. 

Yesterday I accompanied a visitor through a tour of Rikuzentakata, explaining what was where, what happened, why the remaining buildings are significant.  At one of the buildings I stopped at, after I gave him some space to take in the symbols of what occurred over two years ago, I directed his attention to the remnants of household items buried in the sand-dirt mixture of what used to be a home.

“Look,” I say and point.  “Here are pieces of a bowl.  Here’s a cooking pot.  Here’s a sweater, and here a t-shirt.”  He looks down and I know he’s shocked and bothered by the realization I’m sharing with him.  These were homes.  People lived here.  People died here.  Then I see it.  A tube of wasabi lies between tall weeds.  I point it out to him.  That tube has been here for almost 30 months, unmoved.  Next to it is a crumpled up brassiere. 

I was just here last week, at this exact same spot.  I was here several times.  How did I miss these?  The slippers, pot, and shards I remember.  The t-shirt and sweater I could tell myself I saw and believe it if I had to.  The wasabi?  No.  The bra?  There’s no way these were there last week.

I glaze.  Some parts of post-disaster life register everyday activities and images, while other items I “see” but don’t.  I had two separate camera crews with me here last week and must have spent an hour between the two crews walking through these tall weeds and talking.  Making a point to show them as much detail as possible, I can’t honestly believe I walked right past these items.  Did they not register?  Did I not see them?  Was I glazing?  Did I choose not to see?

Back in city hall, after my meeting with the mayor, I walk past my late colleague’s desk and notice a tall bouquet of flowers, a white lily prominently standing out from among the rest.  I didn’t see these before.  They’ve surely been here all day.  All day I’ve been here in this office walking past his desk this way and that, and it’s only after I’m informed of his death that I see the memorial flowers.

Lilies are not my favorite flower.  They stink and they remind me of when I laid a similar bouquet into my brother’s coffin.  Let me rephrase.  I hate lilies.  All the more reason why I would have, should have noticed this collection of flowers on his desk.

Routine and patterns;  when everything around me becomes familiar I don’t notice the details.  It’s one thing not to stop and smell the roses because “I’m too busy.”  If I don’t even notice roses are there I have a whole other problem.

I blame fatigue, and then defend myself by saying this is a defense mechanism I use to protect myself.  If I acknowledge every piece of pain-inducing item present in this disaster zone there’s no limit to the mental and emotional exhaustion I would experience.  I have to block things out.  Right?

Or do I?

I have to wonder how many “roses” I’ve walked past without even noticing their presence. It takes a death of a colleague for me to admit there’s a lot I’ve closed my eyes to in Tohoku.  I’m not quite sure what to do with that.

Forced Globalization, Boston Marathon, and Disaster Etiquette

It's been a rough 36 hours.  I woke up yesterday, stumbled towards my laptop, and started going through my e-mails.  Still bleary-eyed, I first saw my mother's.  "We're very upset about what happened in Boston."

What?  What happened in Boston?

I go to Boston.com and sit in shock.

Quickly returning to my inbox, I see a note from my husband.  "I'm fine."  I read it again in case my unfocused morning eyes are playing tricks on me.  He's safe.  I exhale.

The next e-mail is from Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan.  "You probably already know this, but....."  This is his way of showing concern.  I'm touched.

I type e-mails to my friends as fast as I can.  I call.  I'm on the other side of the world and feel completely helpless.  The two emotions that I felt yesterday morning, shock and impotence, were only the beginning.

Then came profound disappointment and rage.

When by noon no one up north where I've spent the past two years said peep about Boston, my husband, my friends, and those who have offered assistance to these disaster-stricken communities,  well, I simply lost it.  I really lost it.

Growing up my mother told me I would show the worst side of myself to those I loved most.  This was probably code for "don't mouth back" and "stop being sassy" but it was excellent advice.  She's right.  Yesterday, to my adopted family here in Tohoku I grew horns.

The message was simple.  "That you all haven't asked about Boston is not okay."  I ended with, "This is low.  You all suck."  I was angry, hurt, and did not feel like being kind.  I chose to let all my pain out in these words.

In the past 24 hours I've been told the following:  "we were busy" and "we didn't know" and "we don't watch/read/listen to the news."  None of these are acceptable answers.  Here's why.

To the first one I yelled at (I really yelled) I said, "Because you are disaster victims, because you've received so much aid, because you of all people collectively know what it's like to go through something horrible, you need to reciprocate.  You don't get to not know.  You can't get away with 'not watching the news.'  You owe it to the people who have supported you all these years to care.  In order to care, you need to know.  In order to know, you have to pay attention to what's going on around you.  You're a part of the global community now whether you like it or not.  You can't get away with not caring about those who have supported you.  And, don't give me this 'I'm busy' crap."

I've said the same thing to others.  Some get it, others don't.  I have no answer to whether it's "don't" or "can't."  What's been explained to me when tempers have calmed and our voices can no longer be heard in the apartment below is this:  "You would have told us if we needed to know," and "We're used to giant disasters.  Sorry, but it didn't look that bad."

Is it my job to teach disaster etiquette?  I wasn't prepared for this.  I'm completely conflicted.

We show our truest selves to those we love the most--the good and the ugly.  I love these people here, and they've hurt me deeply.  I can't force upon them disaster etiquette and a more global mentality when they don't have, want, or see the need for it.  This is a hard lesson to learn and one I accept only because my attempts don't seem to show results.

So, the past 36 hours have left me spent.  I'm heading to Boston next week, and honestly, this can't come soon enough.

Flashback

None of us could have anticipated the events of that night.  Our outing was meant to be a fun, casual dinner.  The five of us were at a local ramen shop in Rikuzentakata.  The two girls, my adopted daughters whom I love like my own, and mom and dad all sit around the table negotiating how many bowls to order.

"It's a big bowl," mom says to the girls.  "I don't think you can finish it."
"Yes we can," younger sister protests.  "Yeah.  Mama, please?"  Older sister chimes in.
"You never do," dad objects.  "You'll have to finish what they don't eat," mom says to dad.
"Again?"  We all laugh.
"Can we have gyoza, too?"  The younger one is determined to eat tonight.
"Do you have any appointments tomorrow, Amya-san?"  I'm taken back my mom's question.
"Appointments?  Why?"
"The gyoza here is really garlicky," dad says.
"Oh."  I think for a minute.  I do have meetings tomorrow.  How garlicky are they?
"I'll just have one," I reply, not one to pass up good gyoza.

We order, continuing to chat.  When the bowls arrive I am shocked at the size.  This is possibly the biggest bowl of ramen I've ever seen.
"Woooow," I say, looking down at what's in front of me.  Turning to the girls, "You're really going to eat all that?"  "No," dad says as the girls say, "Yes!"  We laugh again.

Silent except for the slurping, none of us notice grandpa sitting at the bar.  Suddenly, there's a buzz.  The chefs come out from the kitchen, moving quickly.  One of the servers is standing near grandpa, calling out to him.  Grandpa is slumped over.

"What's going on?" The older girl starts to get up.
"Sit," mom says.
"Be right back," and dad jumps up heading towards grandpa and the small crowd.

Fast forward three minutes, we piece together what's happening. Grandpa is unresponsive.  A chef is spooning sugar into grandpa's mouth.  "Diabetic shock," mom says to me.  I nod.  Soon we hear an ambulance.  Mom and I exchange looks.  I see mom looking at the girls sitting on either side of me.  I look down at them, first left and then right.  The younger one is in tears, trying hard not to show how upset she is.  The older one is pale.  It's the first time I've seen someone this white in a long time.

"It's alright," mom says to the girls.  The older one nods, trying to be brave.  I sense the younger one on my left quickly wiping her tears.  I touch her head and say, "Do you want to sit on my lap?"  She nods.  I pick her up, move myself in front of the television we've all been ignoring, and turn my back towards grandpa.  "You sit on Amya-san's lap, too," mom says to the older one.  I move younger sister onto my left knee, and pull older sister onto my right.  She's shaking.
"It's alright.  Everything is going to be okay," I say and turn them more towards the television, talking about the AKB girls we see.

The ambulance arrives, puts grandpa on a stretcher and quickly leaves.  The girls try to sneak glances towards the paramedics, but I bring their attention to the television screen each time.

Once the restaurant is quiet again, we all sit around the table.  The girls are no longer hungry.  Mom says in a very soft voice, "I know it's scary for you to see ambulances.  It reminds you of daddy being away with the fire brigade, right?"  They nod.  Dad is a volunteer firefighter, and was out for days following the tsunami, looking for survivors, recovering bodies.  The girls don't fully understand what dad was doing, but were worried sick.  Emergency vehicles now scare them.

How an unexpected incident can turn an otherwise happy outing into a traumatic experience is a stark reminder of the power of memories.  In this case, the fear over a father's safety in the aftermath of a tragic and terrible disaster ruined not only our night out, but served as a trigger bringing back buried pain.

I hope for those in Tohoku we are all able to find a realistic and robust mental health plan that allows for lasting healing.  In the mean time, I will keep hugging these girls.  Mom and dad, too.