Support Should Be Supportive

It’s been a while since I got a weepy or shrill email or private message from a person complaining about former stomping grounds. But I did wake up to one this morning. The blissful silence I’d come to enjoy on this front was disrupted, and I have to say, it made me grateful, once again, to be well out of the minefield of “support” groups.

TIP:  support groups should be supportive.

Believe me when I say that I am a survivor. I even still belong to groups, though they have dwindled to a very small few with specific focus.  Two social groups, four or five charities, one writing support group that has very little online presence and absolutely no online participation outside of an email loop that is strictly dedicated to WRITING. Chit chat is welcome at the bi-monthly meetings during the nibbles and potable hour.

If you belong to a group that is supposed to support you, find that attending meetings or visiting the web forum, or reading the emails is leaving you sad, miserable, doubting your talent, angry—pick one—you need to get out.

NOW.

Support groups may make you feel concerned for your project. They may make you re-think your behavior. They may challenge and even upset you, but these feelings should be occasional rather than constant. You should have a residual sense of a slight pain that is healing, not of a deep wound that won’t. And if you are feeling either marginalized or depressed often, you are not getting support. Support can sting now and then, but not all the time.  Support lifts you up, even the tough kind.

This doesn’t mean your group is populated with demons and evil doers. It doesn’t mean your mom was right and everyone is jealous of you. It means you’ve either outgrown this collection of individuals and their methods, or were never a good fit to start with.

Wish everyone well, keep in touch with those who were helpful, and GET THE HELL OUT. Anything that is taking time away from your efforts, does not promote or encourage them, and weighs them down in negatives without any positive solutions, is poison.

I Can't Make These Doodz Up

Yeah, I know I'm a writer and all but I can't make my friends up. Nobody would believe me. For instance, the group of whackjobs with whom I roamed during my (cough) formative years were known as THE BEACH RATS (some of them seen at left in warmer times). It was a crew, a clique, and a band... not necessarily in that order. This past week one of our fringe-crew showed up in town and we crashed at my BFF Roxy's house... later we re-crashed at my XBF and other BFF's house.

Rob Dossier is known to his friends as DOZER. Rob should not be confused with Arthur Dodd, whom I christened The Artful Dodger, or DODGER, for short. Dodger and Dozer never played music with us, but then again... calling it music was pretty expansively generous.

While we were sitting around being obnoxious at one another I got questioned by Petie, BFF, about the progress of my current WIP. This led to questions about the subject matter.

"What's the book about?"

"Well... it's a romantic-comedy-space-opera. It's about a bunch of hippies at Woodstock who get high and have sex with aliens, who impregnate them to save their infertile race. Years later a space cowbody named Chance, who flies a ship called The Ponderosa, comes back to earth to claim one of the hybrid offspring and take her back to his planet to help rejuvenate the population... only there's weird stuff going on and..." And then I blushed. "Um, it's kind of weird, but when you're actually reading it, it's funny and entertaining. Also it has homicidal kitties."

Now, with any other crew I'd get serious crickets chirping here. My gang? All sitting forward on the edges of couches, chairs, and patches of floor. (OK, leaning forward on patches of floor, since the edges would not be in the same places as their butts.)

"Really?" Dozer, gawd love him, looked genuninely curious.

"Yeah, I was going great guns but with everything going on right now I've slowed down. Plus I hit a wall with a mess of social issues that want to be in it."

Again, anywhere else on the planet, the subject would have changed already.

"What kind of issues?" asked my ex boyfriend and current great friend, Timmy.

"Well... the moral questions surrounding the idea of disposable life. The idea that all life is sacred and worthy, and the idea that seeking perfection in a race of human beings will lead to dystopia and injustice, because every living thing deserves respect, praise, love. Which sounds like it won't be funny, but it stays funny." I squirm.

"Well, yeah," says Dodger, "what with the homicidal kitties. That's gonna be funny no matter what, right?"

And I could cry. Because yeah... exactly... and omg does it feel good to know I have a room full of people NOT changing the subject, NOT thinking I'm an idiot, and asking because so-help-me-gawd... they actually want to know.

Good times... good times.