The High Holidays have always had a special meaning for me. More than academic semesters or calendar years, the Jewish calendar corresponds with my growth as a Jewish woman and as a growing, changing, learning, and recovering individual.
At the beginning of the academic semester, I set my goals for my grades and study habits. At the beginning of the calendar year, I set my new year's resolutions to exercise more, or to clean my room. Since Jews don't believe in Hell, I'll paraphrase: the road to a messy mind and a struggling brain is paved with good intentions.
In 2013, the Jewish year of 5774, I began a tradition that I have been keeping to this day. A tradition that has had profound, life changing effects on myself, my community, and how I interact with the world. At the beginning of the new Jewish year, I set an intention. A habit, it often is, to define how I will live the following year. What kind of mindset do I want to approach the year with? Through what lens will I see my goals, my values, and my future?
Yom Kippur 2011 (5772): I was a mess. I was a zombie. I was in the middle of a misdiagnosis that would not be corrected for another year. I was sleeping for 12-16 hours out of the day. My medications could barely fit in one hand. My voice was slurred. My hands were shaking. I was working twice as hard and getting half as much done. I was depressed. I thought I had Bipolar disorder. I thought I was crazy. I didn't know why I was living. I had no idea who I was, where I was going, or what I was supposed to do now.
That year, I began writing with a growing passion, using the pen to release my pain onto paper. I threw myself into spirituality, then I yanked myself back. G-d either was there for me in some mysterious way, or he was nowhere to be found. I wrote a prayer asking G-d to help me find peace, to find breath as I felt I was drowning.
I had a lot of support, but only from those who would love me unconditionally-- my parents, my grandparents, my sister. I didn't really have friends, though, to be fair, I'm not sure if I really could've handled any speck of a social life. We hid this diagnosis from most people. I was managing, sure. But I was managing in the way the Jews managed in the desert for 40 years. It was just a lot of empty space, a lot of nothingness and unknown territory, with no landmarks and no end in sight. Just one foot after the other, day after day after day.
Yom Kippur 2012 (5773): Our Rabbis, Michael Lezak and Noa Kushner, were part of that unconditional circle of love and support. The kind of people I knew would love me, who could see my sparkle. I used to be the kind of girl who was covered in glitter, happy and bubbly with stories to tell and hugs to give. Now I was struggling to find even a glimmer of hope, any kind of reminder of the soul I hoped I still had in me.
The Lezak girls looked up to me, even in my darkest moments. I put on a brave face for them. I'm sure they knew I was going through something, but they didn't let that hinder their laughter or hugs. I'm sure they saw how Rebecca was always in her room, how Rebecca's stories were less illustrative, how Rebecca looked down at the ground more than up at the sky. But they didn't say anything. They looked up to me as much as ever before, still listening intently to my "Silly Shark Stories" and giving me their favorite stickers when I came over on Shabbat afternoon. Maybe ignorance is bliss. Or maybe, their young minds didn't care that I was a hollow shell of who I used to be. I was still Rebecca, and they idolized Rebecca unconditionally.
I showed Rabbi Lezak this poem I had wrote, the one where I asked G-d to build me a boat, to bring me out of the drowning waters and stormy seas of darkness. He was writing a sermon on mental illness for Yom Kippur. He asked if he could read part of it, anonymously of course. I said, sure.
I spent most of High Holiday services curled up in my parents' car, in the parking lot of the synagogue. I slept. I cried a little. I prayed to G-d. I cursed G-d. I slept more. My dad would call me inside every once in a while, to hear the Torah reading or the Rabbi's sermon. Rabbi Lezak gave a great sermon-- I remember that, at least. And he did read my poem, every word of it. He emphasized words and phrases that I had scribbled out without care or thought. I couldn't tell if I was embarrassed or proud. Both, maybe. Or neither. I didn't feel much of anything then.
Jewish Year, 5773: I got a third, or fourth, or fifth opinion at UCLA medical mood disorder clinic. I had been shoved around so many doctors I could no longer keep track. I was in an alternative schooling program due to my inability to function in a regular academic setting. I spent three days with my parents, then with some psychiatrists, then with more doctors, then all together. We spent a week in Los Angeles. My mom's parents, my Nonny and Poppy, had advocated for going to this center at UCLA, so we stayed with them that week.
My brain was still really fuzzy. My voice was slurred. My limbs shook from side effects, almost in a Parkinson's like fashion. I had gained a lot of weight, I was constantly hungry, and my focus-- my ability to stay awake, even-- was severely compromised. This made those three days of questions and evaluations and checklists all the most difficult.
I was a complete zombie at this point. I couldn't do much intellectual work at all-- even writing stories and poems was becoming more difficult for my foggy mind. During the days I sat through hours of doctors and psychologists questions, and at night I curled up with my mom and blankly watched Netflix.
The final day came, and the doctors sat my parents and me down in a small room with only a couple chairs. I was slumped in one of them, barely able to hold up my own body weight. The doctors said some things we already knew-- I didn't have schizophrenia, I probably had anxiety, I definitely had periods of depression. What they couldn't find, however, was clear and profound examples of manic periods. Sure, there were nights I couldn't sleep and thought I heard monsters. But in the five years I had this diagnosis, there was maybe one example that the UCLA medical team could point out as an example of mania. With this, they suggested I taper off the anti-psychotics, and begin to treat my depression. They called it "Bipolar Tentative" which meant, for the first time, I was no longer chained to a label of massive disorder. Sure, we would keep an eye on me. See if symptoms showed up. But all in all, it looked really really hopeful.
Hannukah, 5773: My grandma, Nonny, cried as she repeated again and again, that I was her Hannukah miracle. That her birthday wish (her birthday is in November) every single year, had been for me to recover, and to heal. The medication withdrawal process was stressful and long, but it was miles away from the kind of stress I had while managing and shifting around the anti-psychotics.
Yom Kippur, 2013 (5774): Noa Kushner formally invited me to speak in front of her congregation, to tell my story of recovery and strength and triumph over all odds. I agreed, petrified as I was. I told my story for the first time. I received massive support from my community. And thus began an annual tradition of New Year's Resolutions to better myself.
Jewish Year, 5774: After my Yom Kippur Drash about rising above mental illness, I decided to set an intention for the new Year to be authentic and honest about myself, my struggles, and my story. That year, I asked my community to start calling me Rivi, as a representation of the change that had occurred. I was a different person, and I was not hiding my struggles any longer.
Jewish Year, 5775: My first year of college. My intention for this year was to "not let compliments go unsaid". It seemed like just a small habit, but the intentional act of noticing and complimenting is a change in itself. I began to look for the good in the world and in people.
Around the high holiday season, I learned that some good family friends, Benjamin and Joesph, were looking to adopt a baby and start a family. I attended their wedding a few years before, and I was blown away by their commitment and love to each other and to their future together. The wedding took place before DOMA was officially overturned, so I'm sure they were dealing with legal struggles on top of everything else standing in their way. And yet, on that summer day by the beach, staring at the happy couple as they read their vows, I saw something truly beautiful.
I had written a poem about beauty and love later that summer, when I went to a two week writing camp at UC Berkeley. I had been thinking about that wedding, and the beauty of love, so I worked on a short poem. And for two or three years, I hadn't said anything. I don't know why, maybe I was embarrassed. I wasn't even sure if they would care. But I knew I had that intention for the new year, so I wrote to Benjamin. I told him how happy I was that he and Joe were starting a family. I bashfully admitted the poem I wrote, and how beautiful and pure I saw their love as on that summer day.
The response I received was life changing. They were both moved to tears, thanking me again and again for reaching out and not letting that go unsaid. And through the following year, I chatted with Benjamin on occasion, letting him know I was wishing the best for him and Joe and their future, and how blessed I felt to see his gratitude.
Jewish Year, 5776: This year, inspired by Rent ("No Day But Today"), I decided to make my intention for the year "no regrets". I was tired of feeling bad and angry for all those years of mental illness. I was tired at looking at the past and wondering what could've been different. Since there was nothing I could do to change that past, I decided to live my life so I could look back and know I had done all I could do in the moment.
My favorite story of this was the time my dad and I went to see my favorite comedian, John Mulaney. He used to be a writer for Saturday Night Live, and he now has two Netflix specials. I flew up for the weekend to San Francisco, and my dad and I drove over an hour to Sacramento to see the stand up show. John Mulaney is my comedy IDOL. The types of jokes he writes, working for SNL, etc.-- he was a vision of the kind of comedy writer I would dream of becoming. At the end of the show, he walked offstage and I turned to my dad and said, "I want to meet him." My dad looked at me like I was joking. "I'm going to go ask the security guard. It's a thing I'm doing-- no regrets. I'd rather feel slightly embarrassed for something I did than constantly wonder what could have been."
I pleaded with the security guard. I explained I had flown all the way up from college, and I was here with my dad, and we had driven so far, and I wanted to be just like John Mulaney when I graduated. The security guard shifted his weight a couple times, went backstage, peeked out, went back in, and then, with a smile, motioned for me to follow him.
And that was how I met John Mulaney. I got a picture prized on my facebook wall, and a conversation about comedy writing that I will never forget. All because I thought, "well, the worst he can say is no."
Today: I am not 100% sure what this year's intention will be. I know how far I've come. I cannot believe what a difference a year can make. I think I will aim to become a better version of myself, more productive and organized. Or maybe I will aim to work on positive thinking, and the law of attraction. As I enter these holy days, I get to consider where I have been, and really look forward to where I am going. I am beyond blessed to be alive. I am grateful. I am happy. I am here.
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A Simple Act of Gratitude Stationery Set (Thank You Notes, Correspondence Cards)
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