Sunday Night, Love Night

So this is a post about coping with anxiety, a topic more and more prominent in my counseling work than ever, thanks largely to the lunacy of what is going on in this country.

And the fears, based on clear direction in the first month of the new regime, that hallmarks of our democracy that have stood since the 18th century, as well as financial systems that people have paid into and depend upon (Medicare, Social Security) are in jeopardy.

But first, let me share a relevant personal story.

My father never drove. Born and raised in New York City, where he lived all of his 62 years, he never saw the need.

When my parents moved to Queens and started a family, my mother learned to drive and became the family chauffeur until, as each of us aged (me to 18), we were begrudgingly permitted to take driving lessons. It would be even more years til Mom even more begrudgingly actually permitted us to use the car once we had our licenses.

But for a five-year period beginning when I was perhaps 6 until my older sister, Andrea, aged out of being part of family outings, we’d often pile into the old green 1956 Chevy 210 four-door sedan on Sundays, my father’s day off. (As an aside, we had that Chevy until 1974, which doesn’t seem an eternity now but back then, trust me, it was embarrassing to be seen in an old warhorse in the late 1960s and 1970s).

In the summers, we’d be returning in the Chevy from the “beach club,” something of a misnomer, as in New York City, these clubs were basically a couple of swimming pools, tennis courts, basketball courts and a cafeteria plopped into a concrete setting with little sign of “beach,” much less sand or ocean. In other seasons, we’d be coming back to our apartment building from Long Island, where we’d seen relatives or just taken a drive on one of the parkways and stopped at a Wetson’s.

The fun began upon arriving back in our central Queens neighborhood, Jackson Heights, where Sunday evenings were one of the alternate side of the street parking nights. In other words, vehicles could only be parked on one side to allow street cleaning crews to take care of the other side.

Parking spaces on the correct side of the street were treasured, and by 5 p.m. on a Sunday night, were few and far between. So far between that we often had to park blocks away from our apartment building. But til we actually found a spot? The rub was the driving, around and around and around, block after block after block.

The more the driving, the more heated it became inside the Chevy. Mom drove and my sister, Andrea, rode shotgun. This was partly by virtue of her seniority, but also because of the near-constant spats between she and my middle sister, Meryl, and my father’s Solomon-like wisdom to keep them separated. Meryl, sat behind Andrea, I sat behind Mom, and Dad, bless him, willingly took the lumpy rear middle seat.

Where my sisters were typically antagonists, where I was sometimes a bystander and as I got older sometimes an instigator, and where Mom was the feared disciplinarian, Dad was the peacemaker.

He became the person to soothe our cranky selves as we tried to tell Mom which street to try or to turn the other direction, and Mom would snap back, “mind your own business.”

What I remember most was Dad’s way of finding his own phrases for anything. The beach club, called Jackson Heights Country Club, or JHCC, became, to my father, “the lub (yes, he left the ‘c’ off).” Returning home meant heading back to “the ol’ stomping ground (yes, he left the ‘d’ off).” And the drive itself?

Well, on Sunday nights in particular, the hardest night to ever find parking, that became “Sunday night, love night.” I throw a comma in there because it makes sense, but to be honest, he didn’t say it that way. It was one quick expression: “OK, now, let’s remember, ‘Sunday night love night.’”

All these years later, I’m pretty sure “Sunday night, love night” didn’t eliminate bickering in our car. But it definitely helped to hear my father’s voice. It soothed us. I believe everyone in that car took time when hearing Dad’s reminder to think about how, as individuals, we could do our part to maintain peace.

In recent weeks in my counseling practice, I’ve had many clients share their fears for the future, for their children, for the way certain people and programs that help people are being targeted in the new administration similar to the ways Jews were targeted by Hitler in the 1930s.

I talk with clients about practices to soothe themselves when they feel anxiety present in their bodies, an early warning sign of the brain’s amygdala going into fight-flight-freeze mode. I talk about practices such as box breathing, a method of regulating your breathing that allows the prefrontal cortex, the thinking part of the brain, to remain engaged rather than be usurped by the amygdala. I share other techniques, such as using music, exercise or creative brain endeavors to similarly keep the amygdala at bay.

Many of us—and I would venture the majority of us in this country—want nothing of what either political party is selling right now. I’d like to believe we don’t want to see bullying of anyone, and that the majority of Americans believe in the golden rule.

Individually, we can’t do anything that specific to stop what is going on in government. At least, that’s what creates the despair I often hear in clients. Once we calm the brain, however, we can dial in to what is in our power.

I’d like to think we can hear that inner voice of my father. If we treat each day as “Sunday night, love night,” we can find ways to both soothe ourselves and act in ways that that bring us peace. For those opposed to what’s going on in Washington (and being carried out across the country), we can, for example, find ways to contribute to the many organizations that are fighting oppression.

I’m talking about volunteering for groups that deliver goods to people too scared to leave their homes or to food pantries helping sustain people cut off from assistance they’ve seen slashed. I’m talking about calling legislators to voice opposition to changes you find loathsome (again and again, by the way; multiple calls make an impact). I’m talking about, for those who can afford it, donating to causes that are making a difference.

All of those ideas, I’d like to believe, fall under the “Sunday night, love night” umbrella.

When you feel your anxiety rising, first soothe yourself. Then find the “Sunday night, love night” method that works for you to offset those feelings of helplessness. My father’s been gone for nearly 43 years, but I’m so grateful he has left me a useful tool in difficult times.