My Mother Issues

She sat on the end of the sofa nearest to the kitchen and I sat huddled under a blanket on the floor, right in front of the TV.  Every evening we watched Family Feud, Wheel of Fortune, and then some sit-com or other while she announced before each show that as soon as it was dark outside, we were going to bed.  It was only 6;00 pm. when this would start.  

At first I would protest it, "No! That't too early! I want to watch Dallas!"

"You don't need to be watchin' that trash. We goin' to bed soon as it's dark."

Usually we ended up watching Dallas.

But sometimes my mother's eyes would gloss over as she talked about bed time.  Her voice would grow cold and distant, the distinct little lifts and cracks of her cadence giving way to a more monotone sound as she peered up at the gun rack above my daddy's favorite chair.  

"I'm gon' go blind like my daddy did." She'd say.  "He had this ol' sugar too (Diabetes) an' it left him blind. I'm skeerd o' bein' blind." She'd say.  Then she would sit and ruminate about all the things in her life that hadn't gone well. 

Eventually she would drag my disappointments into the mix, about how this boy or that boy rejected me, about how we were too poor to get me braces and all the kids made fun of my teeth, about how I couldn't wear the stylish clothes or join the coolest clubs, etc. Things that mattered little to me in the grand scheme, but to my mother they sounded of utmost importance.

I would listen, wrapped tight in my blankets with the TV blaring at my ear, as my mother traversed into the tunnel of negative thinking.  I would watch it swirl around her and suck her in, little by little, until she would say, "I think the best thing to do is to wait until you're asleep and I'll take Daddy's gun and shoot us both." or "maybe I should just use the butcher knife and stab us both to death before Daddy gets home."

I would look at her, doe-eyed and unsure of how serious she was, before I turned around and started watching TV again.  I guess ignoring her felt safer than reacting to her insanity.

But that didn't mean that later, lying in the bed, I didn't remember her words.  Indeed, I remembered them and lay away many a night waiting for my dad to get home from working overtime on his second shift job at the factory. I listened for her footsteps, watched for her reflection in the glass of the book case outside the door of my room.  Watched her stare at me through its reflection, trying to discern without moving, whether she had a gun or  a knife in her hand as she watched me "sleep."  Many nights I fought sleep until I heard the front door open at 2 a.m. and heard my dad taking off his boots in the living room.  Once I knew he was home, I knew it was safe to sleep and sleep found me quickly.

As time went on and Dad worked later and later at night and the strange conversations happened more and more.  The threats of murder-suicide became an almost nightly theme, with my mother thinking up new and more creative ways to end me, then end herself before Dad made it home from work.  She must have thought it more merciful to kill me in my sleep, for she never acted out violently towards me when we were awake.  I never was sure though, whether she would try to kill me in my sleep.

Without having ever read a book on battered women or going to a seminar on how to escape a dangerous home situation, I, at 17 created an exit plan.  I packed a bag of clothes and put it int he back of my car.  I kept the passenger door locked, the driver door unlocked.  I kept my keys and purse right by my bedroom door (which was near the door that went straight out to the carport) and practiced my escape in my mind over and over again.  I set booby  traps in my room to wake me up should she come sneaking in in the dark with a knife or gun.  I hid a knife under my own pillow and assured myself I could fight her off and get out the door quickly enough to get away from her if I had to.

Thank goodness I never had to.

My mother never made these threats to my sisters.  I was the youngest, the only one left at home after they all married and moved away.  Then my dad took a second shift job and Mom was left lonely without his attention.  She didn't have other daughters around to fight with, argue with or say "NO" to every time they asked to go somewhere. It was just the two of us, and I always felt as if she wished I weren't there. However, if I ever asked to go to a church youth function the answer was always "NO!" Then the nightly haunting session of murder threats would commence.

One time at the lake I was playing in the sand while Daddy was out fishing in the boat. Mama was piddling around the campsite as usual.  She came down to the waterside where I sat at about 11 years old, sprawled out on the sandy beach in my swimsuit and a sand bucket, singing to myself as I built a castle..  "You know, if it waddunt fer you, your daddy'd pay me more attention. Sometimes I wish I hadn't ever had you."

I kept playing in the sand as if I didn't hear her.  As if her words didn't cut right through me and make me feel so unnecessary, unimportant, unwanted.  No, I didn't pay attention outwardly, but inside, as I built my castles I smiled, I imagined living in one..  I wondered if I was really ever meant to be, and if I was, why was I so unwanted by the very people who should love me?

"When me and your daddy divorce, who do you want to live with?"  I was expected to answer this question one morning when I was about 6 and I wasn't even sure what divorce was.

"When I'm dead, what stuff of mine do you want? Let's make a list" She'd say out of the blue.  This was years and years before her death.  She would name off her things and say who she was leaving this or that to, but she wanted me to choose what I wanted.  I never could think of anything I wanted.  I wanted a mom that loved me.  That's what I wanted.

I never told anyone about the things my mother said to me on those quiet, creepy evenings at home without Dad or witnesses.  I figured they'd never believe me anyway so why bother.  Or I thought they'd just roll their eyes and say, "That's just Mama. That's how she is." So I lived with my very real fear until I was old enough to marry and move away.

The first few years of my marriage I would startle awake in a cold sweat at night thinking I heard my mother's voice in our room.  My poor first husband had no clue about the threats I endured in that house with her all those years, but he was gracious and loving and always put his arms around me and reminded me that I was safe.  In time the nightmares faded, my mother aged, and the ravages of diabetes and dementia took over her mind in place of her personality disorders and deep depression.

She became more gracious and less angry.  She remembered less of the slights against her throughout her life and began to focus on the positives in her world a little more.  Oh, she always loved being the bearer of bad news--that never changed. But she became a hugger, an "I Love youer" and a "Wish you'd come more" kind of mom.  

The last time I saw her I sat on the arm of her new recliner and held her hand in mine.  I my heart was touched when I saw the similarities between our palms and fingers; the shape of our fingernails.  Her hands were warm and soft as I squeezed them between mine and asked her how she was. "I ain't no good at all, darlin." She said softly.

"I know." I said with tears welling in my eyes.

"How are you?" She asked. " I've been worried about you."

"Oh," I said, trying not to cry. "I'm just fine." I answered, remembering the heavy load of depression and failure that I carried on my back everywhere I went."I'm happy, Mama," I lied.

By the next morning she was gone.  Laid to rest in a casket wearing the blue dress I bought especially for the occasion. It was my last offering to her--just a little something to at least make her exit from this world more as she would have wanted it, since most of her life seemed to have been the life someone else wanted for her.

I was a burden. I was in her way, a disappointment and a drudgery to her for most of her days.  The least I could do in the end was make sure she was pretty in her casket.

And thank goodness, I wasn't in one right next to hers. Hopefully I won't need mine for some time to come.

The Quitter

I'm the quitter.

I quit trying to fix someone else.  I quit trying to love someone who doesn't know how to accept love. I quit telling myself I'm not good enough, or that my inability to connect with an Adult Child or a Personality Disordered person is my fault.

I quit believing that I have all the answers.  I quit giving so much of myself that I forget who I am.  I quit looking for the answers for everyone else instead of finding solutions for myself.  I quit internalizing the criticism, blame and shame that has piled up in my mind.  I quit avoiding my own needs and quit waiting for someone else to meet them.

I quit avoiding mirrors because I'm afraid of what will be reflected back at me when I see myself as I really am.  I quit trying to BE a mirror for other people who refuse to look at their own reflections.

I quit making excuses for the behavior of others, even though I love them and feel empathy for their pain.  Everyone has pain; we don't all choose to hurt one another because we hurt.  I quit acting out in ways that are not consistent with my character because of my own frustration and pain. I quit trying to fight fire with fire.

Instead, I hand you a bucket of water.  I give you a wet blanket, a fire extinguisher.  I sound a smoke alarm and make sure the doors are open so you can find your way out.  I let you borrow my phone so you can call the fire department; I wait for you outside where I can safely breathe while you find your way out. I quit telling myself you'll join me out here in the fresh air. I quit screaming at you to save yourself before it's too late.

I quit asking you for anything or expecting anything or hoping for anything from you.  I finally realize there's nothing there for me. Nothing you can offer me but a fully involved inferno of turmoil, shame, rage and fear and those are things I already have enough of on my own.

I finally recognize you: You are the child of neglect. the forgotten, the blamed, the invalidated.  You are the one who never saw a promise fulfilled, never knew what security was, never learned that real love isn't conditional.  You're the kid who didn't know that you could love someone and be angry at them too.  You are the kid who couldn't be a kid. You were the kid who wasn't allowed to feel, the kid who had to overlook his own inner world because of the constant threat of the outer world.


I get it. I understand why you can't trust. I understand the rules and regulations, the boundaries that are actually walls of defense, the yearning for closeness and the inner conflict that takes place when someone does manage to get a little too close.  My mind has a grasp of why you must believe the worst of everyone but my heart has trouble accepting it.  Until now, I couldn't stop blaming myself because I am so imperfect, so flawed, so inadequate. But now I know that by blaming myself, I give you weapons to use against me. I've allowed you to inflict pain upon me. I have even come back for more, time and time again.

But now I quit giving you the stick with which to chase me away.

Instead I hope you will smell the smoke and take steps to put out this fire that burns within you before there's nothing left of you anymore. I used to know you as someone else, but that person is swiftly fading away into oblivion. It's really a shame.  That person you used to be always made me smile.

I quit; but I hope.  And I wish hoping were enough but I know it is not.

Nothing I do will ever be enough.  I have to leave this to you.

So, I'm the quitter.

Granny's Tree

"I'm not even gon' put up a Christmas tree this year." She said.  "They ain't no point in all that mess."

At first I felt a little dismayed, but then I remembered, she said that every year.

Inevitably, the Christmas spirit won her over every time despite her consternation and there would be a Christmas tree of some kind tucked away in a corner of our house.  Many years it was a big bush of a cedar that my sisters and I went and chopped down, a few times a big bushy evergreen that my dad brought home from a hunting trip and in recent years, an artificial tree.  With five of us girls around, she never had to do any of the work but she secretly enjoyed the sparkly lights and ornaments with us after we strung the lights and flung the baubles on.

In the days leading up to Christmas the presents would start to pile underneath, just a few at a time after she would come home from the Dollar Store and hide away in the bedroom with wrapping paper and scissors. We were filled with anxious excitement while we waited outside the door, eager to check out the size of the packages and arrange them under the tree so we could feel them, shake them and poke them; try to figure out what surprises waited inside.

Yesterday Charlie and I went to visit with my dad for his birthday.  There was a sense of something missing, as there always is in the house now without my mother there.  The more I sat and chatted with him, the more I missed her.  I missed the way she tried to hide her child-like excitement at decorating for Christmas.  I missed her Christmas tree that she was so proud of the last few years, the little decorations she would pepper around the house, the way she would talk about "strands of lights" that didn't work.  Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore, and I found myself rummaging through the back room looking for her decorations.

I found the Christmas tree boxed up, her ornaments and lights put away in the same fashion they had always been; Thrown haphazardly in boxes and baskets and bags.  I found the lights all tangled up together in a ball and remembered that my job as a little girl was always to untangle the mess of lights my mother made when she put them away every January.  My dad watched and we talked while I put the tree together, untangled the lights and rearranged the furniture so I could put the tree where Mama always wanted it.  We found the colored sparkly lights and when I plugged them in, I could see the joy on my daddy's face. "Those are bright!" He exclaimed.  Charlie was delighted at the sparkly special effects.  My mama loved lights that did tricks.

I strung on the lights, all sparkling and colorful, but when I got to the last string, half of them didn't work.  There just weren't enough lights to make it look right, so I rummaged for more.  I found a big jumble of white lights and I was about to take the colored ones off and put the white ones on when I looked up and saw that the half-string that was dark and lifeless a few minutes before was suddenly blazing with bright beautiful light.  "Thanks, Granny" I said under my breath, and I finished the tree with her colored fancy lights.  I know she would have loved it.  She would have wanted it up, if for no other reason than to watch the fascination on the faces of all the great-grandchildren when they came to visit.  She would want my dad to have the joy of Christmas, even without her there.

My sister came in to pick up Daddy for church before I finished the work and cleaned everything up. I told him goodbye, "I love you" and promised to lock up the house for him when I left.  I rummaged until I found the tree skirt, found Granny and Papa's Christmas stockings, but decided to not put them out.  It felt too sad to hang just one.  It was too much of a reminder of her absence for my dad and for all of us.

The tree is there for her.  It is in her memory, in honor of all the Christmases she shared with us, playing Santa when we were little, buying dollar-store gifts for our kids, finding little somethings for the great-grands every year and messily wrapping them before piling them under the tree.  I loved her with every little snowman I hung on its branches, loved her as I placed the angel with crooked wings on top, loved her with one last look through the window at  the tree's twinkling lights as Charlie and I locked the door and walked away.

I hope it greeted my dad with warm memories of all the Christmases past when he walked in the door from church last night.  I hope he sat in its glow and remembered our mother with fondness, I hope he felt a little of her presence there with him the way I felt her there when I was decorating the tree.

I found a little of my mother yesterday, packed away in the back room of her house.  She comforted me with her lights and ornaments, and even with the careless way she had packed everything away from last year.  I remembered her with love and fondness for even her quirkiest of ways; but most of all I was reminded that as long as I live, she will live in me through all the little pieces of her that she gave of herself over the years.  She lives in my father, my sisters, her grandchildren.  She shines back at us from her Christmas tree, reminding us to embrace the joy of the season, even if, like her,
we are too proud to admit that the spirit seizes us like children all over again every year.

Final Rewards

His name was Harold. Born without hip joints, he had never walked. He lived in a nursing home from the time he was in his thirties.  His hair was always slicked back with grease, a few flakes of dandruff floating atop his quaff.  He wore button up shirts and grey dress-slacks every Sunday for church and when my dad picked him up in the church bus, he put his arms around Dad's neck and helped as he lifted him from his wheel chair into the front passenger seat.  I often marveled at how strong my daddy was as I watched him set Harold into place, fold up his wheelchair and heave it into the back of the bus.

As a child, I didn't think much about what my dad was doing.  I didn't think about him as a man with a family of five daughters who worked overtime every week.  I didn't consider how tired he must have been or how much extra time it took us as a family to get to church every Sunday or to get home from church after every service.  I never considered that my mother took on the extra job of getting up super early to cook breakfast for us on Sundays, get us ready for church a couple of hours earlier than all the other families, or sit on the front row of the bus instead of the passenger seat beside my dad, just so Harold could go to church too.  I never thought twice about my parents always making sure we were dressed neatly and all had our Bibles with us before we left.  Like any kid, I took it all for granted.  It was just our life and these were my parents.  I suppose that somewhere in my mind, I believed all parents were pretty much just like mine.

It really took becoming a parent myself to fully grasp all that my folks took upon themselves during those years when they were raising a family and giving back to others as much as they could.  I remember going with Dad to the nursing home on Tuesday nights, where he would play his guitar and sing, then give a short devotion for the residents.  He shook their hands and smiled, called the old ladies, "young ladies" and they were always so happy to see him.  I remember there was a mother and daughter who lived there;  the mother had no legs, and the daughter always sat beside her, holding her hand.  They were both old and as a kid I couldn't really understand how a daughter could seem the same age as her mother.  My dad encouraged us to sing with him.  We got our first experiences in front of an audience in the dining room of that little nursing home in front of little old ladies who were hard of hearing and old men who slept and snored back at us.  I like to believe we learned something valuable from those Tuesday nights.

I know I learned some important lessons about life sitting on the back row of the church bus as we picked up Harold and Mr. Corn and so many other elders from the nursing home for Sunday morning services over the years.  I learned about patience and understanding as we picked up Lonely Dolly from her house on the Mill Hill and listened as she recounted rumors and listed her complaints about living alone.  I learned about humility when we picked up Randy, a younger man who was disabled after an accident that killed his young wife.  I learned about forgiveness when we picked up a guy who later got arrested for being drunk and disorderly--then kept picking him up for church once he was out of jail again.  I learned about random acts of kindness when my dad stopped to help a stranded motorist and noticed their car was on fire before they realized it themselves.  He drove them home in the church bus after he helped them put out the fire.

My dad took his guitar to church and played along with the choir at every service.  He sang in front of the congregation with my mother and sisters, and later with me.  He attended every revival meeting, every Wednesday night prayer meeting and picked up slews of children every summer during the week of Vacation Bible School.  He taught a Sunday school class, faithfully gave his tithes went,  out of his way to help people in need,  and supported the pastor unfailingly.  During the summer he gave away food from our huge garden and fish he caught, and in the winter  he gave away venison because he usually bagged so many deer our family couldn't eat all the meat.  There were times when our own family was in need but he never stopped giving of himself in whatever way he could.  If he didn't have money or food to offer, he gave of his talents.  Giving was just part of his soul; it made him the Charles Curtis everyone knew and loved and often, took for granted.

My father gave of himself without ever considering what he might get in return.  It never entered his mind that he should get any kind of reward for his service to others, so maybe it is my error when I think of him now in his old age, struggling to drive himself to church with his memory failing and his body failing even more.  There is no church bus showing up at his door to drive him to Wednesday night prayer meeting; he tries to drive himself.  He got confused a couple of weeks ago and showed up for church at 5:30 in the evening. Church doesn't start until 7:00 pm.   He waited in the parking lot for a long time and finally decided they must have cancelled services then drove himself back home, disappointed. This has happened more than once.  He misses Sunday services a lot of times because he just can't get himself there.  Despite his many years of making sure Harold and Dolly and so many others got spiritually fed, he seems to be left alone to starve.

It's hard for me to not feel bitter.  Where is his church now that he stands in need of the very kindnesses he offered to others for so many years?  I guess this is a different era.  Maybe people don't consider the needs of others, especially the needs of elders, as much as they used to.  My father taught me to respect and nurture the elderly, but it seems that somewhere along the way, those important lessons got left behind.  Everyone seems so focused on the lives of theirs and their own that they forget to find that little shred of themselves that they can give to others.  We tend to focus on "what's in it for me" instead of  "what would be most helpful to them." I'm sure his church gives him their prayers.  I'm positive of their love for him.  I just keep wondering though, where are the hands of Christ, reaching out to serve and help?  How are they showing him their love; God's love, by merely praying and not backing up those prayers with their own actions?  How are any of us accomplishing the task of demonstrating the love of God to our fellow man?

I keep reminding myself that my father expects nothing.  He is not disappointed because he has always laid up his treasure in another place.  He never invested in the church hoping to get a return on that investment in his old age. My dad has always known his reward would come later; when he enters Heaven's gates and hears his Father say "Well done."  His reward will come when he sees Harold walking towards him with his arms outstretched, when he sees Dolly looking young and beautiful.  His reward will be all of those with whom he shared his heart in this life, sharing a beautiful eternity with him.  His  reward made even sweeter now,  by the waiting arms of my mother who will be there to welcome him Home at last.

Final Rewards

His name was Harold. Born without hip joints, he had never walked. He lived in a nursing home from the time he was in his thirties.  His hair was always slicked back with grease, a few flakes of dandruff floating atop his quaff.  He wore button up shirts and grey dress-slacks every Sunday for church and when my dad picked him up in the church bus, he put his arms around Dad's neck and helped as he lifted him from his wheel chair into the front passenger seat.  I often marveled at how strong my daddy was as I watched him set Harold into place, fold up his wheelchair and heave it into the back of the bus.

As a child, I didn't think much about what my dad was doing.  I didn't think about him as a man with a family of five daughters who worked overtime every week.  I didn't consider how tired he must have been or how much extra time it took us as a family to get to church every Sunday or to get home from church after every service.  I never considered that my mother took on the extra job of getting up super early to cook breakfast for us on Sundays, get us ready for church a couple of hours earlier than all the other families, or sit on the front row of the bus instead of the passenger seat beside my dad, just so Harold could go to church too.  I never thought twice about my parents always making sure we were dressed neatly and all had our Bibles with us before we left.  Like any kid, I took it all for granted.  It was just our life and these were my parents.  I suppose that somewhere in my mind, I believed all parents were pretty much just like mine.

It really took becoming a parent myself to fully grasp all that my folks took upon themselves during those years when they were raising a family and giving back to others as much as they could.  I remember going with Dad to the nursing home on Tuesday nights, where he would play his guitar and sing, then give a short devotion for the residents.  He shook their hands and smiled, called the old ladies, "young ladies" and they were always so happy to see him.  I remember there was a mother and daughter who lived there;  the mother had no legs, and the daughter always sat beside her, holding her hand.  They were both old and as a kid I couldn't really understand how a daughter could seem the same age as her mother.  My dad encouraged us to sing with him.  We got our first experiences in front of an audience in the dining room of that little nursing home in front of little old ladies who were hard of hearing and old men who slept and snored back at us.  I like to believe we learned something valuable from those Tuesday nights.

I know I learned some important lessons about life sitting on the back row of the church bus as we picked up Harold and Mr. Corn and so many other elders from the nursing home for Sunday morning services over the years.  I learned about patience and understanding as we picked up Lonely Dolly from her house on the Mill Hill and listened as she recounted rumors and listed her complaints about living alone.  I learned about humility when we picked up Randy, a younger man who was disabled after an accident that killed his young wife.  I learned about forgiveness when we picked up a guy who later got arrested for being drunk and disorderly--then kept picking him up for church once he was out of jail again.  I learned about random acts of kindness when my dad stopped to help a stranded motorist and noticed their car was on fire before they realized it themselves.  He drove them home in the church bus after he helped them put out the fire.

My dad took his guitar to church and played along with the choir at every service.  He sang in front of the congregation with my mother and sisters, and later with me.  He attended every revival meeting, every Wednesday night prayer meeting and picked up slews of children every summer during the week of Vacation Bible School.  He taught a Sunday school class, faithfully gave his tithes went,  out of his way to help people in need,  and supported the pastor unfailingly.  During the summer he gave away food from our huge garden and fish he caught, and in the winter  he gave away venison because he usually bagged so many deer our family couldn't eat all the meat.  There were times when our own family was in need but he never stopped giving of himself in whatever way he could.  If he didn't have money or food to offer, he gave of his talents.  Giving was just part of his soul; it made him the Charles Curtis everyone knew and loved and often, took for granted.

My father gave of himself without ever considering what he might get in return.  It never entered his mind that he should get any kind of reward for his service to others, so maybe it is my error when I think of him now in his old age, struggling to drive himself to church with his memory failing and his body failing even more.  There is no church bus showing up at his door to drive him to Wednesday night prayer meeting; he tries to drive himself.  He got confused a couple of weeks ago and showed up for church at 5:30 in the evening. Church doesn't start until 7:00 pm.   He waited in the parking lot for a long time and finally decided they must have cancelled services then drove himself back home, disappointed. This has happened more than once.  He misses Sunday services a lot of times because he just can't get himself there.  Despite his many years of making sure Harold and Dolly and so many others got spiritually fed, he seems to be left alone to starve.

It's hard for me to not feel bitter.  Where is his church now that he stands in need of the very kindnesses he offered to others for so many years?  I guess this is a different era.  Maybe people don't consider the needs of others, especially the needs of elders, as much as they used to.  My father taught me to respect and nurture the elderly, but it seems that somewhere along the way, those important lessons got left behind.  Everyone seems so focused on the lives of theirs and their own that they forget to find that little shred of themselves that they can give to others.  We tend to focus on "what's in it for me" instead of  "what would be most helpful to them." I'm sure his church gives him their prayers.  I'm positive of their love for him.  I just keep wondering though, where are the hands of Christ, reaching out to serve and help?  How are they showing him their love; God's love, by merely praying and not backing up those prayers with their own actions?  How are any of us accomplishing the task of demonstrating the love of God to our fellow man?

I keep reminding myself that my father expects nothing.  He is not disappointed because he has always laid up his treasure in another place.  He never invested in the church hoping to get a return on that investment in his old age. My dad has always known his reward would come later; when he enters Heaven's gates and hears his Father say "Well done."  His reward will come when he sees Harold walking towards him with his arms outstretched, when he sees Dolly looking young and beautiful.  His reward will be all of those with whom he shared his heart in this life, sharing a beautiful eternity with him.  His  reward made even sweeter now,  by the waiting arms of my mother who will be there to welcome him Home at last.

Being Broken

In the quiet of a chilly autumn morning I sit with myself, shouldering a burden of thoughts that seem so preposterously heavy I'm not even sure how I manage to carry them all by myself.  I wonder why I choose to carry them all by myself, instead of asking someone out there to help me bear the load.  It feels impossible though, that I could just unload some of this, hand it off to someone else and be free from it.

In all my thinking and trying to figure things out, the only truth  that keeps coming back to me is that of my own brokenness.  I broke a long time ago, when I began to realize that life never quite lives up to the expectations we set for ourselves as children.  I broke a little more when I found out that my differences--something as seemingly insignificant even as having red hair and freckles, could separate me from the love and acceptance of my peers.  With every set-back, every disappointment, every failure, brokenness replaced my image of myself until finally, I sit here on a couch in someone else's world looking at myself, the broken pieces of me all askance from my effort to hold on to parts of me that I should probably let go.

Sometimes we break in such a way that our pieces don't fit back together the same way anymore..

I feel as though my life became a competition somewhere along the way.  I wanted to prove to myself and to everyone else that my ideas about love, fairness, hope and faith could all exist in perfect harmony; I wanted them to exist without struggle, without boundary, without fear or loss. With every set-back though, I learned more and more that without struggle, without limitations, and especially without loss, the sweetest things in life become the very things we take for granted.

All those broken parts of me define me. I could strive for perfection and perhaps remain intact, never letting my human experience break through the thin shell of my outer existence, but then who would I be?  What substance would I possess?  I believe I would be an empty vessel, sealed off so tightly that no amount of love could ever make its way to my core.

  If we seal ourselves away so completely, no outpouring of love, empathy, joy or goodwill can ever reach our hearts.  We are often too afraid to open ourselves up the easy way and let love transform us. That resistance is why I sit here with these heavy thoughts and an even heavier heart, having poured out all I am trying to fill a vessel that can't even crack itself open enough to even let in a little of what I have to give. What I am will never be good enough.  I possess no perfection to offer.  I am scarred and still somewhat wounded. At times my weaknesses over take me, I hide myself away so I can hang on to parts of me that seem so necessary to keep, but only because no one offers me a safe place to surrender them.

I need no judge or jury to tell me that I am so flawed and imperfect.  I know this very well.

I seek only for the safety of acceptance as I seek to accept those around me.  I wish for the peace of resting securely in the kind of knowledge that is only known by the soul when we are made whole by the unconditional love of someone who has the courage to help us piece ourselves back together.

Yes, I am broken and my soul is poured out.  But brokenness is part of life.  It shatters our ideas of perfection and challenges us, time and time again to redefine ourselves and what gives us meaning.

I sit here in the quiet of an autumn morning on someone else's couch, listening to a little fire crackling in the heater, the rush of cars on the highway outside and the sound of my own voice telling me to let go; let the scattered remains of who I am fall where they may so God, or the Universe or whomever will, can put me back together again.  Because I am only able to make an abstract version of me, and that girl doesn't make sense to anyone.

The Big Lie

The last time I talked to my mother, I told her a lie.  I know, we all lie to our moms now and then even when we are little kids.  Nobody wants to admit they broke the ceramic owl (sorry mom) and no one is going to admit to eating the last cookie, especially if your mother is a midnight snacker  who goes looking for sweets during the night like my mom did.  But the lie I told was a different kind of lie.

When I let it slip out of my mouth with tears welling in my eyes, I told myself that I was telling that lie to protect her.  After all, I couldn't have her going to her grave believing I was anything but okay.  She was so weak, but she knew me, held my hand as I sat on the arm of the chair beside her and started telling her how all my kids were doing.  She asked about each one of them, and I assured her they were all doing well.  We talked about Hannah's job, Sylia's wedding and Charlie's new school and love of Batman.  She said she wanted to buy him more Batman stuff but couldn't find any whenever she looked for it. Then she asked me very sincerely, looking me straight in the eye with whatever strength she could muster, "How are you doing? Are you okay?"

"Yes," I said.  "I'm fine!"
She looked at me unconvinced.
"I'm happy," I said with a big smile.

I saw the concern in her face melt away as she said, "Good. I've been worried about you since you lost your house.  I'm glad you're doing alright."

"I am." I said.  And then I changed the subject to her banana pudding and the time I called her for the recipe.

I have replayed that conversation in my head a million times over the last 2 weeks.  I sent my mother out of this world believing a lie, and although I would have rather her leave this world without a worry for me, I still feel kind of guilty for lying to her.  Maybe the guilt comes from knowing that in that moment, I was lying to myself as much as I was to her.  I couldn't say out loud that I'm not happy.  If I said it out loud I would have to accept it as the truth.  Sometimes clinging to a delusion is just the only way we can cope.

I don't know whether it was wrong to lie to my mother that one last time. Part of me is relieved that I did, another part of me feels sick about it.  The only thing that's for sure, is that I can't change it now.  All I can do now is make what I said to her the truth.  I suppose that's the only way I can set the record straight with her now, and the only way I'll find peace with myself as well.

A Friend in Grief

It has been a little over a week since my mother died.  I like to use the word "died" instead of "passed away."  It seems like people are so afraid to say the words, "death" or "died" because they are heavy with the reality that life isn't permanent, they signify the end of us in some way and even those of us who believe that there is a life after this one aren't exactly comfortable with the finality of death.

Anyway, she died on October the 11th and the days following her death, with the funeral planning, spending time with my dad and sisters, the visitation and the funeral itself the whole week following her death was a blur.  For the first time in my life I found myself standing on the receiving end of that line of family and friends who came to pay their respects and show their love for us.  It was really very overwhelming to see so many faces, old and new, of people who knew my mother or who were there to show support for one of us whom they knew and loved and felt empathy for.  I saw family members I haven't seen in years, saw friends I hardly think about anymore, and was deeply moved by the friends in my life who came to hug me and tell me how sorry they were for my loss.  I never really understood the value of the visitation before the funeral until now; even my father has commented on how surprised he felt that so many people cared about him and his grief.  I left there that night feeling emotionally wrung out, physically tired and so mentally overcome that I had to drive home slowly, taking in my thoughts as they came to me, concentrating minute by minute on what was before me.

My mother wasn't the kind of person who had close relationships with anyone, including her daughters.  She wasn't the kind of mom we could call up to ask for advice or to vent our frustrations to. In fact we couldn't really talk to her at all about anyone in our lives who caused us any trouble; she was so biased towards us that if we ever once spoke ill of someone in our lives, she forever thought of them as evil.  When I was younger I saw this as a fault in my mother, but now with adult daughters of my own, even in my efforts to remain objective, I have trouble not becoming bitter and angry at anyone who has done wrong by my children.  I like to think that I learned from my mother that it isn't always the best idea to blurt out my own opinions as she did.  Even though I understand it was her love for me that got her stirred up against anyone she thought had mistreated me, I realize the distance her reactions created between us.

Having had a strained relationship with my mom for most of my life I always felt envious of my friends who had close mother-daughter bonds.  My friend Debbie, for instance, had such a bond with her mother that they almost seemed like one person at times.  Her "Mama" as she always referred to her, was often her best friend.  They shared a home together, shared worries and troubles.  They supported each other, worried about each other and both absolutely adored one another.  Debbie took on her mother's nature, always giving to others, recognizing the strengths of others and being everyone's cheerleader.  I often wished for that kind of bond with my own mother, but I knew she was just not that kind of person.  My mother was guarded, always thinking that people were not to be trusted, that most people just ended up causing her pain, so she, in a way, protected herself by not letting anyone get too close.  That wall was erected so soundly that even her children couldn't penetrate it completely.  I don't doubt that she loved us with all her heart, but she wasn't able to really express that love because she couldn't be that vulnerable.  Likewise, I believe I often shield myself from potential "danger" by holding myself back emotionally, even at times when my own emotional vulnerability could help someone else.

Whoever they are, and whatever struggles our mothers face, they teach us how to relate to the world.  My mother taught me to be careful, to hold others suspect, even after they prove they are trust worthy.  Debbie's mom taught her to look for the positives in others, to give her heart and to be a beacon of encouragement to the people she loves.

On the day my mother died, I drove home, tired and emotionally worn out.  I took a long shower and cried to myself at the thought of her languishing on her death-bed.  I hummed the tune of her favorite hymn to myself quietly, and cried even more as I let it comfort me with the assurance that the storms were over for her; that perhaps she was finally resting in that perfect love she had always craved but been too afraid to accept.  I tucked myself into bed, pulling the covers up under my chin as my mind began to race with what the next day would hold--planning the funeral.  Just as I was about to ease into my pillow and seek the comfort of sleep, my phone made that chiming sound.

I had been texting with my friend Debbie earlier in the day, letting her know that my mother had died that morning.  Her mother had been battling all week from illness and was not doing well either. This was the message she sent me just before I went to sleep:



We are two completely different women with completely different mothers, but together we grieve for what we lost when we lost them.  It's a journey that we embarked on together, without ever knowing why it happened as it did.  Their funerals were on the same day, at the same time, and although we were both experiencing our own losses, we both remembered one another as well.  Through her own suffering, my mother taught me never to forget about the suffering of others; through her own graciousness and openness, Debbie's mother taught her to never fail to think of and encourage others.  They went about it in different ways, but both of our mothers must have done a good job, because here we are, traversing the road of grief together, never once getting so lost in our own grief that we forget that we have a friend who is also hurting.

And for those lessons our mothers taught us, we must be forever grateful.  We will miss them, we will wonder what could have been different.  We will feel the loss for a long time to come, but we can both take comfort in remembering and recognizing those parts of our mothers that are now a part of us.  Mama lives on in the struggles and victories, the loves and losses we experience.  She lives on in us when we find ourselves repeating her words, cooking her food, seeing her looking back at us in the mirror as we age.  In a way, Mothers never die, as long as they leave their mark on us.  And our mothers surely did just that.

Sheltered In The Arms Of God

My mother was terrified of storms.  Any time a dark cloud would linger on the horizon and the wind would start to kick up a bit, she would warn us to all sit down and be quiet.  "It's comin' up a cloud!" She'd say, and we would usually obey her orders.  I guess you could say she instilled within us as well, her nearly irrational fear of stormy weather.

She told us stories of the devastation she had witnessed from the ravages of storms: a family member's home that was picked up and tossed about by a tornado, another relative who was struck by lightening while stirring a pot on a stove.  This was a woman whose bravery in the face of illness allowed her to care for my aunt who was dying from cancer, night after night without respite.  A woman who once fired a gun at a would-be intruder and accidentally shot a howling dog trying to scare it away.  She was fiercely protective of her children, causing a scene more than once when she felt one of her daughters had been the victim of some injustice.  She was often stubborn and ornery, determined to have her way even when the odds were against her; but something as simple as a clap of thunder could humble her in a second.

I suppose nearly everyone has some kind of irrational fear that they carry with them throughout life. For some of us its spiders or snakes or heights.  For others its public speaking or roller coasters--things that though they inspire fear in our hearts, are usually quite avoidable.  But storms are something over which we have no control.  Perhaps that lack of control was what my mother found so incredibly frightening about strong wind, heavy rain and angry lightening licking the ground with abandon all around her.  There was no way to stop it, no way to slow it down or change its direction.  Storms were something over which she was powerless, something that made her have to rely on nothing more than her faith in God until the winds calmed and the thunder faded into the distance.

She taught us as children, to sit quietly in reverence to the power of a storm.  It just seemed like tempting God to her if we carried on with business as usual while the weather raged all around us.  It gave her some strange sense of peace I think, to stop the chatter, the playful running around, the chores as usual to just sit and listen as the awesome power of nature drew near, lingered for a while and then began to drift away, moving on to its new destination, leaving us in peace to resume our day with a renewed sense of gratefulness for having survived the turmoil.

My mother was no stranger to the storms of life.  She weathered many that came to her in the form of physical challenges, heartbreak and disappointment.  She suffered with pain in her body for years, day in and day out, seeking relief from it, but never quite finding it.  She suffered the loss of her parents, her friends and even a pregnancy.  She stood strong as a rock for my father as he suffered through painful illnesses, the losses of his own parents and some friends.  She knew the uncertainty of need as my parents struggled to financially provide for 5 daughters and give us all we needed to be healthy and happy.  She helped her daughters find strength to weather their own tribulations and experienced our heartbreaks and struggles as acutely as we  felt them ourselves.

So it is no wonder to me that my mother found great comfort in the song "Sheltered in The Arms of God."  Ever since I got the call this morning that my mother had taken her last breath with my father by her side, the words of that old hymn have been playing in my head.  I've even found myself humming it quietly to myself a few times--feeling the same kind of comfort it must have given her over the years.  On Tuesday my nieces will sing it at her funeral, a reminder to all of us that she is finally in a place where storms can no longer threaten her peace of mind.  She is tucked securely into the shelter of God's arms, where no matter how high the storms may rage, she will never be afraid again.

In memory of my mother, here are the lyrics to that sweet song:

I feel the touch of hands so kind and gentle,
They're leading me in paths that I must trod;
I have no fear when Jesus walks beside me,
For I'm sheltered in the arms of God.

So let the storms rage high, the dark clouds rise,
They won't worry me for I'm sheltered safe within the arms of God;
He walks with me and naught of Earth can harm me,
Sheltered safe within the arms of God.

Soon I shall hear the call from Heaven's portals,
Come home my child, it's the last mile you must trod;
I'll fall asleep and wake in God's new Heaven,
Sheltered safe within the arms of God.

So let the storms rage high, the dark clouds rise,
They won't worry me for I'm sheltered safe within the arms of God;
He walks with me and naught of Earth can harm me,
Sheltered safe within the arms of God.

Sheltered safe within the arms of God!

Back Freckle

I was born with a heart-shaped vascular birthmark on my back.  When I was a kid my parents taught me to believe it was special. I remember not really understanding what they were talking about when they would carry on about my heart shaped birthmark. Of course when I got a little older and figured out how to use two mirrors to see my back, I examined the little red splotch thoroughly. It didn't look like a heart to me but I was never bothered by it.

Nearly every summer some kid at the lake or the pool would, in a panic, tell me my back was bleeding. I never blinked though, before I just explained to them that it was a birthmark.  

I have friends who refer to it (and to me) simply as Back Freckle, which I find funny and a pretty creative description of my red splotch. It's just one of those things that has always , literally, followed me around.  I've known people who rubbed it for luck, men who wanted to write their names on it (because of the heart-shaped thing that I still don't see) and people who have tried to persuade me to have it removed because of cancer risks they think are associated with it.

A few years ago I went to my doctor and asked about having it removed.  His answer was "absolutely not."  He said it was a harmless bundle of blood vessels that just happened to form above the skin and there was no need to remove it. So, I left it there.

For most of my adult life I've tried to keep it covered, but in recent years I've relaxed a bit more. I wear lower backed blouses and tank tops without even thinking about the lowly back freckle.  Maybe I've let down my guard a bit too much though, because I think I crossed a boundary of some sort the other day when I asked a close friend to put lotion on my back. 

Not everyone is cool with ol' back freckle. In fact it apparently grosses some folks out pretty bad, which is something I never really considered.  But isn't it just like life to let you live for so many years without even realizing that the rest of the world is disgusted by some small physical flaw you have that you've never even thought twice about?

Point is, now I know that my birthmark is indeed, gross.  And that makes me wonder what else there is about me that makes other people want to lose their lunch.  My skin? My hair? My squishy body? For sure the tube in my belly, right? And maybe my ugly teeth...

The worst things about me I think are hidden away, but maybe they're more obvious than I think, and maybe I expect too much when I believe that anyone else could ever accept and embrace me for who I am.  Especially when it's very likely that I'm not even close to being the okay kind of person I think I am.

Change

Change sucks.  Not to be Ms. Negativity or anything, I'm just admitting that change isn't easy and that when I get myself into difficult situations that involve strenuous effort to adapt, I often want to shut down.  Seriously, I'm like a generator that's running out of gas. I feel a cough and a sputter coming on, and pretty soon I'm going to be empty.  Out of fuel. Shut down completely. 

Change is a whole lot tougher when, for all the effort you're giving it, someone keeps reminding you of just how inadequate and sucky you really are at life.  It isn't as if I think I'm good at life in the first place. I know I'm not and there aren't enough "hacks" out there to save me.  I make stupid decisions. I'm a poor judge of character. I trust people I shouldn't trust and I put up with way more bullshit from bullshitters than anyone should ever tolerate. I honestly hope that my hopefulness will someday pay off, but let's be real.  I'm just kidding myself.

So, I'm working on this adjustment thing. Adjusting to living in someone else's house with their rules and pet peeves (which are endless) and trying my best to he gracious and tiptoe around so as not to disrupt the stays quo.  The last thing would ever want to do is make someone I love miserable, but that seems to be exactly what I'm doing. Just by existing, being a mom, having a kid who acts like a kid...and even though I want to make this adjustment and make the most if my situation, I fear I am in a no-win scenario. No matter how much I change and adapt, I'm never going to be adequate. 

A lot of folks love me just the way I am, so I know I can't be as awful as I often feel lately.  Still, it's tough to not internalize the sarcasm and constant criticism that I hear daily. I know the issues aren't all mine, but I'm all too willing to take them on. Another way that I'm bad at life, I suppose.

All I seem to be able to hear are echoes from the past.  Voices of men who tell me I'm not sexy enough. I'm not smart enough.  I'm not educated enough, not disciplined enough, not seductive, not pretty, not healthy enough...it's as if my effort to adapt and overcome is worthless. Is there no merit in simply refusing to give up?  

I mean really, who else do I know who would take on a hike in the dark with a still-healing broken leg, a belly full of dialysate (fluid, a liter to be exact) an 8 year old and a dog. All of this with a healthy as a horse former marine who walks like he's going to put out a fire everywhere he goes.  Is it for nothing that I'm determined enough to keep putting one foot in front of another and push my body past it's comfort zone?  Does that not say to anyone that I'm not a quitter? 

Would it even matter if I were a quitter? 

I just don't know anymore, and like I said, I'm running out of energy. I'm not sure how much longer I can even give a damn, when giving a damn seems to not matter anyway.  You can care all you want, try as hard as you can, you can even improve yourself, but you can't make someone accept you for who you are. And who you are, it turns out, is really the only thing that counts when it comes to life.  So maybe the only thing I can do is find the people who are able to accept me and love me despite my foibles and cling to those people for the rest of my days.  It's probably the only way I'll ever feel like I'm enough.

To My Children

When you are constantly faced by your own mortality you start to see the world differently.  You find yourself thinking about things that, for many people, never even enter the mind.  Like, "if I up and die in my sleep tonight, will my kids ever really know what they mean to me?" It was that very thought, in the wee hours of the night a few months ago, that urged me to get out my phone and type a message to them in my "notes" app.  I ran across it this morning and decided I should probably post it somewhere, because if I up and did in my sleep tonight, how will they ever see it if it stays in my phone? 

So here it is. 

To my children:

You are the reason I was born.

You're the reason I breathe, and from the day I held my first baby in my arms, my life had more meaning than I ever thought possible.

You taught me how to love.

You gave me the courage to open my heart, despite my fear that one day, you would end up hating me and breaking it.

You exceeded every expectation I had about raising children. 

You filled my life with laughter.

You taught me patience and determination.

You showed me the power of unconditional love. 

You taught me about God's love for me.

You showed me kindness with your crayons.

You gave me flowers to remind me that life is a beautiful gift.

You saved the prettiest rocks you found for me, because you thought I was so special. 

You snuggled up in bed with me to watch our special show every night.

You trusted me to be your referee, your hair stylist, your therapist, the villain to your super-hero. You came looking for me randomly throughout the day just to give me hugs. You told me you loved me just out of the blue.  You made even my worst days bearable.

You wanted my approval when you learned to ride your bike, when you played that one song you knew on your violin, when you climbed all the way to the top of the monkey bars by yourself.

I was important to you.

You were my reason for existing. You were my treasure. My joy. My heartache and the reason for many sleepless nights.

You tested my character with temper tantrums, with defiance, with your messy room.  You asked me the toughest questions and expected honest answers. You kept me on my toes.

Your hugs were little bits of sunshine, warming me from the inside out.

Wherever I went, whatever I did, you were always at the front of my mind. 

 

You hated it when I sang. You got embarrassed when I made a fuss over you in public. But you loved to giggle when I praised you for being able to put your pants on while standing on a giant marshmallow. We talked about our favorite super heroes, but I never told you my favorite hero was YOU.

You asked me where babies come from, and hotly debated the value of homework with me until 4th grade. You asked me for breakbast, and cried for me whenever I was out of your sight. You got angry when I said you were "little" and you sang to me from the backseat of the car all the time. We had "grown up" conversations almost from the time you said your first words, and you told me I was cool.

Your bright red hair was like a beacon. No matter how much you got passed around, I could always find your sweet, pudgy baby face in a crowd.  You loved baby dolls and Barbie dolls and playing dress up. You always said you were "mommy's girl" and had to sit by me wherever we went.  You let me braid your hair and call you silly names. You saved rocks for me, and brought me wild flowers from the yard. Crumbs followed you everywhere you went.  You told me I was your favorite person in the world! 

You trusted me with your secrets, your fears, your dreams.  You loved adventuring with me all day in the car.  You made me giant birthday cards and loved our picnic days.  You let me know when I let you down, but you always forgave me. You tried me over and over again to make sure I would always love you no matter what...

And I have always loved you insanely.  I've loved you unreasonably. I've loved you endlessly.  My love for you has exponentially layered itself over my heart, cushioning my spirit against every blow that tried to crush me and bring me to my knees.  You made me brave. You made me strong.  You made me into a woman.  You took away my childish narcissism, and made me learn to live outside myself.  You taught me what life is really all about, you gave me purpose.

You are the reason I exist. You are my gift to the world.  You will live on after me, and you will continue to bring meaning to every other life you touch.  You will live with abandon, you will learn from your mistakes, you will reach out to the underdog, because from the time you were in kindergarten, we have talked about the virtue if kindness.  You will be there for one another...the guru, fashion police, career counselor, homework helper, comic book convention partner.  You will invest in each other that part of me I leave behind in each of you, and you will bring meaning to the word "family."  

You are my heart and soul.  You are what my life was all about. You are the legacy I will leave behind. My life's work. My biggest success. My greatest reward.  You were the picture of God's grace towards me, for I could never have done anything to deserve such pure, trusting determined spirits giving me purpose and filling my heart with the kind of love I still struggle to explain. 

Believe in yourselves as I believe in you. Love one another as I have loved you. Forgive one another. Encourage one another. Protect each other, take care of each other.  Keep my love in your hearts always, and let me live on in the love you give away. 

Remember me with laughter. Cry a few tears if you must. We will miss each other so much, but we have hope.  And you always have me.  I will always be there. I'm part of who you are. Someday, you'll hear me in your own voice and know this is all true. 

Your mommy will live on forever in the things you do. 

I love you bunches and bunches.

Mom

The Toothache, The Mud Puddle and The Truth

Jon Brown was my first professor of Social Work.  He was a short man with thin white hair that neatly framed his round face so perfectly that he could have easily been a news anchor.  Instead, he stood humbly in front of our tiny classroom and talked about things like toothaches.

"When you have a toothache," he explained, "It's difficult to really care about someone else's toothache."

It's a metaphor that has stuck with me through the years.  It is one that I often have to remind myself of when, on days like today, I am struggling to find that place of empathy that I need to be in.  I'm overwhelmed with my own troubles and even though I know others around me are struggling too, I can't seem to really identify with them.

I feel out of place.  I've never been very comfortable with life when seemingly everything is in limbo.  Now though, everything is so unsettled that the word "limbo" falls far too short in describing the level of discord that I find swirling around me.  I wake up every morning in a bed that isn't mine beside a man who seems bewildered by the fact that I'm there.  What clothes I have with me are in a pile on top of a dresser in my son's room--or what we call his room for now.  I take a shower and carefully mark every movement I make to be sure that every item I use gets put back in exactly the same spot it came from.  I keep my cosmetics in a bag that I try to hide away in a cabinet when I'm done with them; it seems as though keeping myself as inconspicuous as possible has become my number one goal lately.  I try to be as invisible as possible, and yet I still end up feeling intrusive.  I've never felt so sick over a dish being left in the sink, or about using too many towels or wearing too many shirts in one week.  I try so hard to keep everything exactly as it would be if I weren't even there, but the reality is, I am there and it's nigh unto impossible to hide myself away so completely that there isn't a sign of my existence anywhere, even when I'm away.  I find a necklace of mine lying on the bathroom sink and I scold myself for not hiding it away with my other things.  I realize I've been leaving my toothbrush out--I hadn't meant to do that.  I try so hard to not leave my things in sight, but inevitably I forget something, and there I am, glaring up at him from the coffee table in the form of a pen or a hair clip or a scribbled note.

I suppose it would be easy to mistake my inner turmoil for a lack of gratefulness, but that isn't it at all.  If anything, it's my gratitude that seems to be holing me hostage.  After so many years of opening my door, my heart and my home to other people, I'm finding myself on the other side of the fence and I'm really not sure what to make of it. On a certain level I feel like a pathetic loser--someone who couldn't even manage the very basic task of keeping a stable roof over her head.  On the other hand, I feel so cared for.  It's hard for me to accept such a conflicting view of myself, but I am both these things and lately, nothing more.

I guess I'm in what Jon Brown would have called "The Mud Puddle."  It's when you find yourself at a low place in life and instead of just jumping up and brushing yourself off, you feel the  need to just sit there a while in the mud getting thoroughly marred up in it until you can't even see where you end and the puddle begins.  I wish I could be invisibly camouflaged in my puddle of failure and confusion, but no matter how hard I try to disappear, I keep getting found out.

The truth is, change is hard for everyone.  I know my son is struggling with the newness in our world.  I know my presence and his presence have created an upheaval around the house where once a man and a dog peacefully co-existed in their perfect little world together.  In my head I know that I'm not the only one who is feeling the challenge of adapting to change, but it isn't always easy to look past my own struggle and appreciate the struggles of those I love.

The truth, is that change is never easy.  Loss is never simple, and learning to be at peace with a world that seems to not want you in it can feel damn near impossible.  The truth is that accepting your inadequacies, realizing that your presence doesn't necessarily make anyone's life particularly better, learning that dutiful friendship often trumps true affection and incorporating all those harsh realities into who you're becoming is discouraging, daunting and truly overwhelming at times.

The truth is, toothaches and mud puddles are not very helpful in the process of moving forward; but they sure do seem like convenient explanations when you can't figure out what to do or how to feel or where to go next.

The truth:  I don't really belong anywhere and until I do, I'm afraid I'm never going to find that feeling of home again.

In The News

Once in a while I get the urge to rant a little about stuff I keep reading in the news.  Lately a few scenarios concerning parents and children seem to keep replaying themselves in the headlines.  First of all, the seemingly more common phenomenon of parents who "forget" they have a kid in the back seat of their cars and go in to work all day without ever having that "oh crap!" moment of realizing they forgot to drop the little one off at daycare.  Secondly, the ever-growing problem of DSS (and other similar agencies in other states) overstepping their bounds in some cases while completely dropping the ball in others.  It seems to me that in both cases, most people are quick to find a stance, either condemning or defending the actions of the parents involved.  The problem that I see in the responses of most folks is their lack of consideration for the reasons behind the actions of parents, which in nearly every case are different.  We can't really come to solid conclusions on whether or not a parent was neglectful unless we know the motivation behind their actions in every circumstance.

Everyone knows the story of Justin Harris, the Georgia dad who left his son Cooper in his hot car all day while he worked and everyone remembers the first time a story like this hit the headlines a few years ago.  On some level, every parent can identify with this happening.  We all know how hectic the our mornings can get and how easy it is to operate on auto-pilot sometimes.  Some would even argue that the simple change in routine, from mom dropping the baby off at daycare, to dad dropping the baby off just that one time, is enough to throw a parent off track.  We have all driven down the road with our minds somewhere else while a little one sleeps, oblivious to our worries, in the back seat.  I remember after I had Charlie, it had been so long since we had a baby around that I actually dropped off my two daughters a couple of mornings and headed to work without dropping the him off with the sitter.  I didn't get far though, before a thought of my sweet baby popped into my head and I turned back towards Maria's house to drop him off.  So, yeah, I can sympathize with a parent who drives all the way to work with a baby in the back seat.  I can even understand up to the point that mom or dad gets out of the car and starts to walk in to the building.  What I don't get, is how anyone can go for 8 hours or more without remembering their kid is still sitting in the car.  In Justin Harris' case, we can be pretty sure Cooper wasn't exactly forgotten.  His dad went to the car at lunchtime to leave something in the seat.  How would he not have noticed the baby then?  Harris seems to be a father who was feeling trapped in his marriage, sexting other women all day while his wife worked and his little boy died a torturous death just outside his office in the family car.

What the hell is wrong with our country when we are so stressed, over-stimulated and distracted that some parents legitimately FORGET they have kids in the car with them and work all day without ever remembering that they didn't drop off the baby at daycare?   Is technology to blame?  Are we so busy texting, checking Facebook, Tweeting and returning phone calls that we have forgotten what is really important?  Are our jobs so stressful and all-consuming that for the whole 8 hours we are at work every day, we don't have a second to think of anything else?  The nation has so identified with these parents that our outpouring of sympathy and support for them has seemingly lead to a whole other group of people who decide, for whatever reason, they need to get rid of their child and that leaving them in a hot car is the best way to go about the task.  They see other parents getting support from the public and getting little to no legal consequences, so why wouldn't they think the hot car method is a good idea?

Last week there was a local story about a man who left his infant in the car at a Goodwill here in Greenville.  He apparently went back to his car after going into the store and tried to pretend the baby was missing, but a Goodwill employee heard the baby crying from inside the car and called the dad on his BS.  The dad handed the hot, sweaty vomit-covered baby to the Goodwill employee and someone called the police.  Now it seems like we are hearing variations of this story every few days from somewhere in the country.

My point is, whether it is done on purpose or not, any parent who leaves a child in a hot car all day from this point forward needs to face some pretty stiff consequences.  Lots of parents make mistakes every day--some of them neglectful in nature.  Most, as attested by the many DSS stories in the news, get punished for those mistakes whether or not the parents had malicious intent.  I think the best way to stop the hot car deaths of children is to hold parents responsible.  Seriously, you have children now and it's your job to remember to take care of them.  What if I didn't feed my child all week because I was just so busy and distracted by life that I forgot?  I see no difference in the two scenarios.  They are both self-absorbed, neglectful behaviors that end up harming the little ones who are counting on us to care for them.  Maybe I'm being to rigid in my beliefs here, but I think it's pretty pathetic when we have to come up with inventions like a rope across the door of our cars to remind us that we have a child in the back seat when remembering our children should be first and foremost on our minds in the first place.  It's sad to me that we live in a world with such mixed up priorities and technologically distracted parents who are so stressed out by their jobs that they forget the very reason they work so hard.

In another story today I read about a Georgia mom who was arrested because she left her 9 year old daughter to play alone at a park all day while she was at work.  At face value, it looks pretty irresponsible, but the rest of the story makes it a little easier to empathize with this mom.  First of all, she works at McDonald's.  The same McDonald's that is directly in front of the park where her daughter plays.  The child said that she goes to McDonald's for lunch--the same McDonald's where her mom works.  She had previously been going to work with her mom and playing on an iPad all day, but the iPad broke and mom couldn't afford to replace it.  The kid begged mom to let her play at the park during the day instead of sitting bored out of her mind in McDonald's while her mom worked.

Maybe this mom made a poor decision, but the way I see it, more of the blame for her situation lies with McDonald's than it does with the family.  McDonald's is one of the lowest paying employers in the country, despite their massive profits and super-wealthy executives, their employers rarely make a liveable wage.  Some have cried that daycare is too expensive, that there's no excuse for leaving  9 year old alone in a park all day, or that the mom could have gotten public assistance to pay for daycare, but I see very few who will speak out and place the blame squarely where it belongs:  On the company who doesn't pay a single mom enough to protect and care for her child.  Now DSS has the 9 year old child and who knows what kind of foster home she will end up in while they make her mother prove she is worthy enough to raise her.  This is a mom who works and tries to provide for her kid.  She didn't "forget" her in a hot car.  I understand the stress of not being able to find a baby sitter.  I know the struggle of trying to bring a kid to work with me every day.  I remember what it was like when my girls were 9 years old and constantly trying to convince me they didn't need to be looked after all the time anymore. I'm not saying that this mom did the safest thing, but I am saying I identify with her the way many people identify with the parents who have forgotten their babies in the car all day.  I believe she was doing the best she knew how to do considering her circumstances.  So where is the public outcry of support for this mother who made the unfortunate mistake of thinking her daughter was safe and happy playing at a park all day instead of staring at the walls in a McDonald's all day?  If she had left her kid in the car all day--forbade her to get out and let her suffer in the heat, would the public be rallying around her for forgetting her kid for 8 hours?

Meanwhile in a situation close to me, I am witnessing DSS take a completely irresponsible stance concerning an autistic child who needs placement in a safe environment.  He was being raised by his grandmother, who after testing positive for methamphetamine, temporarily lost custody.  DSS always looks for a family member first, who can take a child who is being removed from it's custodial parents. In this case, there are no family members who are healthy and physically able to give him the kind of care he needs, yet DSS has guilted a family member who is physically ill to care for him by telling her that "There's no one else."  It is their JOB to make sure there is proper placement for this child, but they insist that he must stay with a grand-aunt who is sick and physically over-stressed already from caring for her aging parents.  This child needs placement in a home with physically capable adults who have the time and ability to give him the care and attention he deserves.  The main concern of DSS is that they don't have to work hard to appropriately place him with the right family until his grandmother can prove to them that she is capable of staying clean and taking good care of him.  I for one, am sick and tired of hearing about how understaffed and under budgeted our state's DSS is.  I'm tired of reading stories about kids who were taken from dirty houses, and turning the next page to see that another child died because DSS refused to take action on a report of abuse.  As it stands now in SC, DSS only takes seriously the accusations of abuse made by health or mental health professionals, and teachers.  If you call them about someone you know who is abusing a child, they will take your report, but in all likelihood, they will never follow up.  They say they are not staffed well enough to investigate every complaint, while Nikki Haley encourages them to avoid recording information on certain cases in order to make our state's statistics look as though they've improved under her leadership.  We are really in trouble as a state, when our one agency that is supposed to help look out for the safety and rights of our children has been corrupted from the very top.

I know my opinions probably differ a lot from the generally accepted points of view out there, but I've been mulling these thoughts over in my head for days now, and these are the only rational responses I have for any of the current headlines.  I'd love to know what everyone else things about these things, so feel free to comment if you have something to add.

Catching up

Sometimes I get angry if I think too much about all the people I know in my own family and otherwise who, over the years, have shown gross disregard for my father's kindness and generosity.  My dad has always been a kind-hearted man.  He never forgot what growing up in a large poor family taught him about life and he let those lessons guide him throughout his.  I can't even recall how many "stray" kids he allowed to live under our roof with us as we grew up in our own big family with limited means.  One thing my dad always had enough of was love and acceptance.  A lot of folks came to admire and appreciate him for his big heart and kind nature, but there was also no shortage of ungrateful leeches who took advantage of him without ever looking back.

It isn't easy to stay silent when you see someone you really care about being mistreated. If I think for too long about those people who took more from my father than he ever offered or could afford to give, I get tempted to pick up the phone and make a few calls.  I want to tell them they're jerks and I hope their misdeeds come back to haunt them but I know that my anger will never be enough to right the wrongs that were done.  I believe my father thinks about all of those people who took from him unfairly too, but he knows it is too late to go back and change anything.

Right now I'm finding myself in a tight spot with someone I really love a lot.  I feel as though I am walking on a tightrope, wanting to do things differently than my dad did them because I don't want to look back at myself and feel the indignation that takes me over when I think of the injustices done to him; however, it is extremely important to me that I preserve the relationship that is being tested.  Part of the problem is, I don't see myself as I see my father.  He has always held a place of reverence in my heart and mind.  I have a hard time seeing his imperfections and I'm often tempted to put him on a pedestal.  I know he wouldn't want that, which makes him seem even more perfect to me.  I am far from perfect.  I see my faults above all else and I struggle to remind myself that I should be respected and treated with the same kindness and positive regard that I give to others.

Probably the the toughest struggle in all of this is the seemingly impossible task of handling this situation in a way that satisfies all the people in my life who are telling me to stand up for myself and stop letting the other person take advantage of me.  My sister, my daughter, my friends all speak to me in frustration, with anger welling up inside them so intensely that I can't help but feel like I am letting them down just by being who I am.

Difficult conversations aren't my specialty.  People who know me and want to push my limitations know this and they tend to take advantage of it.  I shut down when I am cornered and right now I feel like a kindergartener with her nose pressed firmly against the square edge of a wall.  The only way out of this is to turn myself around and speak up.

I love my dad, but I don't want to end up sitting alone with the thoughts of how I should have looked after my own resources in a more self-preservative manner.  I don't want the people who love me to lose respect for me because they think I lack respect for myself.  I don't want the people who are treating me poorly to ever feel that their behavior is justified.  I know that by not speaking up, I'm sending the message that they can do as they please and I will just lie down and be their doormat as they come and go, but that's not the reality and it is not the message I want to send.

So I've spoken up for myself today.  I've said things I needed to say and there's probably still more I need to communicate before this is all resolved.  I know I can't control how another person chooses to react to my truth and I have to accept that by sharing it, I might alienate someone I care about very much.

Maybe this person will decide she doesn't want me to be a part of her world anymore, but she can't decide to make me stop loving her.  I might be some woman in the shadows of her life but I will be here.  She might never come looking for me again, but I will always be watching out for her, even if all I can give her are my prayers.

As hard as this experience is, I keep reminding myself that trials between people who care about one another can make their bond even stronger in the end.  I am realizing that I am not preserving anything by throwing away my own need to receive the same regard I give to others.  I'm praying for the strength and courage to plant my feet firmly on this principle.  I'm hoping for the power to believe in myself, even though it seems like everyone else is losing faith in me.

I can do this.  Even with everything else that is weighing so heavily on my mind, I know I have the strength to do what's right in this situation.  I know I have to find the strength to accept the consequences that follow.  I know I'm no good to anyone if I don't take care of myself first.

These lessons have been difficult for me to learn but my mind knows the truth, even if my heart has yet to catch up.

A Little Slice of Summer

Yesterday I went on an adventure of sorts up a long, winding, rocky mountain trail that tested my strength with every clomp and squeak of my crutches as I pulled myself along.  I followed behind, not even able to keep up with the dogs who were excited and ready to run.  They meandered on and off the path, smelling everything, peeing on anything they liked.  They were too impatient for us humans, two of which, with their strong legs, took everything in stride, barely breaking a sweat as they led the way before me.  Once in a while they stopped and patiently waited for me to catch up.  I'm sure they doubted me.  They second guessed our decision to trek down to the river via that particular path, but I was determined to make it all the way, even if I had to crawl at some point.

"It's about a quarter of a mile." He said just as we started out.

"Are there hills?  Because hills are what worry me with these crutches." I said.

"No," he assured me, it's not hilly."

After we walked about a quarter of a mile we stopped for a second to give my underarms a break from the crutches rubbing against my bare skin.

"It's a little farther than I thought." He admitted.

I rolled my eyes, and sighed heavily.  "So how far is it then?"

"About another quarter of a mile." He grinned.

We started off again.  I tried my best to keep up, but they still, in their wholeness, left me behind. Eventually they got tired of waiting for me, and with the swimming hole ahead, were anxious to dive in.

"Let me carry you," he said.  I protested at first, feeling guilty for being broken, for slowing us down and making even the most pleasant, peaceful of activities more difficult than it needed to be.

Having none of my protests, he made me wear his heavy backpack, then slung me over his shoulders like a wounded soldier.  He carried me, my crutches and the backpack as if we weighed hardly anything.  As I hung on tightly, we had a light conversation, as if two people in such a position making their way
up a mountain path toward the river were perfectly normal.  He carried me a good distance, though once my right leg started to tingle from lack of blood-flow he stopped and set me down on my good leg.  He handed my crutches back to me and I again started my clomp, squeak, clomp back up the trail through rocks and horse poop, weeds and brambles, trying my best to keep up but still falling behind.

My boy walked between us, a yellow bag full of snacks and sodas weighing him down.  He tossed it over one shoulder, then the other, now and then complaining that it was cutting into his skin. I tried to carry it and continue on my crutches, but I was scolded for that.

He took the bag from me and carried it for my boy for a few minutes before declaring that he needed to carry me again.  That time, he left the backpack on and lifted me over his shoulders once more.  The forest was more dense, and the wide pathway we started out on had narrowed to a mere foot trail, meant to be walked single file, every man for himself.  With the boy trailing behind us, he heaved forward uphill, down hill, through thick brush and slanted ground until finally, a clearing.

"I hope you'll think it was worth this once we get there" He said just before we noticed the river within view. He took me into the clearing and set me down on my good leg again.  We threw our stuff down on a mound of dirt and moss and he stripped down to his ragged cut offs and jumped into the river.  I helped my boy get out of his clothes. In nothing but his underwear he took off without hesitation, which for some reason, took me by surprise.

Before I knew it, the boy was out in the middle of the river, stomping away on the rocks, splashing himself and laughing at the swimming dog.

I made my way down to the riverbank, but with only one good leg, I felt I could go no further.  The thick, black river mud was ready to swallow my crutches, should I try to use them to get to the one rock that was close by.  So I stood there for a while, feeling happy, enjoying the beautiful river, watching them play, but feeling kind of left out as well.

After a few minutes, I finally weakened and asked him to help me get onto the rock.  The rock I had in mind was only a couple of steps away, partially covered in mud, and so far out of the water I would have only been able to stick a toe in.

He lifted me over his shoulders again and waded out onto the slippery river bed. I protested a little when he started carrying me so far. I was afraid he would slip and fall.  But he was steady and confident, telling me to stop talking as he set me down slow and easy on a large rock.  "Just ease yourself down right here," he commanded.  So that's what I did.

Fully dressed, I sat down on the big rock and slid myself across it to a spot where I could sit and hang my legs over into the cold water.  I let the current flow against my feet as I sucked in a deep gulp of fresh mountain air and let my eyes take in the beauty that surrounded me.  Poised on my rock I could see up-river, where it forked off in different directions. There were rocks lying just below the surface of the water where my boy ran around picking up smaller stones and tossing them into the deeper water.  The dog swam relentlessly, needing an occasional reminder to stop and take a break.

He jumped in again too.  Just jumped right off the rock ledge into water so deep that it swallowed him up. He swam with the dog and tried to get my boy to join him in the deeper part, but my boy isn't always trusting of others.

"This," I thought to myself, "is the sweetest taste of summer I've had in a very long time." And I sat there on that rock, my broken leg dangling in the water, the tube in my belly safely in the dry, for a long time.  I took in the sounds of strange birds chirping around me, the crackling fire by the riverside, the sound of my boy laughing and making up stories as he played.  I felt the breeze blowing down the river, sweeping my sweaty hair back from my face, brushed my hand across the rocks, felt the familiar slime of the river bottom beneath my toes. I felt the sun baking my skin on one side, shivered as the dog shook beside me, showering my back in cold mountain water.  I breathed in the smell of river mud and campfire smoke and for that brief bit of time, I felt a lot like the old me.

I've been missing the old me lately, grieving her even.  Life sometimes gets so messy that you can lose yourself among its clutter if you aren't careful.  There in the middle of the river, I was surrounded by peacefulness. The whisper of leaves blowing in the wind replacing the sound of shuffling papers. Instead of filling out forms and researching options, I sat quietly with myself, trying to figure out a way to keep my Diet Coke from floating away.  Instead of propping my leg on pillows, staring at a TV or computer screen, I propped my feet on the rocks and watched my son play.  The worries of my usual day were so far away from me that even if I had thought of them, I wouldn't have believed them to be true.

I knew it wouldn't last forever, yet even with the difficult trek back to the car on my mind I had no regrets.  I spent my afternoon in the most perfect spot imaginable, although it did take a lot of work for everyone to get there.

Once out of the river, we dried ourselves a little by the fire and ate our snacks.  It's funny how the water makes you so hungry.  Then we set out back down the trail to the car.  Again it was work, with me struggling to keep my rhythm with crutches, allowing him to carry me for a while here and there, but we made it to the car in what seemed like no time at all.  The evening was settling upon us as the breeze around us cooled and the sun hid behind the canopy of trees all around us.  We drove home with the windows down, not quite ready to close ourselves off from nature completely.  With our bellies growling and the worn out dogs sleeping in the back seat, we made our way back home feeling a little lighter than we did before we left.

Because sometimes all you need is a little slice of summer to remind you that life is really, really good.