We live in a small town. Well, if you can even call this a town. Let me start over.
We live in a small community made up of other, smaller communities. Unless you are from a similar place in the Universe, you probably couldn't appreciate all the little nuances that make life here so interesting.
My son's school, for instance, is not named for one town or even one community. It's a hyphenated name for the two communities that make up this quaint little zone in the Northwest corner of Greenville County.
Created in days-gone-by, a different era when manufacturing was the life and breath of a town, Slater-Marietta still sits, a strange sense of pride imbued in every empty storefront building or run down tire shop. Only the businesses that are essential to every day life remain. A small grocery, a gas station or two, Slater Drug store where you can still get a milk shake or a float any day of the week as long as you don't mind waiting for Bea, the older lady behind the counter, to methodically mix it up for you. There's a barbershop, a tiny post office that only opens after 12:00 every day, and the aforementioned elementary school.
Most people in this community work outside this community. There is a dearth of jobs where once this place stood as a bustling, booming part of the Southern economy. The old mill, which still operates but requires far less manpower than in the distant past, puts out the smell of burned carpet once in a while, and atop the big hill above it, from Slater Hall, you can look down upon its roof, flat and expansive, almost like a piece of ground. Beyond it lies Beachwood Farms--it goes back as far in my mind as I can remember. In the summer Beachwood employs a large population of migrant workers and a few locals. In the winter, it sits brown and barren, lonely with its market locked up tight until spring.
This place possesses a history so rich one could talk about it for days. So many amazing stories exist, locked away in the minds of the elders who grew up here, worked in the mill or owned shops in the small downtown area where now we boast two traffic lights. The richness of the land around me is breathtaking on a winter morning when you can see clear to Ceasar's Head from the crooked highway I traverse each day. In the Summer, fields planted with tomatoes or corn, sunflowers or okra glimmer in the morning sunlight as the plants stretch themselves toward the sky. Deer frequently cross our paths, so much so that we drive more cautiously around these steep sharp curves than we used to.
We see our share of the odd and unbelievable too. One morning a summer or two ago, I met a big blue-headed peacock prancing up the yellow line in the road as if he owned it. He dragged his big long tail feathers behind him, and stopped to stare at me as I stopped my car to stare at him. A standoff, of sorts, we looked one another up and down before we both decided to continue on in the directions we had started. No one knows how he got there or from whence he came. We never figured out if he got rescued or barbequed we just noticed his absence in the middle of our road on the way back home later that day.
Odd and unbelievable describes many things about living in a small community/town/hyphenated area. The people most of all.
Tonight my son had his first Christmas Chorus performance at Slater-Marietta Elementary School. His school is small, with about 500 students total, and the number of parents who join PTA is embarrassingly scant. In fact, they trick parents into coming to PTA meetings by having their children "perform" so mom and/or dad will feel like a heel if they miss it. Many grandparents raise their grandchildren here--young grandparents with elementary-aged grandchildren; a lot of these folks started making families young. Like any other place, there is variety, but like most areas of the small hometown-persuasion, you get a lot more of what can only be considered sameness.
Many people around here grew up Baptist and still proudly attend their churches. Church gives them that sense of belonging that everyone craves, but most of all it makes them feel better; better than the immigrants in the trailer park behind the school, better than the one "homeless" guy who walks up and down the street on occasion with a sign strapped to his back. There are two types of Baptists; the type which truly believes in the loving kindness of a heavenly Father, and the kind who seems to want everyone except themselves to go straight to hell. I rarely meet one which fits neatly in the middle.
I'm not knocking the churches. In this area they do a great deal of work helping the poor and needy. One runs a food pantry, another tries to bring in young folks who struggle to get by. I learned as a little girl, that in times when you can barely afford to eat, Faith is the most precious thing you have. It's often all you can afford, so at once you both possess nothing and everything. This, I believe, is the goal of our small-town houses of worship. With denomination though, comes indoctrination. Rules to follow get meted out to everyone, regardless of each person's own beliefs. You could very well find yourself ruined in this town if your spiritual/religious beliefs don't line up with the popular theology of the day. You can try to avoid religious conversation and talk of politics, but sooner or later you're going to get cornered, so you better keep a mental note of what to say in such instances to keep from giving yourself away. Unless, of course, you hail from this small corner of the Earth, in which case your beliefs probably align quite well with those of the natives.
I often attend school functions alone. I won't lie, I feel awkward walking in behind a couple there to watch their kid sing Christmas songs in her most beautiful Christmas dress. I throw the seating off wherever I sit because of the chairs, arranged in even numbers in rows. Tonight I walked in behind one such couple and apparently spied the same row of seats at about the same moment. It probably seemed to them that I followed them to their seat. They went a few chairs in and sat down. That meant I had the two seats at the end of the row from which to choose. I didn't want to leave a seat between me and the lady I walked in behind, in case someone needed the other chair I wasn't using so I sat down next to the lady and exchanged pleasantries with her, feeling the need to explain why I took the seat directly beside her.
As time went on more and more parents poured in. The front row, already filled up when I arrived, seated an array of colorful characters. Directly in front of me a lady who sounded like a man played with her cell phone camera and talked to her male friend, (husband?) about someone's "butt a showin' " and about mundane living sorts of things. One lady sat alone like me, but with a giant Santa hat perched on her head. She didn't move a muscle the whole time, not even to crack a smile. At one point I wanted to poke her but alas, I sat too far away and couldn't reach her.
Not long after I sat down next to the lady who walked in ahead of me, I noticed her flowery perfume. Not a bad smell, just a wee bit strong. I listened to her husband telling her what the gym looked like when this was his school, listened as he reminisced about old times at SME. As the crowd grew a couple I never actually saw slid in behind me. I immediately was overwhelmed by the smell of Polo cologne. I hadn't whiffed that scent since high school, when my super crush of a lifetime boy wore it all the time. They say smells can conjure up memories more potently than anything. I get that feeling of nostalgia every year when we bring in our Christmas tree. The smell of Polo, however, did not evoke such warm feelings or memories, especially since it was most likely applied to the guy's skin via fire-truck hose. The smell attacked my senses, made my eyes water and my stomach lurch.
Turns out the guy wearing the Polo behaved as obnoxiously as his cologne smelled. He kept talking so loudly no one around him could hear the play. He felt the need to announce when a kindergarten girl scratched her rear during a song. I listened to him critique the weight and apparel of every teacher, complain about the principal, make fun of one kid's teeth. He was a real winner.
Just as I started to get acclimated to the blending scents around me a young mother came rushing in and asked if the seat next to me was taken. Feeling a sort of kinship with her, I happily offered her the seat and engaged in a bit of small talk with her before she pulled out her phone and got lost in it. As she sat down I noticed another strange smell wafting over me, but I couldn't put my finger on it.
Suddenly, and from out of nowhere, the young mom said, "I smell like fried potatoes and onions."
I just looked at her and smiled sympathetically. That was it---Potatoes and onions.
"Yeah," she went on, "Right before we came over here I was cooking potatoes and curling my daughter's hair and chasing my one year old around."
"Mom life." I commiserated with her.
"Yeah, my husband picked the wrong day to work overtime. I really couldda used him tonight!"
"Yeah, that's how it seems to go." I said, realizing our kinship had limits.
The principal walked by swiftly and approached the stage where my boy and his choir-mates were hiding out until performance time. Principal stuck his head between the curtains and said something, then turned around and walked back through the crowd, red faced. He looked down at the young mom beside me and said, "Y'all couldn't hear what I just said could you?"
"No," She answered. "We didn't hear a thing."
She looked at me side-wise and I said, "Must have been something really bad he said, or his face wouldn't be so red!"
"Yeah," she agreed.. "Like, 'Are y'all not fuckin' ready yet?'"
"Uh, yeah...right." I mumbled back. Only in Marietta, I thought to myself.
When her little girl came out, a first grader, round cheeked and curly haired, the young mom beamed with pride. "That's my little girl right there, second from the right," she told me, expecting me to look and comment.
"She's adorable." I said earnestly. "I love her pretty Christmas dress."
"Thanks," said the little girl's mother. And that ended our few moments of motherly kinship.
As I sat through the Kindergarteners, then First Graders renditions of Christmas classics, I noticed my eyes burning, nose running, stomach churning more and more. Added to the smells of cologne, perfume and fried potatoes, the smell of stale cigarettes suddenly came over me. It wafted my direction from I know not where, but I found myself imagining my own embarrassment should I end up fleeing my seat near the front for the ladies room, trying to hold in a mouth-full of vomit until I reached the toilet. Because you know that never works. You just can't hold vomit in like that. Falling back on my healthcare days, I forced myself to mouth-breathe for the next 25 minutes. It helped, unless I momentarily lapsed and forgot to keep my mouth open. If even one nostril caught a whiff of the offensive olfactory onslaught, I knew I'd be doomed.
Somehow though, I made it through to the end. I got to see my kid trying to hide behind another kid while he sang "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" and "Fa la la la la" and some other songs about Santa and an elf named Elfis. It dawned on me as I sat through each grade level's performances that these kinds of things bore the hell out of me; but I wouldn't miss them for the world. Let's face it, we don't show up at these events to see everyone's kids sing together. We show up to watch OUR kids get on stage and perform. We internally critique them, analyze their behaviors because we KNOW them. Do you think for a minute Charlie hiding behind another kid surprised me? No way. It's classic Charlie, which is also why watching him do it became the highlight of my evening.
Once the performance was over, Principal asked us all for another round of applause. In any other school, those kids might have gotten a standing ovation. When my girls went to bigger city schools where rich parents loaded the PTA fund with money for Fall Festivals and special Christmas treats, standing ovations at every PTA performance were standard. Not in Slater-Marietta. Parents in Slater-Marietta know that life isn't easy. They aren't the kind to award a trophy to every child, and they aren't going to stand up to clap for a bunch of younguns flubbing their way through "Jingle Bells" or "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." You want a standing ovation around here, you better do something outstanding--like join the military at a mere 10 years old or bag your first deer before your 12th birthday. Extra points if you're a girl and you do those things.
Principal set us free to go retrieve our children from their respective teachers. I found my boy on the stage with his peers, wearing elf hats and laughing at jokes only fifth graders would find funny. I spoke to his teacher--thanked her for her hard work, and went back to find my kid. I found him talking to a friend and could barely drag him away despite his growling tummy and my overwhelming fatigue.
On the way to our car I overheard at least three different parents cursing at their kids. "Git in the damn car." One said.
"Where's your damn jacket?" said the other.
"Let's go," one dad said at regular dad volume. "I can't take anymore of this bullshit tonight. Git in the damn car and don't forget your damn coat this time."
From young nose-pierced moms who show up smelling like potatoes and use words like "fuck" in everyday conversation with strangers to moms who come dressed like they're going to Sunday meeting, doused with enough perfume to cause anaphylaxis , dads who don't know when to shut up, and uncles who dive into a tub of Polo before coming to the PTA meeting, we all shared something in common.
None of us really wanted to be there. Parents are tired people. We see our kids daily, we hear their silly jokes and stores about their days. We feed them and bathe them, clothe them and make sure the homework gets done. If we get lucky, we might find a few hours a week to just enjoy them. We show up to watch our kids pick their noses and scratch their butts in front of all our friends and neighbors because it's the right thing to do. We show up because we love our young ones, and want them to see the pride in our faces when they look out and find us in the audience. "That's my kid right there," we say, as if we think some other parent will like our kid better than they like their own.
I don't judge them. Or at least, not the lady who smelled of potatoes. She was just trying to do life, y'all. The people who showered in smelly stuff that came from a bottle--them I judge--because I don't care who you are or what hyphenated community you live in, there ain't no sense in smelling up a place like that. Your kid doesn't care if you smell like au du gardenia, and the person sitting next to you would probably prefer you not smell like anything at all. Heck, sweat would be better.
Next PTA meeting when they ask everyone to shut off their cell phones I'm going to stand up. I'm going to stand up and say, "If you are sitting beside someone who is wearing too much perfume or cologne, please take this opportunity to change your seat."
It might just save some poor parent from an embarrassing puke moment in front of the whole PTA.
I guess I'll end this little story with the only phrase that pops into my head at the moment:
Try not to have a Smelly Christmas.
Wishing you a perfume-free New Year!
Monday, December 11, 2017
Monday, December 4, 2017
She is Twenty Seven
1997.
On a warm July morning I woke early, my two little girls still lay fast asleep in their bunk-beds tangled in their blankets while the air conditioning hummed away chasing off the humid air of Summer. I peeked in at them as I walked past their bedroom door and wished for a fleeting moment, that I could harness the lazy carefree days of childhood summers and make them mine again.
Before I swung my feet to the floor and grabbed my journal that morning I lay in bed watching the shadow of a locust branch fluttering outside my window in the early breeze, beckoning me outdoors. My journal, or rather, Hannah's journal awaited me. I neglected it already too long, and time never slowed down. I knew too many days had passed since I sat and wrote to her, or to the future her that in those years I could not even imagine.
I never knew exactly what to say to her, but I tried to write often. I wrote about the little girl with a scruffy voice who sang Jesus Loves Me in the back seat of the car. I wrote about her angry tirades about homework, and how unfair it was that six-year-old children weren't allowed to drive. I wrote to her about my own life, my struggles and faltering faith. That morning I felt heavy, heavy like a dark Summer thundercloud, ready for my wringing-out, only no one else existed on whom I could rain down my darkness, my confusion or grief.
I wrote to her about who I was then and who I thought I wanted to become. At twenty-seven I stood on the threshold of something I couldn't understand until I lived it. I felt my transformation coming. I feared it and yearned for it all the same. I believed Motherhood gave me all the purpose I needed, but I knew life had more to offer than Sunday School and choir practice, Christmas plays and PTA.
A few years ago I told a friend, "I think I decided at 27 who I wanted to be." I didn't know it though, at 27. I just thought I was losing my mind, putting everything I loved at risk just to see what lay past the lines drawn around me by my religion, disguised as faith.
Sometimes people ask me if I would change anything about my life. If I could go back to that morning, sitting in the sun by my back porch while my babies slept inside and start life all over again from that moment, I doubt if I'd change a thing. I took my hard knocks much later in life than most people do. They sent me reeling a few times, wondering if I could even make it over the next hump. I doubted myself as a mother, as a woman, as a human. I searched for things I was never meant to find or keep. I lived with defeat as a companion, but somehow always kept victory in my heart. Days came and went, when I just gave up, surrendered to whatever ill came my way. Somehow another dawn would renew me and give me strength to just keep putting one foot in front of another.
That dawn always shone out from the faces of my girls. No matter what hard life-lessons got thrown my way, they kept me upright. They made me, me.
That little six-year old girl I sat and wrote to in my journal all those years ago just celebrated her twenty seventh birthday. I think about who she is now, gentle, kind, courageous, determined. I think about all the years in between that July morning and today, all the things she learned, all the dreams she chased, all the love she got and gave and even lost between then and now, those things served her well. They built a beautiful woman, ready to take on the world.
She is a mother, a friend, a scholar, a dreamer still. I doubt if she knows it, but she's standing on the threshold of an amazing life. She's on her way to becoming who she wants to be.
She's nothing less than miraculous, considering the flawed and childish mother to whom she was born. I grew up with her in many ways, she taught me more than I could ever dream of teaching her.
She created me, or at least the me I eventually became. My first girl, my world, carried along with me through time, two lives so intertwined yet so different.
Twenty-seven. Who knew I would still be here to see the day.
I'm so grateful for it and for her.
`
Sunday, December 3, 2017
Gliding Along
People say time marches on but it doesn't.
Watch an old documentary of soldiers marching in rhythm and you'll see; the passage of time is nothing like a march. It never moves in rhythm with anything like we wish it would and it seems no mater who marches beside you, some terrain is just to difficult to traverse on foot. No, time does not march. It is much to graceful for that.
Time glides like a small boat over a calm lake, leaving ripples in its wake that reverberate into eternity. No shoreline sits to break the pattern. They roll on endlessly, days becoming weeks as the ripples turn to waves--years all rolled up together, searching for some place to rest. And that is life, no matter what anyone says. All your moments and memories, good years and bad, losses and gains they make ripples through time while you, in your own little boat glide over a glassy lake in search of your destination.
I know it feels more like a troubled sea sometimes, even more so while you're trying to command your tiny ship. A crew would sure be nice, but most of us to some extent prefer to float in our own vessel; alongside another is the best any of us can really do.
Stillness never comes easy. Lately I observe more than I act. I see solitary souls so uneasy with their own company they rarely spend an entire day at home. I remember a time when I felt so restless--that stillness might swallow me up, make my heart race, cause me to linger on unlovely thoughts. I thought stillness threatened my peace of mind and happiness so I ran from it by staying busy.
I watch as ladies who cannot keep their seats find things to sweep up or wipe away. I watch them search for plants to water or bins of craft supplies to tidy. There is simply no place for sitting down with a cup of coffee for a leisurely chat with a friend. I watch as men fiddle with their phones and listen as they talk about all the important things they need to do. I see them scrambling to make plans with someone--anyone, so they can rest assured their time is filled with the presence of another.
One talks to me of misery. Saturday greets him with an empty living room, no one to make his breakfast or give him an agenda for the day. He putters around, searching for purpose in an old shed filled with the clutter of a lifetime spent with someone who no longer shares his world. He hopes to find her there I think, in bits and pieces of the things she kept and treasured and probably forgot about. Some of those things, he gives away saying, "Now if you don't need this you can just donate it somewhere." Other stuff gets tossed out. A few things, like the tiny blown-glass angel she loved, get a special place in his world. He tries to hold onto her and to erase her at once; a battle that seems to feed his only sense of reason. She died three years ago this January. Time glides on.
I don't know for sure, but I've been told in this way or another that one could drown in the wake of time. They say my grandmother got smothered by it after the death of my grandfather. He died in the Fall, she died the following Spring. "She grieved herself to death." I heard people say all my life. Whether it was true I'll never know, but I grew up orphaned of grandparents because time took them before my tiny vessel ever got set afloat.
My parents created unique patterns on the surface of time as their lives came together and then drifted apart again. Over six decades of shared trials, joy and tears, frustration and triumph. They clashed at times, sustained one another at others. The bond between them grew stronger with every ripple, every wave, every day spent gliding along together. My dad perhaps got swallowed up in my mother's wake when she finally got too tired of rowing against the current and pulled her vessel out of the water. Without her beside him, the waves grew too high, the grief too deep, the loss so profound that nothing could reach him anymore.
I visited him at Christmas time and put up the tree. I knew my Mama would have wanted it so, but my Dad, he didn't care.
"See how pretty it is?" I asked him after I plugged in the lights. "Granny would want you to have the tree up." I reminded him.
"I'd rather have my wife back." He answered dryly, not taking his eyes off the TV.
I wanted to make it easier for him but I felt so powerless. No one, nothing could take away the sting of loss for him. It withered him from inside out until on his own deathbed, he sat with a picture of my mother in his hand, staring down at it as if trying to burn her face into his mind. Who knows what memories he lingered upon in those last few days? I doubt if he held onto bickering and disagreements. Big tears rolled down his cheeks sometimes, I never could tell if from joy or sorrow but I suspect a little of both.
That's the thing, you see. No matter what you're doing right now, no matter what your struggles or losses or gains, time hasn't stopped. You continue to glide along, losing track of where you are and why until someday you sit looking at a photograph from years ago, wondering where all the days and years went. You won't sit bothered about the money you owe or that car that never ran very well. At some point it just can't matter anymore how many times you forgot to buy bread on the way home, or lost your keys or ate a too-large piece of cake.
It all makes me think that the real meaning of this life never comes clearly into focus until we start to near the end of it. Youth believes it will never grow old and age envies not having savored more of their time. Time never leaves us behind, it carries us along from one moment to the next, transporting us so smoothly that we often can't tell we're moving at all. It takes you along with it whether you're ready or not and offers no mercy to those who yearn to always look back, rather than preparing themselves for what lies ahead. It brings the future swirling at us from far away, threatening, foreboding, we get our eyes set too far ahead, the fear of being sucked into some vortex of catastrophe overwhelming us in the here and now, so every moment between you and tomorrow gets tossed overboard; worthless, extra weight is how we see it, but really it's the only thing of worth we have.
I'm not old just yet and I may never make it there. This coming year in July I will celebrate 5 years on dialysis. Five years ago doctors were telling me, "This should work well for you for at least 5 years." Sometimes I compare myself to other people my age. I am flummoxed when I watch them handle life so deftly. The daily chores, homework, picking up the kids from school, taking them to practices. Cooking actual healthy food, finding clothes to wear every day that fit comfortably and make them feel good. I'm amazed that people go out to dinner on Tuesday nights and still get up for work on Wednesday. I know my body restricts me but I fight it hard.
I fight to keep my little boat afloat, armed with a little machine and countless boxes of fluids and endless trips to get blood work drawn. I row my damn little boat over to the clinic once a month where I get graded on how I'm living my life. I leave there, usually feeling as though I'm failing, but I'm still alive, so that's something, right? Ever since July 2013 I started working hard to keep my mind and spirit securely planted in the moment. Sure, sudden shakeups happen and I let my mind race too far ahead or let myself reach to far back int he past; to waves that continue to roll somewhere out there in the vast continuum of time perhaps changing someone else's world, or perhaps just losing momentum as they search for a distant shore.
Thing is, none of us can afford to nap at the helm because whether or not we pay attention, current still drags us along. It will not let us row backwards to fix the past or skip some unpleasant swampy, scary place to get to a brighter future. It's a ride that's meant to be savored;; enjoyed for all the ups and downs and twists and curves it brings us around.
We are meant to enjoy the ride--no matter how hard it sometimes gets in that tiny vessel all alone; because right beside you there is someone floating along the same placid lake, afraid that at any moment, their boat will capsize and everything they love will just float away. Fear makes us do some stupid things--like standing up in a moving canoe. Trust me, it's better to just sit still and paddle if you must, but never attempt to jump ship.
Eventually we all reach our destinations. I pray you and I reach ours while there's still time left to glide along into the sunset of that calm, welcoming horizon where the sun dips down into the lake and warmth waits to wrap us in a forever Today, where worries and cares of yesterday and tomorrow can never again plague us or divert us from our path.
Good night my friends, and happy floating, both in your dreams and in your days ahead.
Thursday, November 30, 2017
Choked
I stood by the stove with my back turned and listened to the creak of the lock as his key turned in it. Six o'clock, time for him to stomp into the house and in his silent, brooding way, sit down on the sofa by the door to unlace his boots. I didn't turn to speak or even say a "hello" over my shoulder. I knew that to do so would only annoy him and frustrate me. He needed thirty minutes, he told me, after he got home from work, to just not speak to anyone. I did my best to honor his request, although it felt odd to ignore him for a half-hour every day after he came in the door.
I heard him grunt as he bent over to untie his laces, heard the dog excitedly panting, pawing at his knees, begging to go outside. I ignored that too, focusing instead on the hot pan in front of me, sauteed onions and peppers for the sauce. The aroma surrounded me and I tired to only let that aroma fill my brain; not the stench of the man who sat a few feet behind me in the next room, talking to his dog instead of me.
Things went downhill fast after I moved in. Instead of basking in the newness of cohabitation we began a war of wills. He gave me so many rules to follow I couldn't keep up with them all. I felt as though I invaded someone's private space against their will, even though I came to live there by invitation. I kept my things tucked away in drawers and closets, out of sight because I felt afraid of making myself too comfortable in his space. We shared a bed, a shower, a living room, but so much of what one would expect to share in such an arrangement remained absent from the equation.
As I worked on dinner and waited for the thirty minute clock to run down I contemplated how I would tell him my news. Excitement welled up inside me as I thought of my new apartment. I already knew what color I wanted to paint the walls, already knew what furniture I wanted. I paid my deposit that morning and planned to start moving the following weekend. Even though I knew he wanted his cave back all to himself, I feared telling him I was about to leave. Something in me just knew he wouldn't take it well.
He didn't.
"What are you cooking?" He finally asked about twenty minutes after walking in the door.
"Spaghetti." I answered.
"You aren't putting meat in it are you?"
"Of course not. Veggies only." I said, not looking up.
He went in the bedroom to retrieve clean underwear, stopped to pat my butt on the way back through to the shower.
"Should be done by the time you're out of the shower." He always needed a heads up about when dinner would be served.
He gave no response, just went on his way and out of sight for a good twenty more minutes. I felt grateful for the reprieve and stood there in the kitchen fantasizing about cooking dinner in my apartment for just me and my boy; no one there to give me orders or remind me of rules I must follow.
As I prepared to strain the pasta I heard the bathroom door fling open and before I knew it, he stood behind me, his arms around my waist. His wet skin soaked the back of my shirt. I used to love his affection, but that night it made my skin crawl.
"Hot pot of water!" I warned, and he backed away.
"What's up with you lately anyway?" He wanted to know. "You don't even want me to touch you anymore."
"Nothing's up." I lied. "Just didn't want to burn you."
He looked sidelong at me as he leaned against the kitchen sink watching me work.
He never asked about my day, but usually found something over which to pick a fight every evening.
"So why didn't you speak to me when I got home?" He asked.
"You told me not to bother you for thirty minutes after you got home. I was respecting your wishes." I answered.
"You never seem happy to see me," he accused.
"Am I supposed to pant and wag my tail like the dog?" I shot back.
"Yeah," he said with a giggle. "'cause you're my bitch."
Silence. I kept at my work as I felt him staring me down.
"I'm just kidding." He plead. "Don't take things so personally."
I sighed heavily and sat the pot of spaghetti down. "I have some good news." I announced trying hard to smile and seem upbeat.
"You do?" He looked puzzled.
"Yeah," I said. "I found an apartment. I'm planning to move this weekend. Would you like to help me move or should I hire a mover?"
"You're moving out?" He asked, shocked. "Did I say you could move out?" He was trying to sound like he was joking, but I knew he felt threatened by my assertiveness.
"I didn't ask you." I said. "I think it's best for both of us if I go. We are not happy together. I make you miserable and you make me sad."
He took that as an insult. "I make you sad, huh? How do I make you sad?"
"Look," I said. "I'm not having this conversation with you. Let's eat dinner and have a pleasant evening. The good news is I'll be out of your hair soon and you'll have your house all to yourself again." I smiled up at him as I picked up a spoon to stir the sauce.
He looked at me with that seething anger burning in his eyes I'd seen a thousand times before. He stepped closer, pinning me between him and the stove. His skin felt hot through the thin cotton t-shirt he'd slipped on while we talked. As he leaned in my face I could see the pores on his cheeks, feel his breath on my skin.
"Girl, you better appreciate all I have done for you."
"What have you done for me?" I asked, not backing down.
"I let you live here for one thing, so you could save money."
"You let me move here so you could take financial advantage of me and use me as a maid." I replied firmly.
He moved closer still. I didn't try to pull away. I wanted to show him I was not intimidated. I hoped my racing heart wasn't so loud he could hear it.
His big hand was wrapped around my neck as he leaned right in my face. "All I have to do is squeeze." He said with a grin.
"Then squeeze." I dared him. "Go ahead."
He stood there, staring me down, his eyes glazed over with the haze of weed. In that moment I realized he could kill me if he wanted to, with one hand. He was strong, bigger than me, trained by the military to kill in ways I probably couldn't imagine. Still, I didn't waver. I didn't want him to think he could intimidate me.
"I'm not scared of you." I said.
"You should be." He threatened.
"Squeeze, then." I tempted him again.
"Girl, you don't know who you are messing with." He told me as he let go and walked away.
"Oh yeah I do," I said under my breath as I turned back to the spaghetti, now turning sticky in the pot.
It was two weeks later before I finally got moved. He insisted he wanted to help me so I wouldn't have to pay a mover; however, he kept stalling until finally on a Tuesday morning, I decided for myself that I would move my things without him.
Angry that I took control of the situation, he took the day off work and moved all of my stuff at once. He piled it all in the middle of my apartment living room and disappeared out the door. It was one of the last times I ever saw him.
My life started getting better by the next day. Over time I saw more and more that I lived in a prison of sorts throughout that relationship, even when we didn't live together. I lived in a prison of anxiety and fear without ever acknowledging that he held the keys to my cell. Only after I escaped, did I finally see clearly the oppression of life with that man in it. He might as well have kept his big hand around my neck for the entire four years with me playing the fool, thinking I was courageous when really I was just too scared to make a move away from him.
Fear can rule us in many ways. Fear keeps us too long in the grip of toxic people, jobs that rob us of our joy, lives that give us nothing worthwhile to strive for.
I thought this morning as I got ready for work, that life is just a series of seasons rotating around us year after year. We are cogs in a clock, winding ourselves up again every January so we can cycle through another year of seasons. We live the same lives over and over again, year after year, everything so the same that we often forget the smallest details that differentiate one year from another....Sameness and nothingness, life in it's predictable loop lulls us like a ticking clock in an empty room.
Children grow up, things break down, people die. Every year we welcome babies and say goodbye to our elders. Every year we say, "This year will be different."
We live in blindness; we cannot know every outcome. Our blindness instills such deep anxiety. Fear of failure, fear of success, fear of dying, fear of living--we are consumed by it. Restlessness nestles deep in the pit of our stomachs telling us we need to change, but change is scary. The devil you know...
I speak from experience when I say, the Devil you know may very well kill you. Maybe he'll put his big hand around your neck and squeeze, whether or not you act brave and dare him to do it. Maybe he'll stifle your spirit or drain your bank account. He might stomp your very soul into the ground, not with fists or heavy shoes, but with words that choke the life out of you.The Devil might be your partner or your boss, your mom or dad. He might be your next door neighbor or your sibling.
Maybe the Devil you know is slowly dragging you away from who you were meant to be.
Sooner or later, you have to break free.
There is no shame in running away from the Devil in work boots, lurking behind you.
Once you're free, the calendar will ride you along it's pages again, through Summer and Fall and back again through Winter. You don't have to live them all the same, with fear guiding you day after day.
You can create your own season. You just have to leave fear back there in another year--a year spent, gone by, lessons learned. You can create your best tomorrow, head held high, no Devil lurking
behind you. Why wait for his approval? You can walk away today and never look back.
I heard him grunt as he bent over to untie his laces, heard the dog excitedly panting, pawing at his knees, begging to go outside. I ignored that too, focusing instead on the hot pan in front of me, sauteed onions and peppers for the sauce. The aroma surrounded me and I tired to only let that aroma fill my brain; not the stench of the man who sat a few feet behind me in the next room, talking to his dog instead of me.
Things went downhill fast after I moved in. Instead of basking in the newness of cohabitation we began a war of wills. He gave me so many rules to follow I couldn't keep up with them all. I felt as though I invaded someone's private space against their will, even though I came to live there by invitation. I kept my things tucked away in drawers and closets, out of sight because I felt afraid of making myself too comfortable in his space. We shared a bed, a shower, a living room, but so much of what one would expect to share in such an arrangement remained absent from the equation.
As I worked on dinner and waited for the thirty minute clock to run down I contemplated how I would tell him my news. Excitement welled up inside me as I thought of my new apartment. I already knew what color I wanted to paint the walls, already knew what furniture I wanted. I paid my deposit that morning and planned to start moving the following weekend. Even though I knew he wanted his cave back all to himself, I feared telling him I was about to leave. Something in me just knew he wouldn't take it well.
He didn't.
"What are you cooking?" He finally asked about twenty minutes after walking in the door.
"Spaghetti." I answered.
"You aren't putting meat in it are you?"
"Of course not. Veggies only." I said, not looking up.
He went in the bedroom to retrieve clean underwear, stopped to pat my butt on the way back through to the shower.
"Should be done by the time you're out of the shower." He always needed a heads up about when dinner would be served.
He gave no response, just went on his way and out of sight for a good twenty more minutes. I felt grateful for the reprieve and stood there in the kitchen fantasizing about cooking dinner in my apartment for just me and my boy; no one there to give me orders or remind me of rules I must follow.
As I prepared to strain the pasta I heard the bathroom door fling open and before I knew it, he stood behind me, his arms around my waist. His wet skin soaked the back of my shirt. I used to love his affection, but that night it made my skin crawl.
"Hot pot of water!" I warned, and he backed away.
"What's up with you lately anyway?" He wanted to know. "You don't even want me to touch you anymore."
"Nothing's up." I lied. "Just didn't want to burn you."
He looked sidelong at me as he leaned against the kitchen sink watching me work.
He never asked about my day, but usually found something over which to pick a fight every evening.
"So why didn't you speak to me when I got home?" He asked.
"You told me not to bother you for thirty minutes after you got home. I was respecting your wishes." I answered.
"You never seem happy to see me," he accused.
"Am I supposed to pant and wag my tail like the dog?" I shot back.
"Yeah," he said with a giggle. "'cause you're my bitch."
Silence. I kept at my work as I felt him staring me down.
"I'm just kidding." He plead. "Don't take things so personally."
I sighed heavily and sat the pot of spaghetti down. "I have some good news." I announced trying hard to smile and seem upbeat.
"You do?" He looked puzzled.
"Yeah," I said. "I found an apartment. I'm planning to move this weekend. Would you like to help me move or should I hire a mover?"
"You're moving out?" He asked, shocked. "Did I say you could move out?" He was trying to sound like he was joking, but I knew he felt threatened by my assertiveness.
"I didn't ask you." I said. "I think it's best for both of us if I go. We are not happy together. I make you miserable and you make me sad."
He took that as an insult. "I make you sad, huh? How do I make you sad?"
"Look," I said. "I'm not having this conversation with you. Let's eat dinner and have a pleasant evening. The good news is I'll be out of your hair soon and you'll have your house all to yourself again." I smiled up at him as I picked up a spoon to stir the sauce.
He looked at me with that seething anger burning in his eyes I'd seen a thousand times before. He stepped closer, pinning me between him and the stove. His skin felt hot through the thin cotton t-shirt he'd slipped on while we talked. As he leaned in my face I could see the pores on his cheeks, feel his breath on my skin.
"Girl, you better appreciate all I have done for you."
"What have you done for me?" I asked, not backing down.
"I let you live here for one thing, so you could save money."
"You let me move here so you could take financial advantage of me and use me as a maid." I replied firmly.
He moved closer still. I didn't try to pull away. I wanted to show him I was not intimidated. I hoped my racing heart wasn't so loud he could hear it.
His big hand was wrapped around my neck as he leaned right in my face. "All I have to do is squeeze." He said with a grin.
"Then squeeze." I dared him. "Go ahead."
He stood there, staring me down, his eyes glazed over with the haze of weed. In that moment I realized he could kill me if he wanted to, with one hand. He was strong, bigger than me, trained by the military to kill in ways I probably couldn't imagine. Still, I didn't waver. I didn't want him to think he could intimidate me.
"I'm not scared of you." I said.
"You should be." He threatened.
"Squeeze, then." I tempted him again.
"Girl, you don't know who you are messing with." He told me as he let go and walked away.
"Oh yeah I do," I said under my breath as I turned back to the spaghetti, now turning sticky in the pot.
It was two weeks later before I finally got moved. He insisted he wanted to help me so I wouldn't have to pay a mover; however, he kept stalling until finally on a Tuesday morning, I decided for myself that I would move my things without him.
Angry that I took control of the situation, he took the day off work and moved all of my stuff at once. He piled it all in the middle of my apartment living room and disappeared out the door. It was one of the last times I ever saw him.
My life started getting better by the next day. Over time I saw more and more that I lived in a prison of sorts throughout that relationship, even when we didn't live together. I lived in a prison of anxiety and fear without ever acknowledging that he held the keys to my cell. Only after I escaped, did I finally see clearly the oppression of life with that man in it. He might as well have kept his big hand around my neck for the entire four years with me playing the fool, thinking I was courageous when really I was just too scared to make a move away from him.
Fear can rule us in many ways. Fear keeps us too long in the grip of toxic people, jobs that rob us of our joy, lives that give us nothing worthwhile to strive for.
I thought this morning as I got ready for work, that life is just a series of seasons rotating around us year after year. We are cogs in a clock, winding ourselves up again every January so we can cycle through another year of seasons. We live the same lives over and over again, year after year, everything so the same that we often forget the smallest details that differentiate one year from another....Sameness and nothingness, life in it's predictable loop lulls us like a ticking clock in an empty room.
Children grow up, things break down, people die. Every year we welcome babies and say goodbye to our elders. Every year we say, "This year will be different."
We live in blindness; we cannot know every outcome. Our blindness instills such deep anxiety. Fear of failure, fear of success, fear of dying, fear of living--we are consumed by it. Restlessness nestles deep in the pit of our stomachs telling us we need to change, but change is scary. The devil you know...
I speak from experience when I say, the Devil you know may very well kill you. Maybe he'll put his big hand around your neck and squeeze, whether or not you act brave and dare him to do it. Maybe he'll stifle your spirit or drain your bank account. He might stomp your very soul into the ground, not with fists or heavy shoes, but with words that choke the life out of you.The Devil might be your partner or your boss, your mom or dad. He might be your next door neighbor or your sibling.
Maybe the Devil you know is slowly dragging you away from who you were meant to be.
Sooner or later, you have to break free.
There is no shame in running away from the Devil in work boots, lurking behind you.
Once you're free, the calendar will ride you along it's pages again, through Summer and Fall and back again through Winter. You don't have to live them all the same, with fear guiding you day after day.
You can create your own season. You just have to leave fear back there in another year--a year spent, gone by, lessons learned. You can create your best tomorrow, head held high, no Devil lurking
behind you. Why wait for his approval? You can walk away today and never look back.
Thursday, November 23, 2017
The Spirit Remembers
I never used the month of November for anything special. While I possess some degree of sentimentality, I usually forego things like listing things I'm thankful for every day in November. I also never saw the appeal in things like "No Shave November." Going to bed with stubbly legs, even when I'm sleeping alone, just doesn't feel right to me. I got kind of drawn in, several years in a row, by the daily Facebook posts of my friends and family though, giving thanks for even the smallest of life's blessings; so this year when literally none of them participated in the daily thanksgiving posts, I missed them.
Monday I walked around like someone with a fifty pound sack of potatoes tied to her back. My feet felt heavy, a knot of anxiety lodged itself deep in my gut, I wanted so badly to just go back to bed all day. It might make sense for a girl to walk around feeling so weighed down and anxious if things weren't going so well for her. Truthfully though, my life feels pretty great right now. If I compare this year with last year, my life looks freaking awesome! My car is running (well no this minute, but you know what I mean) all of my household appliances are humming along just fine. No one ever showed up at my door this year with papers telling me the hospital system wants to sue me for money I don't owe them. I feel well most days. I love my job. My children and grandchildren are healthy and happy. I tried to dwell on all the positive things in my life all day but the gnawing feeling of doom still hovered over me all day long.
I woke up with it again on Tuesday, my day off. I battled with my will from the moment I woke up. I made myself get up and take Charlie to school and when I got back home, I yearned to lie on my couch with the remote in my hand and let the TV serve as my company for the day. Fortunately the night before I sent out a call to my friends asking for a lunch date and got a taker. Grateful for a reason to get dressed and head out, I met a dear friend and spent two hours just talking to him. For that little space in time I felt normal. I got to just let go of all pretense and just be me. It made me realize how seldom I get the liberty to do that. It felt amazing! By the time I made it to school to pick up Charlie that nagging feeling started bubbling in my gut again. Almost like a whisper, it kept warning me that things might change for the worse again.
I do not tend to dwell on the past. My theory, that perseveration only serves to torture, keeps me from staying too long in that thought-place of "if only" or "could have" or "should have." Even so, it seems as the seasons come and go, the spirit hangs onto things from the past. An old friend whose father took his own life years ago once told me that the date of his death would sometimes come and go without her consciously even remembering it, but all the same she would fall into a state of melancholy for a few days. She said that more than once, after days of feeling down, she suddenly realized the time of year and made the connection to the traumatic memory from her teenage years when she lost her father so tragically. I think maybe my spirit remembers things that I choose not to recall sometimes too.
I can't complain. This year graced me with so many good things, especially if you count the absence of bad things. In stark comparison to years past, I find myself in a better position than ever. Although I forbid myself from dwelling on the sadness of the past, my spirit seems to remember. It continues to nag me with a wordless, unforgiving ache.
I refuse to let it win. Too much good surrounds me right now, for me to allow unconscious fears to spoil my spirit. I know by now that in every life good and bad must exist. Sometimes they dance together through your whole world. I think of times when their dance made me dizzy, unsure of where to look or how to feel. For now though, good is reigning supreme in my world and I plan to revel in it for as long as I can. Sure, the struggles still exist. Who can truly live without struggle? But I will take these struggles gladly, and let them feed my spirit with strength and joy--things I hope my soul hangs onto as tightly as it seems to cling to the disappointment and sadness of the past.
I can feel nothing but gratefulness today, not just for all the goodness that fills my life, but for the absence of so many struggles with which I remained so familiar for so long. I'll take this joy, even mingled with the sadness of missing my parents and traditions of years gone-by and hold it close, thankful for the memories, the strength and the reward of making it out of the darkness into the light of this beautiful Thanksgiving Day.
For whatever troubles plague you today, I wish you strength; and for all the joys life holds for you tomorrow, I wish you the perseverance to make it there.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Monday I walked around like someone with a fifty pound sack of potatoes tied to her back. My feet felt heavy, a knot of anxiety lodged itself deep in my gut, I wanted so badly to just go back to bed all day. It might make sense for a girl to walk around feeling so weighed down and anxious if things weren't going so well for her. Truthfully though, my life feels pretty great right now. If I compare this year with last year, my life looks freaking awesome! My car is running (well no this minute, but you know what I mean) all of my household appliances are humming along just fine. No one ever showed up at my door this year with papers telling me the hospital system wants to sue me for money I don't owe them. I feel well most days. I love my job. My children and grandchildren are healthy and happy. I tried to dwell on all the positive things in my life all day but the gnawing feeling of doom still hovered over me all day long.
I woke up with it again on Tuesday, my day off. I battled with my will from the moment I woke up. I made myself get up and take Charlie to school and when I got back home, I yearned to lie on my couch with the remote in my hand and let the TV serve as my company for the day. Fortunately the night before I sent out a call to my friends asking for a lunch date and got a taker. Grateful for a reason to get dressed and head out, I met a dear friend and spent two hours just talking to him. For that little space in time I felt normal. I got to just let go of all pretense and just be me. It made me realize how seldom I get the liberty to do that. It felt amazing! By the time I made it to school to pick up Charlie that nagging feeling started bubbling in my gut again. Almost like a whisper, it kept warning me that things might change for the worse again.
I do not tend to dwell on the past. My theory, that perseveration only serves to torture, keeps me from staying too long in that thought-place of "if only" or "could have" or "should have." Even so, it seems as the seasons come and go, the spirit hangs onto things from the past. An old friend whose father took his own life years ago once told me that the date of his death would sometimes come and go without her consciously even remembering it, but all the same she would fall into a state of melancholy for a few days. She said that more than once, after days of feeling down, she suddenly realized the time of year and made the connection to the traumatic memory from her teenage years when she lost her father so tragically. I think maybe my spirit remembers things that I choose not to recall sometimes too.
I can't complain. This year graced me with so many good things, especially if you count the absence of bad things. In stark comparison to years past, I find myself in a better position than ever. Although I forbid myself from dwelling on the sadness of the past, my spirit seems to remember. It continues to nag me with a wordless, unforgiving ache.
I refuse to let it win. Too much good surrounds me right now, for me to allow unconscious fears to spoil my spirit. I know by now that in every life good and bad must exist. Sometimes they dance together through your whole world. I think of times when their dance made me dizzy, unsure of where to look or how to feel. For now though, good is reigning supreme in my world and I plan to revel in it for as long as I can. Sure, the struggles still exist. Who can truly live without struggle? But I will take these struggles gladly, and let them feed my spirit with strength and joy--things I hope my soul hangs onto as tightly as it seems to cling to the disappointment and sadness of the past.
I can feel nothing but gratefulness today, not just for all the goodness that fills my life, but for the absence of so many struggles with which I remained so familiar for so long. I'll take this joy, even mingled with the sadness of missing my parents and traditions of years gone-by and hold it close, thankful for the memories, the strength and the reward of making it out of the darkness into the light of this beautiful Thanksgiving Day.
For whatever troubles plague you today, I wish you strength; and for all the joys life holds for you tomorrow, I wish you the perseverance to make it there.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
Immigration Day
I'm not mom of the year. Let's go ahead and get that out of the way. It's likely I'll never BE mom of the year and I'm on my third kid. I've got plenty of experience with the parenting thing but I still screw up a lot. For instance, I can't seem to keep up with the various school events taking place all the time. Yesterday I waited in the car line to pick Charlie up and got completely annoyed that he didn't come to the car when they called his number only to find out after he finally got in the car that he was in Chorus practice. I should have picked him up at 4:00-- not 2:30. I sent him back to practice and went to waste some time since by then, 4:00 was only an hour away.
This morning when I dropped Charlie off, I realized I forgot something else: Immigration Day.
With the Thanksgiving holiday upon us, teachers everywhere are dispensing lessons about how we all came to America. Charlie studied the story of the first Thanksgiving last week and we talked about the finer points at home. He blew me away at one point when he said something about the tolerance and kindness the Native Americans and Pilgrims showed one another, and that somehow it seems Americans want to forget that part of the story.
About two weeks ago we got a note in that dreaded Wednesday Folder asking parents to dress their kids up as Immigrants for school today. The suggested outfits were long dresses for girls, long pants, vests and hats for boys. I immediately wondered if this attire actually represented the majority of immigrants who came to our country? I think they were trying to represent a certain time-period in history, turn of the century-type styles perhaps; but it seems like they left a huge gap in there--a gap that took race or country of origin into consideration. Charlie wondered too, if all immigrants who came through New York City in the late 1800's and early 1900's were all dressed in the "uniform" of the day.
I seriously doubt it. A stark reminder of that thought hit me like a brick when I dropped my boy off this morning in his regular school clothes and saw an African American kid standing on the sidewalk wearing shorts and a sweatshirt with some sports team logo on the front. Ugh, I felt bad for that kid, because today while all the hoopla about immigrants is going on and all the little white boys are dressed like Jockeys getting ready to sprint across the finish line on horses named things like "Lucky Penny" and "Uncle Jimmy's Gambling Problem," he's going to be thinking, "That's not how my people came to America."
In fact, many people from countries all over the world did not show up here instantly Americanized. Most people came here with whatever they owned on their backs, and that meant the clothes that were the cultural norm for that time period in their countries of origin. Out of curiosity I did some Google research. I found this awesome link with actual photos of real immigrants from that era. None of them were dressed like Jockeys, by the way.
How I wished I had spoken up two weeks ago with a gentle reminder that not everyone who came to America in those days looked the same. A reminder that one of the things that has always made our country so amazing is the blending of cultures and customs from all over the world. There was a time when differences were celebrated, when people were curious and fascinated by not only the attire of their fellow Americans, but wanted to learn more about their religions, their beliefs about life and death and family. They wanted to taste the rich array of foods from around the world and they respected the differences between themselves and others.
My son's school has turned this event into a white-washed look-alike parade today. It's really a shame they aren't getting a chance to learn about the real way people came here.
Perhaps worst of all is the complete omission, after months of studying the Civil War, of how many African Americans ended up in our country. They didn't arrive on our shores with high hopes and lofty dreams. They came here bewildered and terrified, against their will. They were torn apart from their families, treated as less than human, used as whipping posts for the white elite as they were used like objects--tools for the use of making the rich man richer. By the time these immigrants were coming through Ellis Island at the turn of the century, slaves were free but life for the African American was anything but easy. While we welcomed people with white skin into our country with open arms and afforded them all the privileges of whiteness, people of color still languished, treated as sub-human, unworthy to even share the same restroom or water fountain with white people.
I'm glad I forgot about Immigration Day. I wouldn't have dressed my kid up like a tiny Americanized version of an Irishman anyway. I would have probably dug through his family roots to find that tattooed, shirtless German guy and made him look more like the real deal. I'm sure his school would appreciate a shirtless tattooed Charlie showing up for class today--well they should appreciate it anyway.
We have glossed over the ugly parts of our history long enough. It's sad to me that an elementary school would treat the amazingly diverse arrival of millions of Americans from all over the world by dressing them all up to look the same. I wish instead, they had taken the pains to portray our immigrants in a realistic way. We really missed a chance here, to teach our children about the value of diversity and acceptance. We missed the chance to describe the ugly, heart wrenching, life-altering struggles of the actual people who made America what it is--or was, or still needs to keep working toward.
Nope. I'm not Mom Of The Year. I never will be; but, I wish that just this once, I had remembered an event and dressed my kid accordingly.
The above photos were borrowed from The Washington Post. You can see more photos and read their article on how Immigrants looked when they showed up on Ellis Island by clicking the above link or clicking this one: Washington Post
This morning when I dropped Charlie off, I realized I forgot something else: Immigration Day.
With the Thanksgiving holiday upon us, teachers everywhere are dispensing lessons about how we all came to America. Charlie studied the story of the first Thanksgiving last week and we talked about the finer points at home. He blew me away at one point when he said something about the tolerance and kindness the Native Americans and Pilgrims showed one another, and that somehow it seems Americans want to forget that part of the story.
About two weeks ago we got a note in that dreaded Wednesday Folder asking parents to dress their kids up as Immigrants for school today. The suggested outfits were long dresses for girls, long pants, vests and hats for boys. I immediately wondered if this attire actually represented the majority of immigrants who came to our country? I think they were trying to represent a certain time-period in history, turn of the century-type styles perhaps; but it seems like they left a huge gap in there--a gap that took race or country of origin into consideration. Charlie wondered too, if all immigrants who came through New York City in the late 1800's and early 1900's were all dressed in the "uniform" of the day.
I seriously doubt it. A stark reminder of that thought hit me like a brick when I dropped my boy off this morning in his regular school clothes and saw an African American kid standing on the sidewalk wearing shorts and a sweatshirt with some sports team logo on the front. Ugh, I felt bad for that kid, because today while all the hoopla about immigrants is going on and all the little white boys are dressed like Jockeys getting ready to sprint across the finish line on horses named things like "Lucky Penny" and "Uncle Jimmy's Gambling Problem," he's going to be thinking, "That's not how my people came to America."
 |
| This dude was a Greek Soldier |
 |
| A German Immigrant |
 |
| An Algerian Man |
My son's school has turned this event into a white-washed look-alike parade today. It's really a shame they aren't getting a chance to learn about the real way people came here.
Perhaps worst of all is the complete omission, after months of studying the Civil War, of how many African Americans ended up in our country. They didn't arrive on our shores with high hopes and lofty dreams. They came here bewildered and terrified, against their will. They were torn apart from their families, treated as less than human, used as whipping posts for the white elite as they were used like objects--tools for the use of making the rich man richer. By the time these immigrants were coming through Ellis Island at the turn of the century, slaves were free but life for the African American was anything but easy. While we welcomed people with white skin into our country with open arms and afforded them all the privileges of whiteness, people of color still languished, treated as sub-human, unworthy to even share the same restroom or water fountain with white people.
I'm glad I forgot about Immigration Day. I wouldn't have dressed my kid up like a tiny Americanized version of an Irishman anyway. I would have probably dug through his family roots to find that tattooed, shirtless German guy and made him look more like the real deal. I'm sure his school would appreciate a shirtless tattooed Charlie showing up for class today--well they should appreciate it anyway.
We have glossed over the ugly parts of our history long enough. It's sad to me that an elementary school would treat the amazingly diverse arrival of millions of Americans from all over the world by dressing them all up to look the same. I wish instead, they had taken the pains to portray our immigrants in a realistic way. We really missed a chance here, to teach our children about the value of diversity and acceptance. We missed the chance to describe the ugly, heart wrenching, life-altering struggles of the actual people who made America what it is--or was, or still needs to keep working toward.
Nope. I'm not Mom Of The Year. I never will be; but, I wish that just this once, I had remembered an event and dressed my kid accordingly.
The above photos were borrowed from The Washington Post. You can see more photos and read their article on how Immigrants looked when they showed up on Ellis Island by clicking the above link or clicking this one: Washington Post
Sunday, November 19, 2017
The Granny Life
And here, I thought my partying days were over...
At 47, I'm tired. Too tired to go out partying on Friday night, long over the hangover experience, far past the eating breakfast before going to bed days. No. That's not me anymore. I'm a grandma.
I'm of the age that I start dozing on the couch at 8:00 pm. watching CSI (my generation's version of "Murder She Wrote") covered in blankets with only a solitary lamp lighting the room. Darn it. I try so hard to live the granny life, but I'm not pulling it off very well.
I reckon most grannies aren't still raising their own kiddos; still getting up to drive a kid to school every day, still re-learning how to divide fractions (for the fourth time in my life) and signing up to chaperone field trips.
But the biggest surprise for me, in my granny-hood years, is how late I stay up with these children. Why do grandchildren not have bedtimes? Athena and I stayed up and stayed up, and stayed up some more last night. We started with The Wizard of Oz and popcorn and snuggles with Uncle Charlie. Then Uncle Charlie disappeared back into his room and we watched Brave and Beauty and The Beast and Mickey Mouse Christmas. We ate sweets and drank chocolate milk and had to take at least 10 bathroom breaks. I'm telling you, it was almost as crazy as a night on the town with my pal DeLane. You know those nights when you end up at a friend's house, everyone asleep on the couches and chairs, people snoring on the floor? That was my night. Athena fell asleep laying spread eagle on her back, smack on top of me on the love-seat. I found Charlie rolled up like a burrito in a blanket on his bed, the XBox controller still gripped in his right hand.
After I put the little party animal to bed (in my bed) and put pillows around her to make sure she wouldn't fall off, I finally crawled under the covers to sleep. She immediately turned herself sideways in the bed and put her feet right in my stomach. This was the sleep-dance we did all night. Feet in my stomach, feet in my face, elbow to my nose once or twice...All the while she snored like a passed out 22 year old who stayed out too late with the wrong crowd.
At 6:30 this morning when I felt her sitting up in bed beside me, I became aware of the throbbing in my head. I looked up at her. She was smiling down at me, her hair all askance. "Hi Momo!" She said.
"Hi Athena." I said back, in my brightest granny voice. "Let's go get waffles."
So we all got dressed and hit up the Waffle House dressed like we just got up and pulled clothes out of the hamper without the lights on. The food was good, the kids were hilariously fun, but I couldn't wait to get back home and go back to sleep.
Of course, I didn't go back to sleep when I got home. I started loads of laundry and picked up toys and made beds. Then I put in a lasagna for lunch, all the while telling myself, "I'm taking a nap today."
Here I am though, still sitting awake. Not even CSI can put me to sleep right now.
I'm just telling y'all, don't think that life is going to slow down and give you a break once you're a grandma. You're still going to be up all night on Saturdays, eating breakfast too early on Sundays, walking around like a zombie on Mondays. The party never ends, it just changes into something different. Instead of tequila shots, you'll be slamming chocolate milk until 3:00 a.m. and let me tell you, there is such a thing as a chocolate milk hangover. It's only cured by a super sweet breakfast and lots of water and that's only if you're NOT lactose intolerant.
I'm going to just go try to recuperate for the remainder of the day. I gotta work tomorrow and I can't have the boss seeing me dragging in like I spent the whole weekend partying.
Enjoy your youth while you can, girls. If you think staying out all night at 27 is rough, wait until you're home all night with a 2 year old at 47!
At 47, I'm tired. Too tired to go out partying on Friday night, long over the hangover experience, far past the eating breakfast before going to bed days. No. That's not me anymore. I'm a grandma.
I'm of the age that I start dozing on the couch at 8:00 pm. watching CSI (my generation's version of "Murder She Wrote") covered in blankets with only a solitary lamp lighting the room. Darn it. I try so hard to live the granny life, but I'm not pulling it off very well.
I reckon most grannies aren't still raising their own kiddos; still getting up to drive a kid to school every day, still re-learning how to divide fractions (for the fourth time in my life) and signing up to chaperone field trips.
But the biggest surprise for me, in my granny-hood years, is how late I stay up with these children. Why do grandchildren not have bedtimes? Athena and I stayed up and stayed up, and stayed up some more last night. We started with The Wizard of Oz and popcorn and snuggles with Uncle Charlie. Then Uncle Charlie disappeared back into his room and we watched Brave and Beauty and The Beast and Mickey Mouse Christmas. We ate sweets and drank chocolate milk and had to take at least 10 bathroom breaks. I'm telling you, it was almost as crazy as a night on the town with my pal DeLane. You know those nights when you end up at a friend's house, everyone asleep on the couches and chairs, people snoring on the floor? That was my night. Athena fell asleep laying spread eagle on her back, smack on top of me on the love-seat. I found Charlie rolled up like a burrito in a blanket on his bed, the XBox controller still gripped in his right hand.
After I put the little party animal to bed (in my bed) and put pillows around her to make sure she wouldn't fall off, I finally crawled under the covers to sleep. She immediately turned herself sideways in the bed and put her feet right in my stomach. This was the sleep-dance we did all night. Feet in my stomach, feet in my face, elbow to my nose once or twice...All the while she snored like a passed out 22 year old who stayed out too late with the wrong crowd.
At 6:30 this morning when I felt her sitting up in bed beside me, I became aware of the throbbing in my head. I looked up at her. She was smiling down at me, her hair all askance. "Hi Momo!" She said.
 |
| The bartender should have cut her off hours ago. |
So we all got dressed and hit up the Waffle House dressed like we just got up and pulled clothes out of the hamper without the lights on. The food was good, the kids were hilariously fun, but I couldn't wait to get back home and go back to sleep.
Of course, I didn't go back to sleep when I got home. I started loads of laundry and picked up toys and made beds. Then I put in a lasagna for lunch, all the while telling myself, "I'm taking a nap today."
Here I am though, still sitting awake. Not even CSI can put me to sleep right now.
I'm just telling y'all, don't think that life is going to slow down and give you a break once you're a grandma. You're still going to be up all night on Saturdays, eating breakfast too early on Sundays, walking around like a zombie on Mondays. The party never ends, it just changes into something different. Instead of tequila shots, you'll be slamming chocolate milk until 3:00 a.m. and let me tell you, there is such a thing as a chocolate milk hangover. It's only cured by a super sweet breakfast and lots of water and that's only if you're NOT lactose intolerant.
I'm going to just go try to recuperate for the remainder of the day. I gotta work tomorrow and I can't have the boss seeing me dragging in like I spent the whole weekend partying.
Enjoy your youth while you can, girls. If you think staying out all night at 27 is rough, wait until you're home all night with a 2 year old at 47!
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
Irony
"You have a lot of kidney function still, but not enough to keep you off dialysis."
"You do a great job with your diet, but if we can't get your calcium under control with medication, you'll have to get a parathyroidectomy."
"We have a really great meeting place for a senior center; it's a shame more people won't come."
"Your son is extremely intelligent; but he has ADHD and needs medication or he will never be able to live up to his potential."
My day today. An exercise in cosmic irony, it landed me here on my couch, eyes closed as I type this because I'm too tired and overwhelmed to even look at it. Yeah, I know It'll need editing later.
It's like living in a world of big ol' buts--running into them everywhere you turn.
They somehow erase whatever came before them. The worst words to hear? "I love you, but..." You know what I'm talking about.
They leave you overwhelmed and worn out and feeling like everything you do in life is pretty darned pointless at times. I know it's not really. I know my decisions matter, I know it matters whether or not I can take a medication that is from Satan himself (which my doctors all swear I should tolerate "just fine" based on the notion that other patients tolerate it with no problem. Hello, y'all, I'm not "other patients" I'm me.)
Today I saw a new practitioner whom I'd never met before. She stared at my lab report and spoke in amazement at how great most of my lab values were. Then she harped on the calcium and Senispar and yadda yadda. She wanted to know what kind of dialysis solution I use (the weakest one) was completely blown away that I still get my period same as I always did. She was completely taken aback at the fact that four years into dialysis, I still pee. I've never had an EPO shot, my potassium levels have never gone wacko. I don't retain fluids so I can drink all I want without worry. I try to see all these things as blessings--my life could be much harder. Today though, I sort of felt angry about it. "You still have a lot of kidney function, but...." Ugh, I'm so tired of hearing that. So tired of kidneys that only half-ass do their job and doctors that want me to get a transplant and take scary drugs the rest of my life just because THEY think that's what is best for me...I'm just not convinced yet.
Then my boy--school, poor communication between them and me made me miss Thanksgiving Lunch with him today because his teacher told me to be at school at 12:20 and for some reason I was supposed to have been there at 10:30 instead but I didn't know that so my kid sat and waited and waited for me and I never showed up. I felt like mud because of that. Who eats lunch at 10:30 a.m.? Apparently I can go tomorrow but I don't know what time to go...So much confusion over such a simple thing--it's so unnecessary.
Charlie's 504 meeting is finally coming up tomorrow. I found out today that his teacher has gone to China until after the holidays, so on the day he starts his medication and for the next few weeks, she will not even be there to observe him and see if the meds are making a difference at all. She's supposed to be at this meeting tomorrow, so I'm not sure who I"m meeting with now besides the Vice Principal and for some reason a speech therapist. As far as I know my kid doesn't have any speech issues so I'm really puzzled by that one.
So...The meeting is finally upon us but the teacher who needs to be present to make all this work is in China.
That's my day.
So sue me if I'm overwhelmed and headachy and generally am embracing my own bad attitude.
I will find my optimism again by tomorrow morning. A good night's sleep fixes my attitude most of the time.
Everybody just better keep their buts out of my way tomorrow.
"You do a great job with your diet, but if we can't get your calcium under control with medication, you'll have to get a parathyroidectomy."
"We have a really great meeting place for a senior center; it's a shame more people won't come."
"Your son is extremely intelligent; but he has ADHD and needs medication or he will never be able to live up to his potential."
My day today. An exercise in cosmic irony, it landed me here on my couch, eyes closed as I type this because I'm too tired and overwhelmed to even look at it. Yeah, I know It'll need editing later.
It's like living in a world of big ol' buts--running into them everywhere you turn.
They somehow erase whatever came before them. The worst words to hear? "I love you, but..." You know what I'm talking about.
They leave you overwhelmed and worn out and feeling like everything you do in life is pretty darned pointless at times. I know it's not really. I know my decisions matter, I know it matters whether or not I can take a medication that is from Satan himself (which my doctors all swear I should tolerate "just fine" based on the notion that other patients tolerate it with no problem. Hello, y'all, I'm not "other patients" I'm me.)
Today I saw a new practitioner whom I'd never met before. She stared at my lab report and spoke in amazement at how great most of my lab values were. Then she harped on the calcium and Senispar and yadda yadda. She wanted to know what kind of dialysis solution I use (the weakest one) was completely blown away that I still get my period same as I always did. She was completely taken aback at the fact that four years into dialysis, I still pee. I've never had an EPO shot, my potassium levels have never gone wacko. I don't retain fluids so I can drink all I want without worry. I try to see all these things as blessings--my life could be much harder. Today though, I sort of felt angry about it. "You still have a lot of kidney function, but...." Ugh, I'm so tired of hearing that. So tired of kidneys that only half-ass do their job and doctors that want me to get a transplant and take scary drugs the rest of my life just because THEY think that's what is best for me...I'm just not convinced yet.
Then my boy--school, poor communication between them and me made me miss Thanksgiving Lunch with him today because his teacher told me to be at school at 12:20 and for some reason I was supposed to have been there at 10:30 instead but I didn't know that so my kid sat and waited and waited for me and I never showed up. I felt like mud because of that. Who eats lunch at 10:30 a.m.? Apparently I can go tomorrow but I don't know what time to go...So much confusion over such a simple thing--it's so unnecessary.
Charlie's 504 meeting is finally coming up tomorrow. I found out today that his teacher has gone to China until after the holidays, so on the day he starts his medication and for the next few weeks, she will not even be there to observe him and see if the meds are making a difference at all. She's supposed to be at this meeting tomorrow, so I'm not sure who I"m meeting with now besides the Vice Principal and for some reason a speech therapist. As far as I know my kid doesn't have any speech issues so I'm really puzzled by that one.
So...The meeting is finally upon us but the teacher who needs to be present to make all this work is in China.
That's my day.
So sue me if I'm overwhelmed and headachy and generally am embracing my own bad attitude.
I will find my optimism again by tomorrow morning. A good night's sleep fixes my attitude most of the time.
Everybody just better keep their buts out of my way tomorrow.
Monday, November 6, 2017
The Genesis
Earlier today a couple of people asked me some questions about my blog. I started this thing way back in 2011, mostly as a form of comic relief as I found myself re-entering the big-bad scary world of dating, which in this modern era seems to revolve an awful lot around meeting people via the internet. I joined a few online dating sites and as I went on dates with one loser after another, found myself becoming more and more amused with the diverse array of lunacy out there. Just perusing men's online profiles provided enough entertainment to make me forget about being lonely. Seriously, they were whack.
So I made up a name (get a little happy) because that was after all, my goal in finding a special someone, and thought the whole theme of this blog experience would center around my online dating fiascoes. Obviously somewhere along the way, I lost my focus.
I find catharsis in writing out my thoughts and feelings. I live so much inside my own head that it often gets crowded in here. I must find some way to empty out a little of the noise so I can make sense of it, order things, put them in their places.
The blog became, I suppose, a kind of journal about my journey. I started out in one place and now that I look back, I realize I've come a long way, baby. I went from making fun of myself to taking myself too seriously, to taking other people too seriously, to wherever I am now. I don't know where that is exactly, but ask me in another year or so and I can tell you; because I am writing it all down as I go.
Someone asked me, "How do you get over the feeling of throwing other people under the bus when all you want to do is write about your experiences from your own perspective?" I have no idea. I guess I've never felt like I threw anyone under any bus with my blog. Maybe I've called some people out before, but thrown them under a bus? No way. My understanding of "throwing someone under a bus" is when you try to blame someone else for your own shortcomings. I try my best NOT to do that; however, I'm okay with letting someone know when they've hurt me or angered me or both. To me that's not shoving someone into oncoming traffic, it's holding them accountable and expecting them to do the same for me.
Nobody's perfect.
How do you not get depressed when you go back and read over all your old posts? One person wanted to know. Easy answer: I don't usually go back and read through my old posts; not often anyway. When I do, I try to read them with the understanding that in the moment they were written, I was doing the best I could with whatever circumstances I had at the time. I wrote to get clarity, to find where I was going wrong, and to see if I needed to change something in my life. In most every case I can see where I took the steps I needed to take, I can see my own change and growth. That's how I can read back over some of my own saddest days and not wallow in the sadness all over again. You can't beat yourself up endlessly for making mistakes in the past.
Everybody makes mistakes.
Some days my son comes home with a blank sheet of paper and instructions from his teacher. "He needs to write an introduction, 3 paragraphs and a conclusion at home tonight because he never got started in class." The thing is, Charlie always has great ideas, he just doubts himself a lot; so in his moments of self-doubt, not knowing if his idea is "good enough" he sits thinking, afraid to put pencil to paper and just get started. Once he's home we talk over his ideas and when he articulates something brilliant to me I say, "There ya go! That's what you write down!" He's still unsure at first but once he gets started the ideas flow, he writes that intro, three paragraphs and a conclusion with no problem. It's all in the getting started that a lot of us trip ourselves up. Myself included.
We are all filled with self-doubt.
Journaling is my therapy. It soothes me, relaxes me, helps me make sense of the senseless or to at least accept that some things never make sense. Maybe it's not for you. Maybe a walk in nature is your thing, or listening to music or even playing an instrument, singing, dancing, banging on a drum. Maybe your therapy is a night out with friends, a big hug, an afternoon snuggled on the couch with your dog. Maybe your therapy is actually a real live therapist who listens without judging you and helps you find your own way through the emotional muck. Whatever it is, embrace it. Get started. Eventually you'll be glad you did.
We all need something to keep us sane.
The Quest is my sanity (or rather my insanity) splayed out in words for the world to see. It's messy and sometimes raw and often poorly articulated, but it is me and perhaps one of the most therapeutic aspects of all is in finding that I'm not alone. People identify with much of what I write because we all go through tough times. We all get lost. We all get scared. We all feel loss and pain and sorrow.
We are all human.
And that's what this blog is all about.
So I made up a name (get a little happy) because that was after all, my goal in finding a special someone, and thought the whole theme of this blog experience would center around my online dating fiascoes. Obviously somewhere along the way, I lost my focus.
I find catharsis in writing out my thoughts and feelings. I live so much inside my own head that it often gets crowded in here. I must find some way to empty out a little of the noise so I can make sense of it, order things, put them in their places.
The blog became, I suppose, a kind of journal about my journey. I started out in one place and now that I look back, I realize I've come a long way, baby. I went from making fun of myself to taking myself too seriously, to taking other people too seriously, to wherever I am now. I don't know where that is exactly, but ask me in another year or so and I can tell you; because I am writing it all down as I go.
Someone asked me, "How do you get over the feeling of throwing other people under the bus when all you want to do is write about your experiences from your own perspective?" I have no idea. I guess I've never felt like I threw anyone under any bus with my blog. Maybe I've called some people out before, but thrown them under a bus? No way. My understanding of "throwing someone under a bus" is when you try to blame someone else for your own shortcomings. I try my best NOT to do that; however, I'm okay with letting someone know when they've hurt me or angered me or both. To me that's not shoving someone into oncoming traffic, it's holding them accountable and expecting them to do the same for me.
Nobody's perfect.
How do you not get depressed when you go back and read over all your old posts? One person wanted to know. Easy answer: I don't usually go back and read through my old posts; not often anyway. When I do, I try to read them with the understanding that in the moment they were written, I was doing the best I could with whatever circumstances I had at the time. I wrote to get clarity, to find where I was going wrong, and to see if I needed to change something in my life. In most every case I can see where I took the steps I needed to take, I can see my own change and growth. That's how I can read back over some of my own saddest days and not wallow in the sadness all over again. You can't beat yourself up endlessly for making mistakes in the past.
Everybody makes mistakes.
Some days my son comes home with a blank sheet of paper and instructions from his teacher. "He needs to write an introduction, 3 paragraphs and a conclusion at home tonight because he never got started in class." The thing is, Charlie always has great ideas, he just doubts himself a lot; so in his moments of self-doubt, not knowing if his idea is "good enough" he sits thinking, afraid to put pencil to paper and just get started. Once he's home we talk over his ideas and when he articulates something brilliant to me I say, "There ya go! That's what you write down!" He's still unsure at first but once he gets started the ideas flow, he writes that intro, three paragraphs and a conclusion with no problem. It's all in the getting started that a lot of us trip ourselves up. Myself included.
We are all filled with self-doubt.
Journaling is my therapy. It soothes me, relaxes me, helps me make sense of the senseless or to at least accept that some things never make sense. Maybe it's not for you. Maybe a walk in nature is your thing, or listening to music or even playing an instrument, singing, dancing, banging on a drum. Maybe your therapy is a night out with friends, a big hug, an afternoon snuggled on the couch with your dog. Maybe your therapy is actually a real live therapist who listens without judging you and helps you find your own way through the emotional muck. Whatever it is, embrace it. Get started. Eventually you'll be glad you did.
We all need something to keep us sane.
The Quest is my sanity (or rather my insanity) splayed out in words for the world to see. It's messy and sometimes raw and often poorly articulated, but it is me and perhaps one of the most therapeutic aspects of all is in finding that I'm not alone. People identify with much of what I write because we all go through tough times. We all get lost. We all get scared. We all feel loss and pain and sorrow.
We are all human.
And that's what this blog is all about.
Tuesday, October 31, 2017
How Halloween Got Ruined
In October 1994 my daughters were 3 (about to turn 4 in December) and 16 months old. I worked at a childcare center in Traveler's Rest and took them with me every day. They took up all the space in my heart and mind and life. I remember thinking that everything I did was in some way, for them or about them or because of them. There's nothing quite like those years of your youth, when you find complete satisfaction in all that Mom entails.
I never minded waking up in the middle of the night. I enjoyed spending mornings playing with my baby, and watching Hannah come up with new and fascinating imaginary friends complete with the most fantastical stories ever told by an almost 4 year old. Watching them grow became my greatest joy in life. I could not imagine my world without them.
Members, at that time, of a Fundamentalist Baptist church, Halloween around the corner, my mind and emotions were fraught with anxiety about right and wrong. Our pastor and his wife sternly denounced all things Halloween. Their vehement protest to trick-or-treating left me wondering if something I enjoyed so much as a child could really be as evil as they portrayed it. My childhood memories, even as a child raised in a Fundamentalist family, conjured happy images of Halloweens, tromping through our neighborhood passing other kids on sidewalks dressed in Star Wars costumes, Wonder Woman costumes, and your standard Hobos and Ghosts of course, whose parents didn't think of Halloween until the last minute. Some houses in the neighborhood went out of their way to make creepy box tunnels for us to crawl through to find candy at the end. One house always had a guy in a coffin who jumped up at you when you walked past. Warm October or chilly October, we set out on foot, going house to house until our buckets filled to the brim. We never imagined we were taking part in some Satanic ritual that glorified Satan and blasphemed God. We did trick-or-treat, then went to church the next Sunday and told our church friends about our costumes. Halloween for us, was nothing more than an innocent time of childhood fun. I can't remember anything quite like the thrill of putting on that plastic mask that smelled all weird and had tiny nose holes to breath out of. The year I was Wonder Woman stands out in my mind as one of the best Halloweens ever!
I recall though, that in 1994, a kind of pall fell over everything locally. Two little boys--kidnapped in a carjacking in Union SC were headlining the daily news everywhere. All across the state people drove a little slower, watching out for a maroon colored Mazda that apparently was stolen with two little boys inside, roughly the same ages as my two girls. For weeks we watched Susan Smith on our screens, fake crying and pleading with no one really, to bring her boys home. We all wanted to believe her story, but deep down everyone felt a sinking sense of despair that Susan might be hiding something.
At church one Wednesday night during the height of this incident, my pastor's wife and I sat off to the side together after service. She went on and on about the people at her job, her relatives even, who seemed so caught up in the spirit of Halloween. It bothered her, she confided, that these people would involve their children in such wickedness. The conversation moved to the Smith boys' disappearance and the speculation that something horrible happened to them. I'm not sure if Susan Smith was suspected yet at this point, but what my pastor's wife said to me that night stuck with me and I think of it nearly every Halloween.
"The way everybody is getting so carried away with Halloween, it makes me kind of wish some Satan worshiper took those kids and has done something horrible to them. I want these people celebrating Halloween to get the message that they are dabbling in things that are evil. I know it sounds horrible of me to say that, but I just really wish something bad happened to them related to Halloween so people will stop all this Halloween stuff!"
Dumbfounded, I don't recall how I responded. I probably kind of shook my head and didn't verbally respond at all. What do you say to something like that?
A few days later in the evening as I prepared to leave work, the parent of one of my preschoolers came in to pick up her son. She looked sad--tired. I asked if she was okay.
"Yeah," she said with a sigh. "I just heard about those poor babies."
Having been at work all afternoon, I didn't know the latest news.
"What happened to them?" I asked, with a lump in my throat.
"She did away with them." The other mom said. "She drove them into the lake and drowned them."
My heart sunk. I wanted to run down those stairs and find my two babies and hold them tight. On the way home I thought about how horrified those children had to be when they saw their mommy jump out of a moving car and allow them to plunge, still strapped into their car seats, into a cold lake. I couldn't stop myself from imagining their horror as the car filled with water, as it covered their little faces, them struggling to breath, to escape their fate. What betrayal and abandonment must have filled their poor little fearful hearts in those final moments.
I thought briefly that my pastor's wife had gotten her wish. Then I remembered that the decision Susan Smith made had nothing to do with Halloween, nothing to do with Satanism, nothing to do with denouncing Christianity. In fact, Susan claimed to be a Christian. I bet if her boys had lived another 5 days, they would have been door to door in adorable costumes, trick-or-treating for their favorite treats. Instead, because their mother wanted a man more than she wanted them, they were a casualty of her agenda to get the man she wanted.
When we arrived home I held my girls, played with them, even cried at the thought of something happening to them. I couldn't grasp the pure selfishness and lack of parental love that would lead a mother to do such a thing; but I knew Halloween didn't cause it.
My girls never went trick or treating until after I divorced their father. Before then we went to "fall festivals" at church where the dressed up in costumes, went on hayrides and got candy. Often, they also got a huge dose of "why Halloween is evil" and a walk through the Gospel instead. No ghosts, goblins, witches or other scary spooks allowed. Nothing scary or "demonic" could be brought into these Church festivals. They were fun, in their own way, but the first year after the divorce all I wanted to do was take my girls to experience the joy of Trick-or Treat! We went to a local neighborhood and spent about an hour going house to house. They LOVED it! They couldn't understand why, all those years, their dad and I never let them do it.
The only answer I could give was fear. Fear of doing something wrong, fear of being judged by our pastor or other church members, fear that something horrible might be wished upon us by some other Christian because we took part in Halloween festivities and didn't refer to them as "fall festivals."
Things changed drastically in the Fundamentalist churches around upstate SC during the 80's and 90's. Things that or church thought nothing of when I was a small child became enormously egregious sins. Going to the movies--huge sin. Wearing pants if you were a woman--inexcusable sin. Swimming with your brother while wearing a swimsuit--bordering on falling into sexual sin and possibly teetering on the edge of Hell itself. Halloween though, became a menacing threat to all Christians held dear. It was the antithesis of Christmas, Satan's day to be glorified and exalted, and we, as Christians, were committing sins of defiant disregard for what God wanted us to do on Halloween.
Every year at this time I remember my pastor's wife's comment about Susan Smith's children. I wonder if she ever felt bad about saying that sometimes, then I realize, she wouldn't feel bad about that because she believed it would serve a higher purpose: To stop all those awful human beings from subjecting their children to costumes and Candy in the name of Satan. In her mind, those two boys' deaths served a purpose to teach parents not to succumb to society's pressure to celebrate Halloween.
After I got out of the Fundamentalist bubble, my world began to open up to me in ways I never dreamed. Halloween became one of my family's favorite nights of the year, shuffling through our neighborhood checking out all the other kids' costumes, getting candy from neighbors, and then crashing back at home by 8:00 to dump all our candy out on the floor and see what treats we'd found. Once in a while after we were home, we got to meet and greet and give candy to other kids too.
Late at night, I tucked them into bed, the excitement over Halloween still in their voices as I left the room to let them drift off to sleep.
Religious or not, every kid deserves a chance to bask in the pure innocence that is Halloween for most every one.
And as for those self-righteous judges who harbor ill wishes in their hearts towards children of parents who don't deprive them of fun, amazing memory building childhood experiences; I hope they feel the full weight of their ill wishes on others. I hope they come to understand that their wishing aloud even, for something horrible to have happened to those little Smith boys, made them much more evil than any parent who dresses up their kddo as a cowboy and sends him knocking on doors asking strangers to fill his hat with chocolate.
The darkness of Smith's deed hangs over me every Halloween. I think of her boys, now they' be in college, perhaps married and/or with children of their own. She took that away from them, not because of a holiday, but because her short-term goals in life were more important to her than the lives of her children.
We do a disservice to ourselves, our families and our friends when we assume that things like Halloween are what invite evil into our worlds. We invite it daily, when people put on their proverbial disguises as they leave home. We invite it daily when we don't speak up for someone who is being mistreated.
We keep quiet about all the real evil that happens where Halloween is not a factor. We find excuses to believe that the welts on a girls legs are from a "spanking" rather than physical abuse. We find ourselves defending all things labeled "christian" whether or not they actually hold true to Christianity. And children drowned in the back seat of cars? A lesson to everyone who doesn't shun Halloween as a Satanic ritual designed to steal the very souls of our kids.
This was Fundamentalist life for me. A life filled with worry and anxiety over seeing, hearing or doing something sinful. I had a life that made me miss out on some of the most fun, innocent, joyful times of my girl's lives.
Every year since I left my husband, Halloween has been one of our favorite family times together. So far no one has gotten a poisoned apple or bitten into razor blade candy.
I'm grateful I made my escape from Fundamentalism and all the life-experiences it denied me and my kids. This is my life now, and I know God is with me even as I take my kid from house to house, dressed as an Empty Child from Dr. Who and my granddaughter charms candy givers with her sweet "Trick or Traeeaat!" We are building something special here, and in the end, Satan will not have any power over me because of it.
Halloween got ruined for much of my girls' childhoods, because of Fundamentalist insistence that we could not be truly Christian and participate in Halloween. I'm here to tell you now, it's not true.
Now...to find that candy bucket...
We do a disservice to ourselves, our families and our friends when we assume that things like Halloween are what invite evil into our worlds. We invite it daily, when people put on their proverbial disguises as they leave home. We invite it daily when we don't speak up for someone who is being mistreated.
We keep quiet about all the real evil that happens where Halloween is not a factor. We find excuses to believe that the welts on a girls legs are from a "spanking" rather than physical abuse. We find ourselves defending all things labeled "christian" whether or not they actually hold true to Christianity. And children drowned in the back seat of cars? A lesson to everyone who doesn't shun Halloween as a Satanic ritual designed to steal the very souls of our kids.
This was Fundamentalist life for me. A life filled with worry and anxiety over seeing, hearing or doing something sinful. I had a life that made me miss out on some of the most fun, innocent, joyful times of my girl's lives.
Every year since I left my husband, Halloween has been one of our favorite family times together. So far no one has gotten a poisoned apple or bitten into razor blade candy.
I'm grateful I made my escape from Fundamentalism and all the life-experiences it denied me and my kids. This is my life now, and I know God is with me even as I take my kid from house to house, dressed as an Empty Child from Dr. Who and my granddaughter charms candy givers with her sweet "Trick or Traeeaat!" We are building something special here, and in the end, Satan will not have any power over me because of it.
Halloween got ruined for much of my girls' childhoods, because of Fundamentalist insistence that we could not be truly Christian and participate in Halloween. I'm here to tell you now, it's not true.
Now...to find that candy bucket...
Monday, October 30, 2017
Tripped Switch
This morning I got to work almost an hour early after dropping my boy off at school and then meeting the husband of a member with Alzheimer's who cannot wait at home by herself for the Senior Action van to pick her up. Bev and I drove to Wal-Mart at 7:45 to grab supplies for our Halloween party, then hurried back to the center to set everything up.
If you've never tried to make a quick run into the store with a person who has Alzheimer's, you might not understand why our Wal-Mart trip didn't exactly go as fast as I'd planned. Our pleasant, slow paced conversation on the way there gave way to minor frustration on my part when my pal Bev wanted to stop and peruse all the Halloween costumes at the front of the store. You know all those displays that are set up to grab your attention and distract you from your original purpose? Well we got stopped by most of them. I find it difficult to stay bothered with her for long. She's so funny, witty even; but as time ticked away and nothing I needed made itself easy for me to find, I attempted to kick things into gear--snap her back into MY reality for a few minutes.
We finally made it out the door and to the center before 9:00. Of course the first thing I did when I walked in the door was flip the light switch. Nothing happened. Then I remembered a text I got over the weekend from Zack. He said the lights in the foyer were making a strange noise so he flipped off the breaker switch until they could be checked out. Thinking nothing more of it, I went on into our room, then to my office where again, I flipped the light switch and nothing happened. Oh well, no bother. I don't use my office much anyway. We got a few decorations up and I realized I still wasn't in my costume. I excused myself to the ladies' room to finish getting ready. I opened the door, flipped the switch: Nothing. Now, I can deal with no lights in the foyer, there are windows there. I can deal with no lights in my office, there's a light just outside my door. However, in the ladies' room, not a window or ambient glow from anywhere.
I went in search of that breaker box.
Through one door, then another door, and finally there it was. Three switches were turned off and not knowing which one to flip, I flipped all 3 until I saw light. Day, saved.
At least, it was saved until I picked up my boy from school. He had a horrible, frustrating day. He got confused and overwhelmed with his classwork and at some point, a switch got flipped.
Just like those outlets in your bathroom that pop and turn off if you plug in too many things at once, his brain got overloaded, he started to melt down inside. The only thing left to do? Turn off the energy supply.
Just like the lights in our foyer, my boy sat, darkened and resigned not to shine. Unfortunately no one seemed to have the wherewithal to go looking for his breaker box. After all, there is a way to switch him back on when he gets discouraged, but first someone has to find the motivation to look for the switch.
As a mom it is so frustrating to watch his frustration. It is hard to not judge the teacher who has 20-something other kids who are tripping switches all day long. She probably needs an electrician just to get through the day, so I imagine she's flipped plenty of switches off and on over the years. How then, could she not see what was happening to my kid right before her eyes?
I wrote her an email tonight, gently trying to explain what happened today because I know my boy can't put it all into words for her. I hope that somehow as a team, his school and I can find our way to that well-hidden breaker box and find a way to keep those switches in the ON position more than in the OFF one.
He is still, for the most part, in a state of melt-down tonight. Nothing is going his way. I am hoping a good night's sleep will reset him and that tomorrow will be better but who knows? He might need a stealthy teacher to find a flashlight and to searching through the depths of his mind for that switch.
I just hope she will understand it's there and if she just takes the time to go looking for it, she can find it.
We all can.
If you've never tried to make a quick run into the store with a person who has Alzheimer's, you might not understand why our Wal-Mart trip didn't exactly go as fast as I'd planned. Our pleasant, slow paced conversation on the way there gave way to minor frustration on my part when my pal Bev wanted to stop and peruse all the Halloween costumes at the front of the store. You know all those displays that are set up to grab your attention and distract you from your original purpose? Well we got stopped by most of them. I find it difficult to stay bothered with her for long. She's so funny, witty even; but as time ticked away and nothing I needed made itself easy for me to find, I attempted to kick things into gear--snap her back into MY reality for a few minutes.
We finally made it out the door and to the center before 9:00. Of course the first thing I did when I walked in the door was flip the light switch. Nothing happened. Then I remembered a text I got over the weekend from Zack. He said the lights in the foyer were making a strange noise so he flipped off the breaker switch until they could be checked out. Thinking nothing more of it, I went on into our room, then to my office where again, I flipped the light switch and nothing happened. Oh well, no bother. I don't use my office much anyway. We got a few decorations up and I realized I still wasn't in my costume. I excused myself to the ladies' room to finish getting ready. I opened the door, flipped the switch: Nothing. Now, I can deal with no lights in the foyer, there are windows there. I can deal with no lights in my office, there's a light just outside my door. However, in the ladies' room, not a window or ambient glow from anywhere.
I went in search of that breaker box.
Through one door, then another door, and finally there it was. Three switches were turned off and not knowing which one to flip, I flipped all 3 until I saw light. Day, saved.
At least, it was saved until I picked up my boy from school. He had a horrible, frustrating day. He got confused and overwhelmed with his classwork and at some point, a switch got flipped.
Just like those outlets in your bathroom that pop and turn off if you plug in too many things at once, his brain got overloaded, he started to melt down inside. The only thing left to do? Turn off the energy supply.
Just like the lights in our foyer, my boy sat, darkened and resigned not to shine. Unfortunately no one seemed to have the wherewithal to go looking for his breaker box. After all, there is a way to switch him back on when he gets discouraged, but first someone has to find the motivation to look for the switch.
As a mom it is so frustrating to watch his frustration. It is hard to not judge the teacher who has 20-something other kids who are tripping switches all day long. She probably needs an electrician just to get through the day, so I imagine she's flipped plenty of switches off and on over the years. How then, could she not see what was happening to my kid right before her eyes?
I wrote her an email tonight, gently trying to explain what happened today because I know my boy can't put it all into words for her. I hope that somehow as a team, his school and I can find our way to that well-hidden breaker box and find a way to keep those switches in the ON position more than in the OFF one.
He is still, for the most part, in a state of melt-down tonight. Nothing is going his way. I am hoping a good night's sleep will reset him and that tomorrow will be better but who knows? He might need a stealthy teacher to find a flashlight and to searching through the depths of his mind for that switch.
I just hope she will understand it's there and if she just takes the time to go looking for it, she can find it.
We all can.
Tuesday, October 17, 2017
Can I Speak to The Manager
"I do not manage my life very well," I said to myself in the mirror.
Standing before myself, I examined my too-long hair that needs a trim. "I can't even manage to go get my hair cut." I thought.
Then a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach hit me as I thought about a dozen other things I need to manage in an adult-like fashion, but continue to procrastinate over instead. All of this washed over me in the span of a few seconds while Charlie struggled with homework in the living room and I tried to decide whether to wear makeup to my support group meeting tonight.
"I'm such a rotten parent! Why did I take his word for it when Charlie expressed his confidence in acing his latest math test? I know better, or should by now, but I honestly trusted his sheer self-assurance. That left me sitting on my sofa this afternoon staring at a too-low test grade on a test my son was positive he would ace. Onto the English test: Another too-low score. He didn't understand the directions at all. When I read the directions aloud to him he answered every single question correctly.
I find myself frustrated with his school and in the processes we must go through in order to get help for him. It seems like a never-ending trail of checklists and forms to fill out, meeting after meeting, note after note flowing out and back from his teacher and me. Still, no tangible help makes its way to my kid and I sit with these tests on my lap, feeling helpless and inadequate as a mom.
"If I managed my life better, " I thought, "I could home school my boy." Then I remember that clothes still sit in my dryer from Sunday afternoon, unfolded, not put away. I remember the full hamper in my room, I remember that car I need to sell, the bills I can't pay, the calendar for work that I still need to finish for November. None of it sounds all that difficult to accomplish, but I swear sometimes I wish I had a personal assistant to help me manage my life.
On a whim I reorganized my closets last Thursday night. I put all the winter clothes on the right and the summer clothes on the left. This morning, in the nippy autumn air, I flung open the door to my winter clothes and found lots of pants, leggings and boots--only 3 or 4 tops. So I spent the day in a sloppy green shirt and a pair of what I consider "house pants". I made myself go to the Goodwill in search of clothes for the top-half of my body, but only found a few things. In fact, I bought two short sleeved T-Shirts I didn't even need; one because it says "Marvel" on the front and I thought my boy would like it and the other because it said something inspirational, I don't remember now exactly what. This is how I manage my life--in randomness, procrastination and carefully supervised neglect.
Making big decisions is not my strength. I worry too much about making the wrong decision, so often I put off making a decision at all. For instance, I still cannot decide whether to buy this house I'm living in now. I make a list of pros and cons and it always turns out even. I figure maybe it doesn't matter one way or the other, as long as there's a roof over my head, but realistically I know that if my landlord decides to sell and I don't buy, I'll be looking at a move. The concept overwhelms me to the point that I am frozen. I hate to fall back on idiom, but I'm like a deer in headlights lately.
I know what I want. I want to help my child find learning easier and more fun. I want to see him succeed and find confidence in his ability not only to learn but to demonstrate his knowledge in the classroom. I want to be his teacher, his cheerleader, his strength. I fear I merely stand in the way of progress too often. I want to own a home again. Maybe not this home, although I enjoy fixing it up in my mind. Problem is, it's free to fix it up in my mind. In real life, it costs money, and for all I want to do, big money.
I am not a big money kind of gal.
Probably I am not a big money gal because I suck and managing my life. I always knew as a kid that someday I would make my own choices in life; but I never understood how much pressure is involved when you're the boss--or to be more accurate, when you are your own boss.
Sometimes I think "how nice would it be to have a housekeeper, or a laundry lady, or a special tutor to help my kid with homework." Sometimes I wish someone else would make the tough choices for me so I can get off the hook for a change. That's not how it works though.
When I get mad at the manager, she gets an earful. It's usually while I'm standing in the mirror putting makeup on, thinking about all the adult things I need to accomplish. I shame myself for being so lax; I kind of hate myself for not keeping up with all those pieces of paper from Medicare and Baxter and DaVita. I wish I were better at being a "good patient."
As I said before, I went to a support group meeting this evening. I facilitate this group, spent over an hour listening to caregivers talk about the tremendous burden and drain of caring for a loved on with dementia. My heart went out to them as they looked to me for tips and tricks to help manage the behaviors of their loved ones. I relayed what little I know on the subject and then carried on. My heart went out to them but I'm afraid I was not much help.
After the meeting I went to dinner with a good friend. We talked about Charlie's grades and she, being a retired teacher, talked with him a little about how he can approach tests and writing essays a different way. I am grateful for her help. When we got home Charlie finished his essay by bed time and got tucked in just at 9:30. The problem is, the essay was supposed to have been done in class. Instead of doing it, he sat staring into space for 30 minutes.
Life at home with him is not much easier. I repeat myself numerous times per day--not because he doesn't listen, but because he often only catches the tail end of whatever I say. I sometimes grow frustrated with him, then I remember that I'm the one failing here, not him. Am I the one who is clueless about what goes wrong every time he takes a test. I don't think his teacher could possibly see otherwise, but maybe I'm just insane.
It's on days like today when chaos reigns supreme that I really, really want to call the manager up and tell her that she needs to get her crap together--teach her staff some people skills, Problem is when you are the management, there's no one else to call. You just have to suck it up and do your job--like it or not.
So I'm over here, just trying my best to do my job--not checking out on life in general, just putting a whole lot of things off until...who knows when.
Maybe what I really need is a personal manager to keep my life on track. Or maybe I just need to simplify the life I already have.
Monday, October 16, 2017
Most Alone
Often in conversations with friends I assert that I rarely feel lonely. Most of them insist my lack of loneliness is directly correlated with the fact that my son lives with me. It's true, I am rarely alone in the literal sense of the word. My eleven year old is usually here with me, playing in his room, doing homework in the kitchen or wandering in and out of the living room to ask me questions or tell me long stories about video games or other things I barely understand.
It seems that the concept of aloneness gets swallowed up in the idea of loneliness. The two are not mutually exclusive.
My son is a constant presence in my life and for that I am grateful. He gives me purpose and joy in ways nothing else really could; however, my eleven year old child is not a companion. In conversations about dating, marriage, companionship, I find that so many people assume my relationship with my child must fill the void of an, intimate relationship. Usually this assumption is made by people who either do not have children or who have never lived and "uncoupled" life for any length of time.
People insist that I MUST be lonely without a romantic partner, but honestly I'm not. When I tell them I don't feel lonely, they circle back to--"Well, you have a kid."
I do know what lonely is. I know what being truly alone is. At one time in my life I spent a few years in that space of aloneness. I learned during that time, what true friends are and that sometimes even true friends cannot muster up enough empathy to truly stand by you during the toughest times.
Lately I think back on those years a lot. I remember myself as a completely unhinged person. I made bad decisions, lived in a constant state of depression and discouragement. There were times I really wanted to die. I had a 4 year old child at home to care for and I'm not ashamed to admit, I was barely making it--barely functioning as a mother, barely functioning as an adult.
Guilt overtakes me often when I think back on those couple of years. "Why was I so stupid?" I wonder. It wasn't until a few days ago that something dawned on me. During that time literally no one called to check on me. No one stopped in to see if I needed help, someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on. No one offered to help me with my kid, offered to even try to understand what I was experiencing. No one showed me that they cared.
I considered myself a person with amazing friends. It never occurred to me that they didn't know how badly I struggled just to get out of bed every day. I never imagined that they'd want to hear all the hurt and confusion and sheer terror I felt at the aspect of just living my life post-trauma. I don't think that I even knew how badly I was traumatized. I felt as though I wore them out with my constant "drama" and I felt judged by them. I created distance and they allowed me to drift away. It became a dynamic that left me more alone than I'd ever been in my life, forced to feel my way through a kind of darkness that covered my entire world. I was just fumbling my way through life, stepping in holes, running into walls, crashing into bed at night hoping I wouldn't wake up the next day.
A lot of things led me to that place.
The year was 2008-2009. In September 2008 I split up with Charlie's dad. Over the last year of our relationship he had become increasingly unstable. He could not keep a job, spent an inordinate amount of time online looking at porn and gambling away my paychecks. He was verbally abusive to my daughters when I was not around and frequently used emotional blackmail to keep me from ending the relationship. I lived in fear that he would harm himself or one of my children if I disrupted the status quo. He was fired from 2 jobs for not actually working while he was supposed to be working. I helped him get a job at a hospice and his reputation there was quickly souring because he would not shower or wear clean clothes to work. After 2 years of begging him to get help and listening to hundreds of excuses why he didn't need help (after all he said, I was the one who had a "problem.") I started to prepare to end the relationship. I set up a separate bank account, contacted his family and friends to see if they'd let him stay with them, and was attempting to make a calculated, calm, wise separation with little conflict.
Unfortunately my plans came to naught on a Saturday morning when he lost his crap and followed my youngest daughter up the stairs shouting obscenities at her, calling her a "retard" and threatening physical violence against both my daughters. The police were called. He was removed from the house and never allowed to come back. He didn't take the breakup well.
For months and months--over a year and a half to be exact, he stalked and harassed me. He followed me around, harassed my friends and coworkers. He sent nasty letters to my parents, my boss, my closest friends. He threatened a man that I briefly dated, broke into my house when I wasn't home, went through my garbage, watched me through the back windows in my house. He sent harassing emails, texts, left notes. He drove by my work numerous times per day, accused me of all kinds of inappropriate behaviors, threatened to kidnap Charlie. He employed his new girlfriends to call, email, show up at my front door. He tried to hire an "actress" to come to my door and say that the man I was dating was her fiancee. I honestly got tired of the drama, so I couldn't blame my friends for not wanting to hear about it anymore. I needed support--I needed to tell someone what was happening to me. The unpredictable nature of it all--of finding policemen in my house with flashlights at night because he reported me "missing" one Saturday, was so stressful. I never knew what to expect from one day to the next. Until he was finally arrested for stalking and harassing me, I had no peace and my friends, well, they didn't really want to associate with me much. I didn't blame them. I felt like a pariah. Even after his arrest the behaviors continued, culminating in a charge against me by the family court, of contempt. In August of 2010 I sat in a courtroom defending myself against his outlandish accusations. Fortunately, the whole thing backfired on him and he ended up losing all his court ordered custody and visitation rights. In order to restore them he would need to agree to allow a guardian ad litem to review his mental health history. He walked away from court that day, defeated, and out of Charlie's life. He makes no effort to establish or maintain a relationship with his son.
By 2009 I was dating someone that I really liked. We got along well, but both knew our relationship wouldn't ever get serious. He became friends with my friend Joey and the three of us, along with family and on double dates, spent lots of time together. One year we were all together for Thanksgiving dinner, the very next year they were both gone, one dead from suicide and one moved to another state. In fact, the man I was dating left for his new job/home 2000 miles away on the same day as my friend's funeral. My daughter graduated high school two months prior and moved out on her own. My youngest daughter decided to go spend a year with her dad. I was alone in my big house with just my 3 year old boy. The quiet was deafening, the grief overwhelming, and people who seemed to care, understand, empathize with my situation? Nonexistent.
I admit that their absence wasn't all their faults. I tend to isolate myself when I am down and in my isolation, I spent a lot of time breaking down. Depression and grief gripped me so tightly that at times I could barely breathe. My kidneys were failing quickly, I had no insurance. My employer fired me because they found out I was seeking a kidney transplant in lieu of starting dialysis. With none of my medications and no way to pay for them, I knew my fate and deep down, hoped I would just go ahead and die.
I know depression. I know what Alone feels like. I know the difference between alone and lonely.
I made plenty of horrible mistakes during that time period of my life. I felt worthless, like a failure, a person that no one should or would ever love. I was convinced no one could understand the brokenness inside me, and even if they did, they wouldn't care. I pushed people away, ashamed of my struggle, ashamed of who I was.
Somehow I made it out of that deep, dark hole. When I look back I'm not even sure how. There were plenty of nights that I held enough sleeping pills in my hand to put an end to it all, but for some reason I didn't. I wasn't sure if things would ever get better, but I hoped.
Even on the darkest days I had that tiny sliver of hope. That's all that kept me alive.
If you've never felt like the only person in the world fighting a battle that no one else knew about or even remotely understood, you don't know what feeling alone is. I thought of myself as a freak of nature--someone destined for failure, death, at the very least condemnation. I believed I brought all these misfortunes on myself and that my friends abandoned me because they saw how foolish and irresponsible I was. Why should they feel sympathy for someone who screwed her life up so badly? Shame overtook me and separated me from the people who loved me.
I am still prone to that shame if I dwell on thoughts of that time. I am prone to bitterness too, when I think of driving to my friend's funeral alone with just my daughters in the car. I felt abandoned by everyone in my life except my toddler. Can anyone who never experienced such loss really understand how it feels?
I suppose not. I do though. I understand how it feels now and maybe if nothing else, that experience taught me how to love other people better. Maybe it taught me to reserve judgment, to extend empathy and kindness and to offer a helping hand when I see someone else struggling.
Things got better for a while, things got worse for a while. I made poor decisions that cost me so much--time I'll never get back. I grappled with the idea of being a "sick" person, of spending the rest of my life alone because I thought no one would want to be with someone as damaged as me--my health problems, my past relationship struggles, three kids...I saw myself as liability, not an asset. I wondered if I could ever feel at peace imagining my life as a single person.
My life took some very curvy, twisty, dizzying turns over the last 10 years. I never dreamed I could end up where I am now--not just here in Traveler's Rest or working in Marietta. Not just living in this cute little cottage on a hillside, but satisfied. I am not lonely. I do not miss being in a relationship one bit. I never thought I could be this satisfied without a partner but I have learned, finally, to be my own best friend.
There is no substitution for good friends--their love, support, inspiration. They love me, this I know. I know I am valued and that if I need them, all I must do is call. However, I rarely need to anymore. I am finally learning to treat myself with kindness, to give myself the kind of understanding I extend to other people.
I write all of this to you who struggle. For you who feel alone, lonely, afraid, ashamed. There is always a glimmer of hope, even if it's as tiny as a speck of glitter. Cling to it. Give yourself time, give those who love you an opportunity to show you their love. Don't convince yourself that your own shame means your friends judge you harshly. True friends consider all your trials; they give you a pass for some bad decisions. They support your every effort to just make it from one day to the next.
Never convince yourself that you are your circumstances. Never allow yourself to wallow in shame over things that didn't go your way. Learn from your mistakes, carry on. Let people love you and help you.
Someday you will come through this. You will find the other side of the darkness where light and joy and love unspeakable wraps you in hope and strength every step of the way.
Reach out to those who love you. Stop judging yourself so harshly. Treasure even the worst days because they are opportunities for growth.
Never, ever, ever give up.
It seems that the concept of aloneness gets swallowed up in the idea of loneliness. The two are not mutually exclusive.
My son is a constant presence in my life and for that I am grateful. He gives me purpose and joy in ways nothing else really could; however, my eleven year old child is not a companion. In conversations about dating, marriage, companionship, I find that so many people assume my relationship with my child must fill the void of an, intimate relationship. Usually this assumption is made by people who either do not have children or who have never lived and "uncoupled" life for any length of time.
People insist that I MUST be lonely without a romantic partner, but honestly I'm not. When I tell them I don't feel lonely, they circle back to--"Well, you have a kid."
I do know what lonely is. I know what being truly alone is. At one time in my life I spent a few years in that space of aloneness. I learned during that time, what true friends are and that sometimes even true friends cannot muster up enough empathy to truly stand by you during the toughest times.
Lately I think back on those years a lot. I remember myself as a completely unhinged person. I made bad decisions, lived in a constant state of depression and discouragement. There were times I really wanted to die. I had a 4 year old child at home to care for and I'm not ashamed to admit, I was barely making it--barely functioning as a mother, barely functioning as an adult.
Guilt overtakes me often when I think back on those couple of years. "Why was I so stupid?" I wonder. It wasn't until a few days ago that something dawned on me. During that time literally no one called to check on me. No one stopped in to see if I needed help, someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on. No one offered to help me with my kid, offered to even try to understand what I was experiencing. No one showed me that they cared.
I considered myself a person with amazing friends. It never occurred to me that they didn't know how badly I struggled just to get out of bed every day. I never imagined that they'd want to hear all the hurt and confusion and sheer terror I felt at the aspect of just living my life post-trauma. I don't think that I even knew how badly I was traumatized. I felt as though I wore them out with my constant "drama" and I felt judged by them. I created distance and they allowed me to drift away. It became a dynamic that left me more alone than I'd ever been in my life, forced to feel my way through a kind of darkness that covered my entire world. I was just fumbling my way through life, stepping in holes, running into walls, crashing into bed at night hoping I wouldn't wake up the next day.
A lot of things led me to that place.
The year was 2008-2009. In September 2008 I split up with Charlie's dad. Over the last year of our relationship he had become increasingly unstable. He could not keep a job, spent an inordinate amount of time online looking at porn and gambling away my paychecks. He was verbally abusive to my daughters when I was not around and frequently used emotional blackmail to keep me from ending the relationship. I lived in fear that he would harm himself or one of my children if I disrupted the status quo. He was fired from 2 jobs for not actually working while he was supposed to be working. I helped him get a job at a hospice and his reputation there was quickly souring because he would not shower or wear clean clothes to work. After 2 years of begging him to get help and listening to hundreds of excuses why he didn't need help (after all he said, I was the one who had a "problem.") I started to prepare to end the relationship. I set up a separate bank account, contacted his family and friends to see if they'd let him stay with them, and was attempting to make a calculated, calm, wise separation with little conflict.
Unfortunately my plans came to naught on a Saturday morning when he lost his crap and followed my youngest daughter up the stairs shouting obscenities at her, calling her a "retard" and threatening physical violence against both my daughters. The police were called. He was removed from the house and never allowed to come back. He didn't take the breakup well.
For months and months--over a year and a half to be exact, he stalked and harassed me. He followed me around, harassed my friends and coworkers. He sent nasty letters to my parents, my boss, my closest friends. He threatened a man that I briefly dated, broke into my house when I wasn't home, went through my garbage, watched me through the back windows in my house. He sent harassing emails, texts, left notes. He drove by my work numerous times per day, accused me of all kinds of inappropriate behaviors, threatened to kidnap Charlie. He employed his new girlfriends to call, email, show up at my front door. He tried to hire an "actress" to come to my door and say that the man I was dating was her fiancee. I honestly got tired of the drama, so I couldn't blame my friends for not wanting to hear about it anymore. I needed support--I needed to tell someone what was happening to me. The unpredictable nature of it all--of finding policemen in my house with flashlights at night because he reported me "missing" one Saturday, was so stressful. I never knew what to expect from one day to the next. Until he was finally arrested for stalking and harassing me, I had no peace and my friends, well, they didn't really want to associate with me much. I didn't blame them. I felt like a pariah. Even after his arrest the behaviors continued, culminating in a charge against me by the family court, of contempt. In August of 2010 I sat in a courtroom defending myself against his outlandish accusations. Fortunately, the whole thing backfired on him and he ended up losing all his court ordered custody and visitation rights. In order to restore them he would need to agree to allow a guardian ad litem to review his mental health history. He walked away from court that day, defeated, and out of Charlie's life. He makes no effort to establish or maintain a relationship with his son.
By 2009 I was dating someone that I really liked. We got along well, but both knew our relationship wouldn't ever get serious. He became friends with my friend Joey and the three of us, along with family and on double dates, spent lots of time together. One year we were all together for Thanksgiving dinner, the very next year they were both gone, one dead from suicide and one moved to another state. In fact, the man I was dating left for his new job/home 2000 miles away on the same day as my friend's funeral. My daughter graduated high school two months prior and moved out on her own. My youngest daughter decided to go spend a year with her dad. I was alone in my big house with just my 3 year old boy. The quiet was deafening, the grief overwhelming, and people who seemed to care, understand, empathize with my situation? Nonexistent.
I admit that their absence wasn't all their faults. I tend to isolate myself when I am down and in my isolation, I spent a lot of time breaking down. Depression and grief gripped me so tightly that at times I could barely breathe. My kidneys were failing quickly, I had no insurance. My employer fired me because they found out I was seeking a kidney transplant in lieu of starting dialysis. With none of my medications and no way to pay for them, I knew my fate and deep down, hoped I would just go ahead and die.
I know depression. I know what Alone feels like. I know the difference between alone and lonely.
I made plenty of horrible mistakes during that time period of my life. I felt worthless, like a failure, a person that no one should or would ever love. I was convinced no one could understand the brokenness inside me, and even if they did, they wouldn't care. I pushed people away, ashamed of my struggle, ashamed of who I was.
Somehow I made it out of that deep, dark hole. When I look back I'm not even sure how. There were plenty of nights that I held enough sleeping pills in my hand to put an end to it all, but for some reason I didn't. I wasn't sure if things would ever get better, but I hoped.
Even on the darkest days I had that tiny sliver of hope. That's all that kept me alive.
If you've never felt like the only person in the world fighting a battle that no one else knew about or even remotely understood, you don't know what feeling alone is. I thought of myself as a freak of nature--someone destined for failure, death, at the very least condemnation. I believed I brought all these misfortunes on myself and that my friends abandoned me because they saw how foolish and irresponsible I was. Why should they feel sympathy for someone who screwed her life up so badly? Shame overtook me and separated me from the people who loved me.
I am still prone to that shame if I dwell on thoughts of that time. I am prone to bitterness too, when I think of driving to my friend's funeral alone with just my daughters in the car. I felt abandoned by everyone in my life except my toddler. Can anyone who never experienced such loss really understand how it feels?
I suppose not. I do though. I understand how it feels now and maybe if nothing else, that experience taught me how to love other people better. Maybe it taught me to reserve judgment, to extend empathy and kindness and to offer a helping hand when I see someone else struggling.
Things got better for a while, things got worse for a while. I made poor decisions that cost me so much--time I'll never get back. I grappled with the idea of being a "sick" person, of spending the rest of my life alone because I thought no one would want to be with someone as damaged as me--my health problems, my past relationship struggles, three kids...I saw myself as liability, not an asset. I wondered if I could ever feel at peace imagining my life as a single person.
My life took some very curvy, twisty, dizzying turns over the last 10 years. I never dreamed I could end up where I am now--not just here in Traveler's Rest or working in Marietta. Not just living in this cute little cottage on a hillside, but satisfied. I am not lonely. I do not miss being in a relationship one bit. I never thought I could be this satisfied without a partner but I have learned, finally, to be my own best friend.
There is no substitution for good friends--their love, support, inspiration. They love me, this I know. I know I am valued and that if I need them, all I must do is call. However, I rarely need to anymore. I am finally learning to treat myself with kindness, to give myself the kind of understanding I extend to other people.
I write all of this to you who struggle. For you who feel alone, lonely, afraid, ashamed. There is always a glimmer of hope, even if it's as tiny as a speck of glitter. Cling to it. Give yourself time, give those who love you an opportunity to show you their love. Don't convince yourself that your own shame means your friends judge you harshly. True friends consider all your trials; they give you a pass for some bad decisions. They support your every effort to just make it from one day to the next.
Never convince yourself that you are your circumstances. Never allow yourself to wallow in shame over things that didn't go your way. Learn from your mistakes, carry on. Let people love you and help you.
Someday you will come through this. You will find the other side of the darkness where light and joy and love unspeakable wraps you in hope and strength every step of the way.
Reach out to those who love you. Stop judging yourself so harshly. Treasure even the worst days because they are opportunities for growth.
Never, ever, ever give up.
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