I lie stretched out on my bed. My shoes are on the floor beside the nightstand, my bra unfastened is still laying across my chest underneath my blouse. The curtain to the west is open and the evening sun stretches across the end of my bed in perfect slits of shadow and light, peeking through the cracks of my cheap plastic mini blinds.
My bed is kind. It welcomes me unquestioningly, without judgment or scorn, it is a reliable literal soft place to land after a hard day.
This was a hard day. I want to calm myself, to release the stress of a day where nothing seemed right from the moment I opened my eyes. I tried reading a book, but I couldn't comprehend it. I tried watching TV, but I wasn't really paying attention. People tell me "learn to meditate, it will keep you so calm and peaceful."
I am not a good at meditating. My mind races in circles constantly. "What must I do next? Do I have time to fit it all in to one day? All the things I'd rather do tug at me from the back of my head all day long but I rarely get around to any of them.
So I am not meditating as I lie here staring up at the ugly out of style light fixture above my bed. I'm wondering if it's hard to switch out a light fixture, then letting my mind wander all the way through the scenario where I try to connect a new light fixture and end up electrocuted on my comfy bed. I play out the whole scene in morbid detail, then scold myself for even thinking those kinds of thoughts.
My brain is a wasteland of pointless rumination.
Ear Worms. They are my nemesis.
A few days ago I found myself in a store that plays overhead music much too loudly. Ever since then a Carrie Underwood song has been stuck in my head. So literally this is how it sounds inside my noggin:
"I need to figure out what's for dinner....(then in singing thought) "I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped up four wheel drive...DUH! Stop it! I hate that song!"
Or I curse at some crazy dude in traffic and my mind goes, "carved my name into his leather seats." NO NO NO, no more of this song. I turn on the radio, listen to the Doors, The Beatles, anything but Carrie Underwood. As soon as my mind drifts away from an important thought, the ear worm is back. "Took a Louisville slugger to both head lights, slashed a hole in all three tires..." I start thinking about what a crazy bitch a woman would have to be to do that stuff, even though it sounds funny in the song. I decide, while lying here on my bed, that someone never told Carrie that going psycho on a man's truck only serves to prove to everyone what he says about you--that you're crazy. Its a shame a lot women don't know that the best way to get revenge is to live a good life. But even my logic does not dissuade the song from playing in my head, tempting me to hum it. I will not be swayed.
My phone dings. I ignore it. Someone calling from an 800 number. I don't answer those. I am comfortably isolated. My boy is finally quietly playing in his room and I'm lying here trying to find some zen. The weird pain in my right side is distracting and I wait for it to subside before I pull out the computer and check Facebook.
Nothing much going on in anyone's lives today. Guess that means I'm stuck thinking about mine.
I ate ice cream from the carton a few minutes ago.It was my dinner. There's a Diet Coke beside my bed. I want to take a sip, but I'm too lazy to reach over and pick it up. Why can't we live like the Jetson's yet?
What kind of person am I, anyway?
I ate bean salad and Jello for lunch. That's just strange.
I drove my car across town with the gas light on. Risky.
I nearly got in a wreck checking my mail. I could have parked the car in the driveway and walked to the mailbox.
I got testy with my kid for forgetting the ONE folder he's supposed to bring home daily Then he decided to get mouthy with me and that went over as well as real wine on communion Sunday at a Baptist church. I was not having it. The more stern I got the more defiant he got. Unfortunately for him, this is not my first rodeo battling a tweenager with a smart mouth. I won the battle. Only time will tell if I'll help him win the war.
As I lie here I notice that my head hurts on the left side. I rub my hand over my bloated belly. It feels tight, round. Too full of something, dialysis fluid maybe? I think I look somewhat pregnant. I rub my fat belly and thank my lucky stars that whatever is in there making me look all round and applish, it's not another child I can make mistakes with. I leave my belly uncovered and stare at it for a few minutes. It is such an abnormal part of my body now. I wonder if four years of dialysis have forever stretched it out of shape. I think back to my 20's when my stomach was flat and there was no dialysis catheter swinging from the left side of my abdomen. I can't remember what it's like to NOT have a tube hanging out of my belly.
I want to doze off but writing is my therapy. I need to write until I am feeling more in line with my Universe. Days like this leave me chasing my own tail, figuratively of course, until I find some way to straighten out all the thoughts and find some gem amongst the debris of living them. Today the only thought I found to redeem my awfulness just a little bit was gratitude.
I''m still alive after all, and that's not something I ever thought I'd be at my age. So there's what I will embrace this evening before I finally close my eyes and ready myself for tomorrow's do-over.
Tuesday, September 19, 2017
Monday, August 28, 2017
Holding on and Letting Go
There's a bit of a nip in the air this morning. It's August 28, usually high time for the Summer heat. Only a few days ago I walked outside early in the morning to the sun beating down hard, the humidity so thick I struggled to get a breath as I walked to my car. My boy trailed behind me, his bookbag heavy on his back with all his new school supplies. First day of school in mid-August. The cool air of this morning though, made me think of Autumn. I almost expected to see yellow leaves floating across the breeze. I would delude myself if I believed the weather today. I know from experience that Summer hangs on as long as it can around here. Kids will be romping around in short pants well into October, maybe even early November if the weather follows its usual course.
The stores had Halloween costumes out last week, the school supplies already relegated to some corner, prices slashed to make room for Thanksgiving dinnerware and Christmas ornaments. It seems by August the rest of the year is pretty much done--already accounted for anyway, by one holiday after another, every year repeating the same familiar ryhthm until at last we find ourselves champaigne in hand, awaiting another New Year.
Today I want to slow down. I want to just sit for a while in the quiet of a deceptively cool August morning and appreciate my life. My boy will be 11 in two weeks. Oh Lord, can't we slow time down just a little? My mind races too far ahead when I see him growing up. Yesterday I caught myself thinking, "Next year he'll be almost 12...In two years he'll be a teenager." I imagined him taller, lankier with a pimple or two. I imagined that by then, the hugs I get so frequently now will have all but dried up; yellow leaves tumbling through my mind, memories of the boy becoming a man.
I know. It happens to us all. I lamented as I watched my daughters become women. My heart ached with theirs as they struggled through their growing pains, all the while knowing that they never believed I understood how growing pains feel. Now, watching them mother their own, I wonder if they have an inkling how much I've always loved them. I wonder if, as they let their little ones go one milestone at a time, they'll know how hard it was for me to release them. From their first smile to their first step to the first crush, it's all a process of letting go a little at a time. I think that's why humans grow up so much slower than puppies. God knew a mama's heart couldn't bear letting loose so quickly.
I'm heading to work in a few minutes, grateful for the time I've had to sit in solitude and remember who I am. I sometimes let my mind get overwraught with my mistakes and missteps. I wallow in all the ways I could have done things differently. I wonder if I should be doing things differently now. I could have done better for myself, I sometimes think. Then I remember that since the age of 20, my decisions were all driven by my love for another little human. I worked part time, pushed for flexibility, worked from home, took my kids to work with me and quit jobs that took too much of me away from them. I'm not saying I've never been selfish; I cannot create a lie so grand.
Last night I ran the numbers to see if going back to full time work would make life better for us. The numbers came out pretty even, either way. I would only bring home a couple hundred extra bucks a month and that would go to the afterschool program. I'd much rather be a little poorer and still have afternoons with my boy while he is, still a boy.
Back I go now, into that cool summer morning. I'll drive myelf to work and spend the first half of my day with people who have learned the art of letting go so much better than I. I'm grateful for them too. They give me hope that in the years to come all the pain and struggle of letting go will bring abundance in ways unmeasurable by any bank or mortage company.
I'll pick up my boy at 2:30 and we'll do homework together this afternoon. By then it will likely be smothering hot again, whether or not the sun is out. Some things never change, and I guess amongst all the other changes swirling around us, we need the constant too.
Henry Ellis said, "The art of living lies in a fine mingling of holding on and letting go."
It's an art I will probably never master, but not for lack of trying.
The stores had Halloween costumes out last week, the school supplies already relegated to some corner, prices slashed to make room for Thanksgiving dinnerware and Christmas ornaments. It seems by August the rest of the year is pretty much done--already accounted for anyway, by one holiday after another, every year repeating the same familiar ryhthm until at last we find ourselves champaigne in hand, awaiting another New Year.
Today I want to slow down. I want to just sit for a while in the quiet of a deceptively cool August morning and appreciate my life. My boy will be 11 in two weeks. Oh Lord, can't we slow time down just a little? My mind races too far ahead when I see him growing up. Yesterday I caught myself thinking, "Next year he'll be almost 12...In two years he'll be a teenager." I imagined him taller, lankier with a pimple or two. I imagined that by then, the hugs I get so frequently now will have all but dried up; yellow leaves tumbling through my mind, memories of the boy becoming a man.
I know. It happens to us all. I lamented as I watched my daughters become women. My heart ached with theirs as they struggled through their growing pains, all the while knowing that they never believed I understood how growing pains feel. Now, watching them mother their own, I wonder if they have an inkling how much I've always loved them. I wonder if, as they let their little ones go one milestone at a time, they'll know how hard it was for me to release them. From their first smile to their first step to the first crush, it's all a process of letting go a little at a time. I think that's why humans grow up so much slower than puppies. God knew a mama's heart couldn't bear letting loose so quickly.
I'm heading to work in a few minutes, grateful for the time I've had to sit in solitude and remember who I am. I sometimes let my mind get overwraught with my mistakes and missteps. I wallow in all the ways I could have done things differently. I wonder if I should be doing things differently now. I could have done better for myself, I sometimes think. Then I remember that since the age of 20, my decisions were all driven by my love for another little human. I worked part time, pushed for flexibility, worked from home, took my kids to work with me and quit jobs that took too much of me away from them. I'm not saying I've never been selfish; I cannot create a lie so grand.
Last night I ran the numbers to see if going back to full time work would make life better for us. The numbers came out pretty even, either way. I would only bring home a couple hundred extra bucks a month and that would go to the afterschool program. I'd much rather be a little poorer and still have afternoons with my boy while he is, still a boy.
Back I go now, into that cool summer morning. I'll drive myelf to work and spend the first half of my day with people who have learned the art of letting go so much better than I. I'm grateful for them too. They give me hope that in the years to come all the pain and struggle of letting go will bring abundance in ways unmeasurable by any bank or mortage company.
I'll pick up my boy at 2:30 and we'll do homework together this afternoon. By then it will likely be smothering hot again, whether or not the sun is out. Some things never change, and I guess amongst all the other changes swirling around us, we need the constant too.
Henry Ellis said, "The art of living lies in a fine mingling of holding on and letting go."
It's an art I will probably never master, but not for lack of trying.
Thursday, August 24, 2017
To My Sisters in Abusive Relationships. Here's Why I Will Not Support Your Decision to Stay.
I talk to women daily who find themselves int he midst of a struggle of decision. "Should I stay for the kids?" They ask. "Should I go for myself?" or "Should I go for myself AND the kids?"
Here's a truth that none of us like to admit. The Devil you know is better (in theory) than the Devil you don't know. You stay because you think in doing so you possess some kind of control over the abusive situation. You adapt your behaviors so much over time that you don't even realize you're behaving differently than you might otherwise behave. It becomes second nature to accommodate your abusive partner. You try to anticipate his responses, prepare your answers and rationale ahead of time. You ask your friends what they think about the situation and you get 3 million different answers, all leaving you more confused than you were in the first place.
Let's cover first things first. Abusers are like leopards. They don't change their spots. We are like zoo keepers. We learn how not to anger the leopard, how to protect the young and helpless from them, and how to anticipate when he might lash out. Hanging around in a relationship with an abuser in hopes he might change is like being a zookeeper, standing in a cage with a wild animal with a raw steak tied around his neck, hoping the wild animal will not pounce. Do you get the analogy here?
Many abusive men (and women) have what are called Personality Disorders, defined in the DSM V as a pervasive pattern of instability in relationships, problems getting along with others and significant impairment in their work and social lives. While there is a lot of psychobabble flap about PD online the general consensus among Psychologists is that PD is not "curable". Some PDs with time improve, but not until a person is in his or her 40's, and not ALL PDs improve. Narcissistic PD, Obsessive Compulsive PD Antisocial PD and even Dependent PD are all Personality Disorders that according to the people who live with spouses who have them, only worsen over time. This is most likely because the person who has the PD is not able to recognize that they have a problem. They tend to see everyone else around them as the problem. This is why waiting around for him to change is not only a waste of your valuable time, but can prove detrimental to your mental, emotional and even physical health.
There are many reasons women don't pack up and leave at the first sign of abuse. One is that we are not taught to recognize abuse when we see it. Not recognizing what we see, we feel responsible for his outburst so we adjust our behavior accordingly as to avoid another outburst. By the way, an outburst doesn't have to be violent. It can be snarky, passive aggressive behaviors or comments, it can be downright nasty verbal abuse, it can be the silent treatment, it can take the form of your partner holding you with tight reins, dictating where you go and when and whom with, etc...Outbursts come in the form of mild threats, like threatening to break up with you, or by ratcheting up his anger whenever you are legitimately angry with him about something. He makes sure his anger is bigger and stronger than yours, so you are put back in the powerless position, left apologizing to him.
If you have kids with this kind of man, you might have yourself convinced you are better off staying with him, that way you can at least be there to anticipate and possibly intercept his abusive tirades toward the children. You tell yourself that if your kids have to be with him on a weekend without you, you can't protect them properly, so you somehow reason that having them live there with him full-time, watching him abuse you and watching you twist and turn to accommodate him and avoid his outbursts is better for them. What you are really helping your abusive partner create is a dysfunctional family dynamic that your children are going to carry with them into adulthood. Their adult lives will likely be fraught with the same tensions they grew up experiencing because that will be all they know.
For most of the woman I talk to, money is the number one thing that holds them back. I have spoken with wives of affluent families and wives of families who are barely getting by already. All of them are quite convinced that they will not be able to make it on their own or that they can't keep up their current lifestyle if they leave their abusive partners.
One thing that most abusive partners have in common is that many of them handle most, if not all of the family finances (even when both partners work) and the abused partner is usually left in the dark about their financial state, either by choice or because her husband is controlling and secretive about money. Many women have no idea how much their mortgage payments are, how much they still own on their homes, what their monthly utility costs are, or what their husbands spend on a regular basis. Many women are given an "allowance" only for things they "need" as defined by their spouse. So often women are paralyzed by finances simply because they have no clue where to start creating a budget that gives them a shot at living a comfortable life after divorce.
Statistically, and contrary to what you'll read on many "men's rights" websites, women suffer financially from divorce much more often than their ex husbands do, despite that the ex husband is usually the one paying child support and/or alimony payments. Women who are in abusive relationships with men who exploit and use them financially actually worry about their ex suffering financially after the divorce. The mental and emotional conditioning that happens in an abusive dynamic is so pervasive that it erodes a woman's confidence in herself and her ability to provide for her children, and added to that is a load of guilt about causing financial hardship for the ex who is abusing her.
But let's get down to the hard facts here. I will not support you if you decide to stay in an emotionally, mentally, financially, sexually or physically abusive relationship, even if you believe in your heart of hearts that he will change.
Here's why: He can change with or without you there. You do not have to stick around and be miserable for his sake, tiptoeing around his temper and insecurities while you wait for him to grow up and learn to carry his end of the relationship. I've known couples who divorced and ended up back together again in stable, happy marriages, but that change would never have happened if the abused spouse had not screwed her courage to the sticking place and LEFT with the intention of never returning. Pay attention to that last part. You cannot leave with the hope of reconciliation in your mind. You must leave with the determination and resolve to make it on your own, to rebuild your self-confidence and esteem, and learn to set reasonable relationship boundaries before you even consider another relationship, even if it is with your ex. Got that?? Good.
I will not support your decision to stay for the money, the house, the neighborhood, the social status or even the great schools for your kids. Money is important. It's something we need to survive, but life is about more than houses or cars or a certain affluent lifestyle. You can live in mansion, have your kids in the best schools, on the healthiest, most expensive diet in the world, and still be miserable and raise kids who think that family life is supposed to be miserable. You will in effect, continue the cycle of abuse for your children who are looking to you to show them what healthy relationships with boundaries, real love and respect are. You cannot teach them any of those things while in an abusive relationship, even if it's with their father.
Fear is the one thing that holds women back. They are afraid they cannot provide for their children, afraid they will have to give up too much of a life they have become accustomed to. But at what cost do you stay? You are giving the only life you will ever get to someone who does not value you, love you or respect you. You are giving away years of yourself that you can never get back. You are losing opportunities to teach your children about healthy boundaries and how to walk away from people who do not treat them well.
I have never known a responsible, caring, hardworking woman who was unable to give her children a good life after divorce. Do we all make mistakes? Of course we do--just as we would if we were still married to their fathers. We might not be around to mitigate every instance of the ex's manipulative or verbal abuse tactics on our kids, but we can be their safe place to land after a hard weekend. We can provide them with a home that is a haven away from the abusive, disordered parent where they can decompress, talk about the issues that are bothering them and work with you to find ways to cope with their less than healthy father. Without you constantly running interference, your children will start learning coping skills and boundary setting at an early age with your help and guidance. You can role model these things for them in your interactions with others, including their dad. You can finally stop adjusting your behaviors and constantly trying to anticipate and control the next outburst, silent treatment or other abusive episode.
As far as finances go, you need to get to work. Find out things you don't know. Hire an attorney to file for financial discovery if that's what you have to do to find hidden accounts, the information regarding credit and mortgage information and any savings you might have jointly that are tucked away in accounts you know nothing about. Like I said before, many abusers in other ways are also financial abusers or exploiters. Many women find that there are financial resources they never knew existed. It is not uncommon for these men to squirrel away money in secret retirement accounts or other accounts and hide them from their wives. Find out what your utilities cost, including phone bills, internet, TV services, car insurance, everything you can think of. Subtract any amount that you currently pay for your husbands expenses, such as travel to and from work, his car payment, his car insurance, medical bills, prescriptions, clothes, extra spending. This will give you a more realistic picture of what your financial outlook is. Factor in what he should be paying in child support or alimony and make sure you have the court order child support that is directly taken from his paycheck every pay period. Most women find that with their jobs (even part time) and child support they are able to keep their heads above water.
Of all things, don't let the devil you know keep you from forging a new life without the constant drag of his abusive behaviors. The devil you don't know is usually money, and there are endless ways out there to make ends meet, even in the toughest of times. The sacrifices you may have to make, like living in a smaller house or eating less expensive food, or shopping less often will pale in comparison to the peace of mind and freedom you feel as you forge your new life without the added weight of an abusive, controlling partner dragging you down.
It can be done. I did it and many other women do it every day.
I will support you in any way I can when you decide to get free. But if you are in an abusive, miserable relationship that is keeping you from reaching your potential and damaging your children, I'm sorry to say, I cannot lend you my support.
Find your courage. Ask for help. Get to safety and get free.
Here's a truth that none of us like to admit. The Devil you know is better (in theory) than the Devil you don't know. You stay because you think in doing so you possess some kind of control over the abusive situation. You adapt your behaviors so much over time that you don't even realize you're behaving differently than you might otherwise behave. It becomes second nature to accommodate your abusive partner. You try to anticipate his responses, prepare your answers and rationale ahead of time. You ask your friends what they think about the situation and you get 3 million different answers, all leaving you more confused than you were in the first place.
Let's cover first things first. Abusers are like leopards. They don't change their spots. We are like zoo keepers. We learn how not to anger the leopard, how to protect the young and helpless from them, and how to anticipate when he might lash out. Hanging around in a relationship with an abuser in hopes he might change is like being a zookeeper, standing in a cage with a wild animal with a raw steak tied around his neck, hoping the wild animal will not pounce. Do you get the analogy here?
Many abusive men (and women) have what are called Personality Disorders, defined in the DSM V as a pervasive pattern of instability in relationships, problems getting along with others and significant impairment in their work and social lives. While there is a lot of psychobabble flap about PD online the general consensus among Psychologists is that PD is not "curable". Some PDs with time improve, but not until a person is in his or her 40's, and not ALL PDs improve. Narcissistic PD, Obsessive Compulsive PD Antisocial PD and even Dependent PD are all Personality Disorders that according to the people who live with spouses who have them, only worsen over time. This is most likely because the person who has the PD is not able to recognize that they have a problem. They tend to see everyone else around them as the problem. This is why waiting around for him to change is not only a waste of your valuable time, but can prove detrimental to your mental, emotional and even physical health.
There are many reasons women don't pack up and leave at the first sign of abuse. One is that we are not taught to recognize abuse when we see it. Not recognizing what we see, we feel responsible for his outburst so we adjust our behavior accordingly as to avoid another outburst. By the way, an outburst doesn't have to be violent. It can be snarky, passive aggressive behaviors or comments, it can be downright nasty verbal abuse, it can be the silent treatment, it can take the form of your partner holding you with tight reins, dictating where you go and when and whom with, etc...Outbursts come in the form of mild threats, like threatening to break up with you, or by ratcheting up his anger whenever you are legitimately angry with him about something. He makes sure his anger is bigger and stronger than yours, so you are put back in the powerless position, left apologizing to him.
If you have kids with this kind of man, you might have yourself convinced you are better off staying with him, that way you can at least be there to anticipate and possibly intercept his abusive tirades toward the children. You tell yourself that if your kids have to be with him on a weekend without you, you can't protect them properly, so you somehow reason that having them live there with him full-time, watching him abuse you and watching you twist and turn to accommodate him and avoid his outbursts is better for them. What you are really helping your abusive partner create is a dysfunctional family dynamic that your children are going to carry with them into adulthood. Their adult lives will likely be fraught with the same tensions they grew up experiencing because that will be all they know.
For most of the woman I talk to, money is the number one thing that holds them back. I have spoken with wives of affluent families and wives of families who are barely getting by already. All of them are quite convinced that they will not be able to make it on their own or that they can't keep up their current lifestyle if they leave their abusive partners.
One thing that most abusive partners have in common is that many of them handle most, if not all of the family finances (even when both partners work) and the abused partner is usually left in the dark about their financial state, either by choice or because her husband is controlling and secretive about money. Many women have no idea how much their mortgage payments are, how much they still own on their homes, what their monthly utility costs are, or what their husbands spend on a regular basis. Many women are given an "allowance" only for things they "need" as defined by their spouse. So often women are paralyzed by finances simply because they have no clue where to start creating a budget that gives them a shot at living a comfortable life after divorce.
Statistically, and contrary to what you'll read on many "men's rights" websites, women suffer financially from divorce much more often than their ex husbands do, despite that the ex husband is usually the one paying child support and/or alimony payments. Women who are in abusive relationships with men who exploit and use them financially actually worry about their ex suffering financially after the divorce. The mental and emotional conditioning that happens in an abusive dynamic is so pervasive that it erodes a woman's confidence in herself and her ability to provide for her children, and added to that is a load of guilt about causing financial hardship for the ex who is abusing her.
But let's get down to the hard facts here. I will not support you if you decide to stay in an emotionally, mentally, financially, sexually or physically abusive relationship, even if you believe in your heart of hearts that he will change.
Here's why: He can change with or without you there. You do not have to stick around and be miserable for his sake, tiptoeing around his temper and insecurities while you wait for him to grow up and learn to carry his end of the relationship. I've known couples who divorced and ended up back together again in stable, happy marriages, but that change would never have happened if the abused spouse had not screwed her courage to the sticking place and LEFT with the intention of never returning. Pay attention to that last part. You cannot leave with the hope of reconciliation in your mind. You must leave with the determination and resolve to make it on your own, to rebuild your self-confidence and esteem, and learn to set reasonable relationship boundaries before you even consider another relationship, even if it is with your ex. Got that?? Good.
I will not support your decision to stay for the money, the house, the neighborhood, the social status or even the great schools for your kids. Money is important. It's something we need to survive, but life is about more than houses or cars or a certain affluent lifestyle. You can live in mansion, have your kids in the best schools, on the healthiest, most expensive diet in the world, and still be miserable and raise kids who think that family life is supposed to be miserable. You will in effect, continue the cycle of abuse for your children who are looking to you to show them what healthy relationships with boundaries, real love and respect are. You cannot teach them any of those things while in an abusive relationship, even if it's with their father.
Fear is the one thing that holds women back. They are afraid they cannot provide for their children, afraid they will have to give up too much of a life they have become accustomed to. But at what cost do you stay? You are giving the only life you will ever get to someone who does not value you, love you or respect you. You are giving away years of yourself that you can never get back. You are losing opportunities to teach your children about healthy boundaries and how to walk away from people who do not treat them well.
I have never known a responsible, caring, hardworking woman who was unable to give her children a good life after divorce. Do we all make mistakes? Of course we do--just as we would if we were still married to their fathers. We might not be around to mitigate every instance of the ex's manipulative or verbal abuse tactics on our kids, but we can be their safe place to land after a hard weekend. We can provide them with a home that is a haven away from the abusive, disordered parent where they can decompress, talk about the issues that are bothering them and work with you to find ways to cope with their less than healthy father. Without you constantly running interference, your children will start learning coping skills and boundary setting at an early age with your help and guidance. You can role model these things for them in your interactions with others, including their dad. You can finally stop adjusting your behaviors and constantly trying to anticipate and control the next outburst, silent treatment or other abusive episode.
As far as finances go, you need to get to work. Find out things you don't know. Hire an attorney to file for financial discovery if that's what you have to do to find hidden accounts, the information regarding credit and mortgage information and any savings you might have jointly that are tucked away in accounts you know nothing about. Like I said before, many abusers in other ways are also financial abusers or exploiters. Many women find that there are financial resources they never knew existed. It is not uncommon for these men to squirrel away money in secret retirement accounts or other accounts and hide them from their wives. Find out what your utilities cost, including phone bills, internet, TV services, car insurance, everything you can think of. Subtract any amount that you currently pay for your husbands expenses, such as travel to and from work, his car payment, his car insurance, medical bills, prescriptions, clothes, extra spending. This will give you a more realistic picture of what your financial outlook is. Factor in what he should be paying in child support or alimony and make sure you have the court order child support that is directly taken from his paycheck every pay period. Most women find that with their jobs (even part time) and child support they are able to keep their heads above water.
Of all things, don't let the devil you know keep you from forging a new life without the constant drag of his abusive behaviors. The devil you don't know is usually money, and there are endless ways out there to make ends meet, even in the toughest of times. The sacrifices you may have to make, like living in a smaller house or eating less expensive food, or shopping less often will pale in comparison to the peace of mind and freedom you feel as you forge your new life without the added weight of an abusive, controlling partner dragging you down.
It can be done. I did it and many other women do it every day.
I will support you in any way I can when you decide to get free. But if you are in an abusive, miserable relationship that is keeping you from reaching your potential and damaging your children, I'm sorry to say, I cannot lend you my support.
Find your courage. Ask for help. Get to safety and get free.
Sunday, June 4, 2017
Under the Microscope
"Where'd you get that necklace." I whispered to myself as I got ready for work one morning. I looked at myself in he mirror with my new bold three tiered necklace on, anticipating the comments I'd get about it throughout the day. Slowly, as I put on my makeup, curled my hair, I began to realize that I am so often critiqued on my appearance that I've come to anticipate the comments other people are going to make about me every single day. I rarely leave home without someone in the course of my day making a comment about how I look. This has been the case for most of my adult life.
Years ago when I was younger, women voiced their opinions of my clothing choices the most. They'd say, "That blouse is too low-cut" or "Why do you wear such short skirts?" My skirts were never super short, and I usually wore them with tights underneath, so I never understood their concerns with how I dressed. I started making snarky comments back to them when they'd comment that my boobs were showing too much or that my skirts were too short. I played it off like a joke, but it did bother me sometimes. Still, I never let the opinions of others change how I chose to dress, wear my makeup (or not) or fix my hair. Oh yeah, I got harassed for coloring my hair, for not coloring my hair. Got the "Why'd you chop all your hair off?" question when I'd cut it short, and the "Your hair looks so much better short" when I'd grow it long. There were comments about my being too skinny or too "thick" or about my legs being to muscular when I used to run.
Now that I'm older, the comments come mostly from men. I hear, "What happened to your hair?" when I wear it a different way. "What'd you do to your leg?" When I have a bruise that I don't even know I have. "You look tired." I hear that one a lot. Comments on my clothing choices, "Why are you so dressed up today?" Comments when I'm not dressed up, comments about my shoes, "Those are some weird shoes you've got on today!" Comments about my makeup, "Your lips look like a monkey's butt with that stuff on em." The comments always begin with "You look like" or "Where'd you get that..." or "What'd you do to...?" Of course there are still people who graciously compliment my wardrobe from time to time, or ask me where I bought something because they're genuinely interested in it. But for the most part, the comments I get are very negative in a backhanded kind of way.
What I've realized is that as a society, people think it is perfectly normal for a woman to be scrutinized on her appearance; heck, we should expect it! That's why, as we're getting ready for work or a night out or to go to a wedding or even a funeral, we stress over what to wear, how to our makeup, how to fix our hair. We obsess over our diets and our weight. We live our lives anticipating that next little bit of criticism in the form of a backwards compliment or snarky comment. I, for one, am sick of it.
I'm sick of someone interrupting my day to ask me how I got a bruise on the back of my calf. Sick to death of hearing how "tired" I look. I've completely had it with the comments about my hair, my weight, my shoes. I am done hearing things like, "You're holding up pretty well for you age." I'm not talking about someone who says, "I like your nail polish." Or "That is a cute outfit on you." I'm talking about the comments, mostly from males, who think they're doing me a favor by pointing out what I'm doing wrong with my appearance. Males who are overweight, have bad breath, are balding and have no social skills whatsoever, telling ME what I'm doing wrong.
I'm tired of the mental battle I go through every morning when I'm getting ready--that feeling of dread at hearing what someone has to say about how I look today. I'm tired of anticipating their comments and deciding what comeback to use, and then not having the courage to say it when the time comes.
I doubt if I'm alone in this. I bet there are plenty of other women out there who deal with this crap daily. I don't know what I can do to change it. Maybe I should just tell people I don't need to hear their opinions of how I look. Maybe I should criticize them back--point out their flaws so they know what's "wrong" with them too. Maybe I should ask them what makes them think they should feel so entitled to tell me how I should look.
I swear, the next time someone says, "You look tired." I'm going to say, "You look old." or "You look fat." or "You look like a moron." Maybe that'll shut them up?
It's sad that we've created a society that keeps women under a microscope. We are examined in minute detail by perfect strangers who then feel compelled to offer their unsolicited opinions of us, based solely on what they see on the outside. They know nothing about who we are, we are just objects that are expected to look and behave a certain way. We are supposed to always be aesthetically pleasing to the opposite sex, but not so much so that we offend our same-sex peers.
There is no way to win, y'all.
So my best advice to me and to you is this: Be who you are. Wear what you want to wear. Groom yourself in whatever way makes you feel good and ignore the critics. Most of all, don't become a critic yourself because the more you notice the flaws of others, the more aware you'll become of your own flaws. We are not our flaws. We are not the clothes we wear or the color of our hair. We are so much more than ornamental pieces that decorate the world for others. Always remember that. Always just be you.
Years ago when I was younger, women voiced their opinions of my clothing choices the most. They'd say, "That blouse is too low-cut" or "Why do you wear such short skirts?" My skirts were never super short, and I usually wore them with tights underneath, so I never understood their concerns with how I dressed. I started making snarky comments back to them when they'd comment that my boobs were showing too much or that my skirts were too short. I played it off like a joke, but it did bother me sometimes. Still, I never let the opinions of others change how I chose to dress, wear my makeup (or not) or fix my hair. Oh yeah, I got harassed for coloring my hair, for not coloring my hair. Got the "Why'd you chop all your hair off?" question when I'd cut it short, and the "Your hair looks so much better short" when I'd grow it long. There were comments about my being too skinny or too "thick" or about my legs being to muscular when I used to run.
Now that I'm older, the comments come mostly from men. I hear, "What happened to your hair?" when I wear it a different way. "What'd you do to your leg?" When I have a bruise that I don't even know I have. "You look tired." I hear that one a lot. Comments on my clothing choices, "Why are you so dressed up today?" Comments when I'm not dressed up, comments about my shoes, "Those are some weird shoes you've got on today!" Comments about my makeup, "Your lips look like a monkey's butt with that stuff on em." The comments always begin with "You look like" or "Where'd you get that..." or "What'd you do to...?" Of course there are still people who graciously compliment my wardrobe from time to time, or ask me where I bought something because they're genuinely interested in it. But for the most part, the comments I get are very negative in a backhanded kind of way.
What I've realized is that as a society, people think it is perfectly normal for a woman to be scrutinized on her appearance; heck, we should expect it! That's why, as we're getting ready for work or a night out or to go to a wedding or even a funeral, we stress over what to wear, how to our makeup, how to fix our hair. We obsess over our diets and our weight. We live our lives anticipating that next little bit of criticism in the form of a backwards compliment or snarky comment. I, for one, am sick of it.
I'm sick of someone interrupting my day to ask me how I got a bruise on the back of my calf. Sick to death of hearing how "tired" I look. I've completely had it with the comments about my hair, my weight, my shoes. I am done hearing things like, "You're holding up pretty well for you age." I'm not talking about someone who says, "I like your nail polish." Or "That is a cute outfit on you." I'm talking about the comments, mostly from males, who think they're doing me a favor by pointing out what I'm doing wrong with my appearance. Males who are overweight, have bad breath, are balding and have no social skills whatsoever, telling ME what I'm doing wrong.
I'm tired of the mental battle I go through every morning when I'm getting ready--that feeling of dread at hearing what someone has to say about how I look today. I'm tired of anticipating their comments and deciding what comeback to use, and then not having the courage to say it when the time comes.
I doubt if I'm alone in this. I bet there are plenty of other women out there who deal with this crap daily. I don't know what I can do to change it. Maybe I should just tell people I don't need to hear their opinions of how I look. Maybe I should criticize them back--point out their flaws so they know what's "wrong" with them too. Maybe I should ask them what makes them think they should feel so entitled to tell me how I should look.
I swear, the next time someone says, "You look tired." I'm going to say, "You look old." or "You look fat." or "You look like a moron." Maybe that'll shut them up?
It's sad that we've created a society that keeps women under a microscope. We are examined in minute detail by perfect strangers who then feel compelled to offer their unsolicited opinions of us, based solely on what they see on the outside. They know nothing about who we are, we are just objects that are expected to look and behave a certain way. We are supposed to always be aesthetically pleasing to the opposite sex, but not so much so that we offend our same-sex peers.
There is no way to win, y'all.
So my best advice to me and to you is this: Be who you are. Wear what you want to wear. Groom yourself in whatever way makes you feel good and ignore the critics. Most of all, don't become a critic yourself because the more you notice the flaws of others, the more aware you'll become of your own flaws. We are not our flaws. We are not the clothes we wear or the color of our hair. We are so much more than ornamental pieces that decorate the world for others. Always remember that. Always just be you.
Friday, May 26, 2017
In the Crapper
My day started out in the crapper. Literally.
Friday is trash day, so after Charlie got ready for school we started loading garbage into my car. I'm always amazed at how much waste two people can create in a few days' time. When I got to work, I tucked it into the dumpster, knowing the garbage truck would arrive in minutes to empty it. I needed the trunk of my car empty to carry picnic stuff to the other side of the park later.
Feeling productive already, I made my way inside and started preparing for the day's festivities. I made tea, made coffee, boxed up some stuff to take down to the picnic tables. I carried a table down all by myself, which because I am short, was not easy, and then decided to wait for more help to do the rest.
Memorial Day Picnic. It's a grand event in its simplicity; it's something we do every year that reminds us of the freedom we enjoy to spend time together eating good cooking and telling silly jokes. We pour our tall plastic cups full of sweet tea and find a shady spot, eager to inhale the fresh air of May, not really so put off by the sun as we will be in another month or so. If you see pictures of the day, it will look so peaceful and quiet. Smiling faces behind plates of picnic fare, people sitting among friends in the shade of the big tree behind the Hall; a tree that has cast its shade over many a head over the last 300 years or so.
Looks can be deceiving.
Not long after the first few members of my group arrived, I heard someone say, "Rebecca, you need to come look at this." She was gesturing towards the bathroom. Following behind her, my blood was already beginning to boil. This bathroom, the bane of my existence at my job for the last two years, was of course, going to challenge me on a day when my stress level couldn't get higher.
The crapper sat, full of crap. Brown paper towels floated atop the water, the tank still running from some attempt yesterday to flush the mess down. I took off to get gloves, or tongs or something with which to fish out the paper towels so the toilet would flush. I announced to the entire room, "Do not use the handicapped stall in the ladies room. It is out of order." Looked in the bottom cabinet for gloves. None there. Went back into the bathroom to put up a sign and startled a lady who was walking out. "No!" I thought. "No, she did not just use that toilet!"
Yes. Yes she did. Even though I had the trash can right in front of it, had the plunger sitting next to it, and a small mountain of brown stuff sat staring up at her, she sat, she did her thing, she flushed. There is another toilet 3 feet away. This was my day.
I tried to call for backup. Got no response. The number in my phone for the Rec. Director yielded me no results. Turns out the number got mixed up with another person's number and I had been sending texts about clogged toilets and running water to a lady I've only met one time in my life, all morning long.
We got a sign on the door and no one else used the broken pot for the rest of the day. Too late for me though. Past the point of reason, I wanted to curse at everyone I saw. So when the rude lady from Ingles called to tell me my platter of chicken had "Been ready for a long time!!!" I was not necessarily sunny or sweet. I did welcome the chance to leave the building for a while though, so I grabbed my keys and took off.
Driving around the curve from Whitney St. to Slater Road, I wondered what would happen if I just never went back. I let the scene unfold in my head as I drove to Ingles, but I knew I could never abandon my pack like that. I got the doggoned chicken and headed back to my doom.
The "Happy Strummers" were there. They were setting up their ukuleles and chairs, getting ready to entertain. The building was hotter than hades. I turned on the AC, waited for someone to complain about the cool air, decided to tune out the complaints and keep the AC going anyway. The Strummers strummed away, Tiny Bubbles, God Bless America, All God's Creatures Got a Place in the Choir". Happy strummers playing happy music, it somehow didn't fit with my ill mood.
I listened for a while, then got to work taking things outside for later. First, one trunk load of food, tablecloths, decorations, then later another load of the same made it down to the picnic area. Once the music ended a free-for-all ensued with Uke players packing up instruments, seniors getting in one another's way, big guys breaking down tables to carry outside and still others carrying chairs that were too heavy for them to carry. It all went down so fast I couldn't establish any semblance of order. Somehow though, we ended up having a picnic outside with chairs and tables enough for everyone. Food was plentiful, shade generous. Our guests felt welcomed and at home which made me feel proud of my group of seniors.
As the picnic wound down, people started offering their help getting everything back in place. Two pickup truck loads and a car-trunk load later, everything was back inside our building and every single person, sweating and huffing, was thoroughly worn out.
The building finally quiet after most everyone left, I sat with two ladies and talked nonsense for a while. We ranted about the clogged toilet, laughed at my texting guffaw, marvelled at the idea that any human being would leave such a mess in a toilet.
Sometimes I let things get too heavy. I know I do this. I let a crapped out crapper nearly ruin my day, but thanks to a lot of really great people who've lived and plunged far many more years than me, I began to see how I sometimes make mountains out of molehills. I went home tired but satisfied that my efforts were not in vain. A lot of folks had a fun day, so it was worth the work and confusion, even the temporary irritation. Thank goodness I didn't take my anger out on that poor rude lady at Ingle's, who knows what kind of morning she'd had?
Now I'm sitting on my couch in my cool living room, feet propped up on the ottoman, a cute little tune racing through my brain that I never heard before today.
All God's Creatures Got a Place in the Choir. I guess even the ones who leave their crap for everyone else to clean up. On this Memorial Day Weekend, I want to thank the men and women who gave their lives so I could live in a country where a day that starts out in the toilet ends up being a pretty darn good day.
And thank you, my friends, for putting up with me when I'm letting the little things in life disproportionately weigh me down. I always lighten up, eventually.
Friday is trash day, so after Charlie got ready for school we started loading garbage into my car. I'm always amazed at how much waste two people can create in a few days' time. When I got to work, I tucked it into the dumpster, knowing the garbage truck would arrive in minutes to empty it. I needed the trunk of my car empty to carry picnic stuff to the other side of the park later.
Feeling productive already, I made my way inside and started preparing for the day's festivities. I made tea, made coffee, boxed up some stuff to take down to the picnic tables. I carried a table down all by myself, which because I am short, was not easy, and then decided to wait for more help to do the rest.
Memorial Day Picnic. It's a grand event in its simplicity; it's something we do every year that reminds us of the freedom we enjoy to spend time together eating good cooking and telling silly jokes. We pour our tall plastic cups full of sweet tea and find a shady spot, eager to inhale the fresh air of May, not really so put off by the sun as we will be in another month or so. If you see pictures of the day, it will look so peaceful and quiet. Smiling faces behind plates of picnic fare, people sitting among friends in the shade of the big tree behind the Hall; a tree that has cast its shade over many a head over the last 300 years or so.
Looks can be deceiving.
Not long after the first few members of my group arrived, I heard someone say, "Rebecca, you need to come look at this." She was gesturing towards the bathroom. Following behind her, my blood was already beginning to boil. This bathroom, the bane of my existence at my job for the last two years, was of course, going to challenge me on a day when my stress level couldn't get higher.
The crapper sat, full of crap. Brown paper towels floated atop the water, the tank still running from some attempt yesterday to flush the mess down. I took off to get gloves, or tongs or something with which to fish out the paper towels so the toilet would flush. I announced to the entire room, "Do not use the handicapped stall in the ladies room. It is out of order." Looked in the bottom cabinet for gloves. None there. Went back into the bathroom to put up a sign and startled a lady who was walking out. "No!" I thought. "No, she did not just use that toilet!"
Yes. Yes she did. Even though I had the trash can right in front of it, had the plunger sitting next to it, and a small mountain of brown stuff sat staring up at her, she sat, she did her thing, she flushed. There is another toilet 3 feet away. This was my day.
I tried to call for backup. Got no response. The number in my phone for the Rec. Director yielded me no results. Turns out the number got mixed up with another person's number and I had been sending texts about clogged toilets and running water to a lady I've only met one time in my life, all morning long.
We got a sign on the door and no one else used the broken pot for the rest of the day. Too late for me though. Past the point of reason, I wanted to curse at everyone I saw. So when the rude lady from Ingles called to tell me my platter of chicken had "Been ready for a long time!!!" I was not necessarily sunny or sweet. I did welcome the chance to leave the building for a while though, so I grabbed my keys and took off.
Driving around the curve from Whitney St. to Slater Road, I wondered what would happen if I just never went back. I let the scene unfold in my head as I drove to Ingles, but I knew I could never abandon my pack like that. I got the doggoned chicken and headed back to my doom.
The "Happy Strummers" were there. They were setting up their ukuleles and chairs, getting ready to entertain. The building was hotter than hades. I turned on the AC, waited for someone to complain about the cool air, decided to tune out the complaints and keep the AC going anyway. The Strummers strummed away, Tiny Bubbles, God Bless America, All God's Creatures Got a Place in the Choir". Happy strummers playing happy music, it somehow didn't fit with my ill mood.
I listened for a while, then got to work taking things outside for later. First, one trunk load of food, tablecloths, decorations, then later another load of the same made it down to the picnic area. Once the music ended a free-for-all ensued with Uke players packing up instruments, seniors getting in one another's way, big guys breaking down tables to carry outside and still others carrying chairs that were too heavy for them to carry. It all went down so fast I couldn't establish any semblance of order. Somehow though, we ended up having a picnic outside with chairs and tables enough for everyone. Food was plentiful, shade generous. Our guests felt welcomed and at home which made me feel proud of my group of seniors.
As the picnic wound down, people started offering their help getting everything back in place. Two pickup truck loads and a car-trunk load later, everything was back inside our building and every single person, sweating and huffing, was thoroughly worn out.
The building finally quiet after most everyone left, I sat with two ladies and talked nonsense for a while. We ranted about the clogged toilet, laughed at my texting guffaw, marvelled at the idea that any human being would leave such a mess in a toilet.
Sometimes I let things get too heavy. I know I do this. I let a crapped out crapper nearly ruin my day, but thanks to a lot of really great people who've lived and plunged far many more years than me, I began to see how I sometimes make mountains out of molehills. I went home tired but satisfied that my efforts were not in vain. A lot of folks had a fun day, so it was worth the work and confusion, even the temporary irritation. Thank goodness I didn't take my anger out on that poor rude lady at Ingle's, who knows what kind of morning she'd had?
Now I'm sitting on my couch in my cool living room, feet propped up on the ottoman, a cute little tune racing through my brain that I never heard before today.
All God's Creatures Got a Place in the Choir. I guess even the ones who leave their crap for everyone else to clean up. On this Memorial Day Weekend, I want to thank the men and women who gave their lives so I could live in a country where a day that starts out in the toilet ends up being a pretty darn good day.
And thank you, my friends, for putting up with me when I'm letting the little things in life disproportionately weigh me down. I always lighten up, eventually.
Thursday, May 4, 2017
Hazy Shades of LIfe
Music was a big part of my life when I was growing up. I don't mean concerts or listening to cassette tapes or radio. I mean making music or listening and watching my father and his brothers play guitars. My family sang together in church a quartet of sorts, with my Mom, Dad and two sisters, my dad accompanying with the guitar. As little kid in our very informal church I took a seat in the choir on Sundays and felt myself lifted up in the waves of melody and harmony, the deep altos blending so beautifully with the sopranos and tenors, my dad in the back row with a few other men belting out those bass notes like nobody's business, but the blending of it all elevated my spirits. I remember feeling as if all the sound were coming from inside my own head, my own voice finding a part and learning to sing it as I followed along with another alto or tenor, finding my niche was natural to me.
When I was 10 or 11 we met a lady who played an autoharp. It is likely the easiest instrument on Earth to play, but I wanted one very badly so I could sit and play music with my dad and his brothers. I wanted to be included. So my dad found one for me for my 11th birthday, gave me picks and a song book that told me what notes to play. The chords were all marked on the keyboard, and soon by playing music with my dad, learning he positioning of his left hand on the guitar neck, I learned all the chords that make up a key. Pretty soon I was playing along with them, without having to watch their hands--somehow my ears or my brain just knew which note came next.
From there I graduated to a little toy organ. I spent hours picking out notes on it, learning to read music all by myself. I watched he pianist at church and felt so envious. Anytime there was an unguarded piano I'd make my way to it and try to pick out some tunes. By the time I was about 15 I was driving my parents crazy with my craving for a piano. A few days before Christmas I came home to find a huge upright piano sitting in my bedroom with a big red bow on top. I was so excited and surprised I didn't know how to say thank you, so I sat down and played the only little ditty I knew and then went smiling to my father and gave him the biggest hug ever.
I took formal lessons, but I practiced mostly what I wanted. I sat at that piano for hours a day, making up tunes, learning new ones, observing myself in the mirror to make sure my posture was perfect. I listened to the way other people played and tried to emulate their styles. Eventually I got good enough to play in public, although my nerves got the best of me most of the time.
When I got married I spent countless hours playing whatever song popped into my head. When I was sad, I played. When I was lonely, I played. When I was angry or hurt or stressed, the piano absorbed my bad juju and restored me to a place of positivity and hope.
I have my favorite music. The songs that have spoken to my soul and gotten me through the darkest days and the happiest days of my life. Music, they say, is therapy for the soul and I believe that's true. However, there was about a 2 year period of my life when music was not helpful to me. It was painful. I found myself thinking too far back in time, my nostalgia brought about by those familiar sounds was too tough to sit in. Many of the songs about love and heart break and disappointment hit too close to home and I found myself avoiding music to avoid wallowing in my pain. So the last couple of years, my life has been oddly silent, but comfortingly so.
Over the last few days, I've reconnected with my music. I listened to Neil Young sing Old Man the other morning, listened to "Comes a Time" and now, on the other side of my hurt, I find hope in those tunes. Tonight I'm indulging in Simon and Garfunkel, both the sappy sad and the happy. I'm letting the music take me to someplace new, rather than allowing it to trap me on a train headed backwards, into a past that cannot change to suit me now.
I know that now is what I have, and this train is only moving forward, with background music that sets the mood for the soundtrack of my life.
Here I go.
When I was 10 or 11 we met a lady who played an autoharp. It is likely the easiest instrument on Earth to play, but I wanted one very badly so I could sit and play music with my dad and his brothers. I wanted to be included. So my dad found one for me for my 11th birthday, gave me picks and a song book that told me what notes to play. The chords were all marked on the keyboard, and soon by playing music with my dad, learning he positioning of his left hand on the guitar neck, I learned all the chords that make up a key. Pretty soon I was playing along with them, without having to watch their hands--somehow my ears or my brain just knew which note came next.
From there I graduated to a little toy organ. I spent hours picking out notes on it, learning to read music all by myself. I watched he pianist at church and felt so envious. Anytime there was an unguarded piano I'd make my way to it and try to pick out some tunes. By the time I was about 15 I was driving my parents crazy with my craving for a piano. A few days before Christmas I came home to find a huge upright piano sitting in my bedroom with a big red bow on top. I was so excited and surprised I didn't know how to say thank you, so I sat down and played the only little ditty I knew and then went smiling to my father and gave him the biggest hug ever.
I took formal lessons, but I practiced mostly what I wanted. I sat at that piano for hours a day, making up tunes, learning new ones, observing myself in the mirror to make sure my posture was perfect. I listened to the way other people played and tried to emulate their styles. Eventually I got good enough to play in public, although my nerves got the best of me most of the time.
When I got married I spent countless hours playing whatever song popped into my head. When I was sad, I played. When I was lonely, I played. When I was angry or hurt or stressed, the piano absorbed my bad juju and restored me to a place of positivity and hope.
I have my favorite music. The songs that have spoken to my soul and gotten me through the darkest days and the happiest days of my life. Music, they say, is therapy for the soul and I believe that's true. However, there was about a 2 year period of my life when music was not helpful to me. It was painful. I found myself thinking too far back in time, my nostalgia brought about by those familiar sounds was too tough to sit in. Many of the songs about love and heart break and disappointment hit too close to home and I found myself avoiding music to avoid wallowing in my pain. So the last couple of years, my life has been oddly silent, but comfortingly so.
Over the last few days, I've reconnected with my music. I listened to Neil Young sing Old Man the other morning, listened to "Comes a Time" and now, on the other side of my hurt, I find hope in those tunes. Tonight I'm indulging in Simon and Garfunkel, both the sappy sad and the happy. I'm letting the music take me to someplace new, rather than allowing it to trap me on a train headed backwards, into a past that cannot change to suit me now.
I know that now is what I have, and this train is only moving forward, with background music that sets the mood for the soundtrack of my life.
Here I go.
Monday, April 24, 2017
Breaking Ground
Every Spring, around mid-April my father would start a line of smoldering fire along the edge of the garden. With big fans of brush he kept control of the burn, beating back flames when they flared up, keeping the fire in line to wipe the slate clean of last year's debris and begin to break the will of tender new weeds,so determined to take over the soil. The ground was left blackened. Like a battlefield it stared back at us, daring us to even imagine that life could thrive there again.
.
The tiller sat in our barn all winter long, its clay covered tines rusting solid, making more work for my father after the last frost finally came and melted away again. Every spring if you were playing in our yard, you would have heard our father muttering under his breath as he oiled the tines, fueled up the engine and worked feverishly to get it to run.
Time to break ground seemed always to arrive earlier than he expected and the dogged tiller would sputter and cough like an old man being stirred from a long nap before its will gave way to his tenacity and finally started up with a loud, low, intimidating rumble.
The ground was no more eager to cooperate. The wildness of Springtime yearned take over the ground. Kudzu and Morning Glory stretched across the rigid red Earth, Weeds and crabgrass took hold as quickly as they could. Nothing innate is easy to disrupt. The newly thawed soil fought back hard against my father's will to soften it. His only weapon, the tiller; a plow of sorts now powered
by gasoline and brawn, though in years past the same ground gave way to the hooves of a mule and the bare feet of a farmer's boy, my father before he knew me.Vines wrapped around the tiller's tines, choking the engine, causing it to sputter and my dad to curse. Rocks refused to budge to its churning weight. Wet red-clay clung to the tiller's spikes and caked up on my father's big bare feet. The ground's resolve to remain in it's natural state though, never matched my father's zeal to conquer it.
Planting time was a family affair. Usually one or all of us girls would high step through the mud behind our father, knees to our chests as we pulled our feet out of the warm, soft dirt. We took direction from him, never doubting that he knew which job was best for each of us. We planted one row after another until dusk turned to early nightfall and the soil cooled beneath our feet. Whatever seed was left to sow would have to wait for the sunshine of another day.
First came the tomatoes.My father dug the deep holes and I followed behind him with jugs of water, so heavy I could barely wield them, and filled the holes before he dropped in the plants, then my sisters came behind and covered the roots, patting the soil firmly around the delicate plants with their bare hands. One after another, row after row, the process was the same. Then beans, corn, watermelon, cantaloupe, cucumbers, peas...Until finally the whole swath of land was neatly ordered with columns of expectation. After the work came the prayers and then the wait.
In a few weeks the once desolate, weed infested, stubborn piece of ground would transform into a virtual Eden of burgeoning plants. They would give us sustenance not only for the Summer and Fall, but throughout the winter as well. The work of growing never quite done, my father labored tirelessly, sweat dripping into his eyes and off the end of his nose as he pulled weeds and stood the corn back up after a night of hard wind and rain. He taught us all the value of a hard Summer's work and a lifetime of perseverance. Through him we learned that every season of growth requires change and that change always comes at a price.
Our garden was more than just a hobby for my dad. It's necessity maintained our humble lives, taught us deeper truths than we ever learned in Sunday School and in its most elemental function, fed our bellies so we could forge ahead. The ground gave way and life renewed sprung from it every Spring: but only because my father's will was stronger than the will of the tiller, of the weeds and of the ground itself. He knew the potential that lay buried beneath the rubble of last year and the overgrowth of careless Spring. With deliberation he wiped out the uselessness that took over our garden between the growing seasons and replaced the scraggly worn out fragments of yesterday with brand new Purpose.
.
The tiller sat in our barn all winter long, its clay covered tines rusting solid, making more work for my father after the last frost finally came and melted away again. Every spring if you were playing in our yard, you would have heard our father muttering under his breath as he oiled the tines, fueled up the engine and worked feverishly to get it to run.
Time to break ground seemed always to arrive earlier than he expected and the dogged tiller would sputter and cough like an old man being stirred from a long nap before its will gave way to his tenacity and finally started up with a loud, low, intimidating rumble.
The ground was no more eager to cooperate. The wildness of Springtime yearned take over the ground. Kudzu and Morning Glory stretched across the rigid red Earth, Weeds and crabgrass took hold as quickly as they could. Nothing innate is easy to disrupt. The newly thawed soil fought back hard against my father's will to soften it. His only weapon, the tiller; a plow of sorts now powered
by gasoline and brawn, though in years past the same ground gave way to the hooves of a mule and the bare feet of a farmer's boy, my father before he knew me.Vines wrapped around the tiller's tines, choking the engine, causing it to sputter and my dad to curse. Rocks refused to budge to its churning weight. Wet red-clay clung to the tiller's spikes and caked up on my father's big bare feet. The ground's resolve to remain in it's natural state though, never matched my father's zeal to conquer it.
Planting time was a family affair. Usually one or all of us girls would high step through the mud behind our father, knees to our chests as we pulled our feet out of the warm, soft dirt. We took direction from him, never doubting that he knew which job was best for each of us. We planted one row after another until dusk turned to early nightfall and the soil cooled beneath our feet. Whatever seed was left to sow would have to wait for the sunshine of another day.
First came the tomatoes.My father dug the deep holes and I followed behind him with jugs of water, so heavy I could barely wield them, and filled the holes before he dropped in the plants, then my sisters came behind and covered the roots, patting the soil firmly around the delicate plants with their bare hands. One after another, row after row, the process was the same. Then beans, corn, watermelon, cantaloupe, cucumbers, peas...Until finally the whole swath of land was neatly ordered with columns of expectation. After the work came the prayers and then the wait.
In a few weeks the once desolate, weed infested, stubborn piece of ground would transform into a virtual Eden of burgeoning plants. They would give us sustenance not only for the Summer and Fall, but throughout the winter as well. The work of growing never quite done, my father labored tirelessly, sweat dripping into his eyes and off the end of his nose as he pulled weeds and stood the corn back up after a night of hard wind and rain. He taught us all the value of a hard Summer's work and a lifetime of perseverance. Through him we learned that every season of growth requires change and that change always comes at a price.
Our garden was more than just a hobby for my dad. It's necessity maintained our humble lives, taught us deeper truths than we ever learned in Sunday School and in its most elemental function, fed our bellies so we could forge ahead. The ground gave way and life renewed sprung from it every Spring: but only because my father's will was stronger than the will of the tiller, of the weeds and of the ground itself. He knew the potential that lay buried beneath the rubble of last year and the overgrowth of careless Spring. With deliberation he wiped out the uselessness that took over our garden between the growing seasons and replaced the scraggly worn out fragments of yesterday with brand new Purpose.
Thursday, April 13, 2017
A Real Man
My father was a real man. He had a collection of shotguns and rifles that hung high on the wall of our living room, flanked on either side by the heads of stuffed 8 point bucks that he killed. We lived off venison and vegetables he grew in the two huge gardens that framed our yard every summer. He always owned a boat and a pickup truck and his idea of a fun summer vacation was two weeks on the lake, fishing, swimming and hanging out around a campfire at night. He wore flannel shirts, coveralls and camo. For most of my childhood he had a flat-top hair cut or a crewcut. He worked hard, brought home the paychecks that kept a roof over our heads and clothes on our backs. He was all the things that some people believe define what a man is supposed to be, but he was also much more.
My father got dressed up in a dress shirt and tie every Sunday morning and drove a church van with all his kids, his wife and every person who ever asked for a ride to services piled inside. He physically lifted one man from his wheelchair into the front seat every week. He played a guitar and sang gospel songs, tearing up sometimes at the joy that swelled up inside him as his heart filled with gratitude. Maybe he never learned that Real Men only look out for their own.
My father cried often. He rarely made it through a Thanksgiving prayer without choking up with tears. Even on Easter, with his family gathered around, his eyes would well with tears as he thanked the Good Lord for the food on our table. He cried at funerals and he cried for the sorrows of those he loved. He cried one day, when my mother hurt his feelings, and he cried at all our weddings too. I suppose no one ever told him that Real Men don't cry.
On many a Saturday my dad would load us girls into the pickup truck with him and take us out to the lake all day on a fishing trip. It didn't matter to him that we whined about having to pee or wanted to spend more time playing with the doodads in the tackle box than actually fishing. He liked having us there with him and he never called himself our babysitter. He took us with him when he recycled cardboard to earn extra money for the family and on the way home, we always got chocolate ice cream. He washed our faces with his spit, and always noticed when our clothes were getting too small. I guess no one ever told him that taking care of the kids was woman's work.
My dad loved our mother. He made that very clear. He respected her and honored her ideas and opinions, encouraged her to pursue her passions and never stood in her way when she wanted to travel or take on some adventure on her own. He trusted her implicitly and never considered himself her boss. He taught his daughters that they were capable, strong and competent. He knew that each of us would have what it took to make it in the world with or without a man. It seems no one ever taught him that men are superior or that women can't survive without one.
My father was not a violent man. His anger was sometimes bigger than him, but he found a way to bridle that and learned that lashing out at others with words or with his fists was never the way to resolve conflict. In his old age he lamented times in his youth when he came to fisticuffs with a school friend or coworker. He taught his family that love wins, even over anger, and that we could protect ourselves in a myriad of ways without ever raising a hand to another human being. He made us feel safe, but he also knew our mom was as much our protector as he ever was. He worked third shift for much of our childhoods, leaving us in the competent hands of our mom, who knew how to dial the police or wield a shotgun--whichever the situation called for. He never even considered the idea that a woman couldn't protect her family.
My dad never went shirtless. Never. Yeah, he had a hairy chest and a coarse red beard, but he never let it grow. He kept his hair short and his face clean shaven. The one time he tried out wearing a beard our mother told him he looked mean with it, so he shaved it off again and never looked back. He was confident that no one would mistake him for a woman because he didn't have facial hair. He carried a pocket knife and a tiny pencil in his pants pocket at all times, but he never owned a handgun. I doubt if he ever even fired one. Somehow he figured out that he didn't need a gun on his hip to be a Real Man.
My dad never referred to my mother as "his woman". He called her "Honey" most of the time, referred to her as the mother of his children, his wife, which in his mind meant his equal. He never treated her as his property, never treated his daughters as property either. He gave us his love unsparingly, always had his arms open for a hug, his lap rarely empty. He patted babies' butts and let them burp on his big shoulders, held them with pride and let them fill him up with joy. We never had to guess what he was feeling because he knew how to show his emotions. I wonder who neglected to teach him that men don't act emotional?
Indeed, my eyes were fixed upon him. He was and is the perfect example of what a man should be. He was ever-aware of his imperfection but always trying with every day, to be a better man than he was the day before. In his last hours his only regret was that we couldn't all go back to the beginning and live life all over again. What an amazing life he lived!
He set the bar high for me; I may never meet a man whom I can admire as much as I admired my father. Because he was a Real Man, and he was nothing like the men who pound their own chests and declare to the world their masculinity.
You can't be a Real Man unless you first learn to be Real. And Real was the only thing my father knew.
My father got dressed up in a dress shirt and tie every Sunday morning and drove a church van with all his kids, his wife and every person who ever asked for a ride to services piled inside. He physically lifted one man from his wheelchair into the front seat every week. He played a guitar and sang gospel songs, tearing up sometimes at the joy that swelled up inside him as his heart filled with gratitude. Maybe he never learned that Real Men only look out for their own.
My father cried often. He rarely made it through a Thanksgiving prayer without choking up with tears. Even on Easter, with his family gathered around, his eyes would well with tears as he thanked the Good Lord for the food on our table. He cried at funerals and he cried for the sorrows of those he loved. He cried one day, when my mother hurt his feelings, and he cried at all our weddings too. I suppose no one ever told him that Real Men don't cry.
On many a Saturday my dad would load us girls into the pickup truck with him and take us out to the lake all day on a fishing trip. It didn't matter to him that we whined about having to pee or wanted to spend more time playing with the doodads in the tackle box than actually fishing. He liked having us there with him and he never called himself our babysitter. He took us with him when he recycled cardboard to earn extra money for the family and on the way home, we always got chocolate ice cream. He washed our faces with his spit, and always noticed when our clothes were getting too small. I guess no one ever told him that taking care of the kids was woman's work.
My dad loved our mother. He made that very clear. He respected her and honored her ideas and opinions, encouraged her to pursue her passions and never stood in her way when she wanted to travel or take on some adventure on her own. He trusted her implicitly and never considered himself her boss. He taught his daughters that they were capable, strong and competent. He knew that each of us would have what it took to make it in the world with or without a man. It seems no one ever taught him that men are superior or that women can't survive without one.
My father was not a violent man. His anger was sometimes bigger than him, but he found a way to bridle that and learned that lashing out at others with words or with his fists was never the way to resolve conflict. In his old age he lamented times in his youth when he came to fisticuffs with a school friend or coworker. He taught his family that love wins, even over anger, and that we could protect ourselves in a myriad of ways without ever raising a hand to another human being. He made us feel safe, but he also knew our mom was as much our protector as he ever was. He worked third shift for much of our childhoods, leaving us in the competent hands of our mom, who knew how to dial the police or wield a shotgun--whichever the situation called for. He never even considered the idea that a woman couldn't protect her family.
My dad never went shirtless. Never. Yeah, he had a hairy chest and a coarse red beard, but he never let it grow. He kept his hair short and his face clean shaven. The one time he tried out wearing a beard our mother told him he looked mean with it, so he shaved it off again and never looked back. He was confident that no one would mistake him for a woman because he didn't have facial hair. He carried a pocket knife and a tiny pencil in his pants pocket at all times, but he never owned a handgun. I doubt if he ever even fired one. Somehow he figured out that he didn't need a gun on his hip to be a Real Man.
My dad never referred to my mother as "his woman". He called her "Honey" most of the time, referred to her as the mother of his children, his wife, which in his mind meant his equal. He never treated her as his property, never treated his daughters as property either. He gave us his love unsparingly, always had his arms open for a hug, his lap rarely empty. He patted babies' butts and let them burp on his big shoulders, held them with pride and let them fill him up with joy. We never had to guess what he was feeling because he knew how to show his emotions. I wonder who neglected to teach him that men don't act emotional?
Indeed, my eyes were fixed upon him. He was and is the perfect example of what a man should be. He was ever-aware of his imperfection but always trying with every day, to be a better man than he was the day before. In his last hours his only regret was that we couldn't all go back to the beginning and live life all over again. What an amazing life he lived!
He set the bar high for me; I may never meet a man whom I can admire as much as I admired my father. Because he was a Real Man, and he was nothing like the men who pound their own chests and declare to the world their masculinity.
You can't be a Real Man unless you first learn to be Real. And Real was the only thing my father knew.
Friday, March 17, 2017
A Boy in A China Shop
When I was about 29 I met a man who told me this story.
He was a little kid dressed for a Newton Massachusetts winter, his puffy blue coat so stuffed with down that he could barely lower his arms. His mother took him into a china shop with the admonition, "Don't touch anything!"
When they got inside all the delicate trinkets were arranged on shelves that were situated precariously leaving narrow aisles through which he and his mother tried to navigate with great caution. The boy stood statuesquely, waiting as patiently as he could while his mother browsed. He was trying so hard to be careful that when his mother moved along, he stayed still, quietly nervous behind her. Behind him a few steps, she said his name, "Andrew, come on." And with that, he spun around to follow her, his arms like propellers sending rows of delicate ceramic ware crashing to the floor in pieces.
He told me about how she, nearly in tears, got down on the floor and picked up all the shattered pieces and with only the kind of pride a Southern woman could muster, insisted on paying for them.
When he spoke of this story, his voice always became softer, more distant. You could hear the admiration for his mother as he spoke of her, sitting determinedly at a table gluing the pieces of cups and saucers and plates back together. He remembered actually trying to use those broken dishes for a while.
In a way, I think this snapshot of his childhood became a defining theme for his life. He was a wanderer, a seeker who never seemed to know what he was trying to find. He entered people's lives with the best of intentions at times, but usually left them in pieces.
I met him when he was most decidedly, a man. A man with life experience, with hopes and dreams, with losses and with great victories behind him. A decade older than me, I looked up to him, admired him even, though in retrospect I realize I never really knew him. I accepted what he showed me, loved him for what he was able to give and hurt for all the damage his emptiness did, both to him and to me.
People come to us throughout our lives, often to teach us things about ourselves we might not otherwise ever discover. For a while I let anger and bitterness toward him color every memory of the 5 years we were together; but time has a way of erasing anger and even pain. Eventually I was able to appreciate even the worst things about him; instead of seeing him as a malicious person who intended me harm, I began to think of him as a four-year old boy in a puffy blue coat trying to be careful, yet always somehow breaking things. Truth is, I needed to be broken and then broken some more and broken yet again before I could begin start to putting myself together the way I was meant to be.
Here I am, all these years later, glued back together, more satisfied with who I am that I've ever been and I cannot discount the role he played the paths I've worn thus far. His road was a different one, one that led him far away from who I was or am or could have ever been. So different from one another, I some times marvel at how the Universe ever threw us together in the first place.
Even broken things give us something to hold onto though, and among the many things he left me, the courage to write this blog is one of them. He gave confidence to my voice, and took joy in knowing my mind. Oh, my heart he tore into pieces, but my mind, he nurtured.
I rarely think about it, but next to my bed sits a little table well worn with time. It has moved from Massachusetts to Charleston. From Charleston to Atlanta. From Atlanta back to SC with me where it has stayed beside me for many years. He gave me that table, had no use for it anymore he said. I've kept nothing else of his. No photos, no letters, no little mementos at all. But that table, it sits beside me every night, my books piled on it, my lamp perched just so that I can read myself to sleep. Years' worth of books have rested there, glasses of water, stacks of journals, abandoned art projects; it has been a landing place for all the things I've used to glue myself back together.
A few nights ago he showed up in my dream. My dreams, a place he has not occupied in so long, I thought were closed to him. But there he was, looking 38 again, that bushy beard on his face, a serious scowl across his brow. "I'm outta here." He said. So I stood too look at him, and it only seemed right to ask for a kiss goodbye. "Kiss me first." I said, and so he dd. Then he was gone.
I woke up knowing he had finally found the end of that long road he always itched to travel.
He traveled it well. Left trails of broken people all along the way, likely carrying pieces of each of them with him everywhere he went. I hope he left this world finally glued together the way he was supposed to be.
Perhaps we all need a good breaking; but I hope we all deserve the chance to put ourselves together again before we have to go.
How amazing would it be if in the afterlife there are no more china shops or puffy coats? Just wide open spaces and nothing breakable, ever again.
Rest in peace, my friend.
He was a little kid dressed for a Newton Massachusetts winter, his puffy blue coat so stuffed with down that he could barely lower his arms. His mother took him into a china shop with the admonition, "Don't touch anything!"
When they got inside all the delicate trinkets were arranged on shelves that were situated precariously leaving narrow aisles through which he and his mother tried to navigate with great caution. The boy stood statuesquely, waiting as patiently as he could while his mother browsed. He was trying so hard to be careful that when his mother moved along, he stayed still, quietly nervous behind her. Behind him a few steps, she said his name, "Andrew, come on." And with that, he spun around to follow her, his arms like propellers sending rows of delicate ceramic ware crashing to the floor in pieces.
He told me about how she, nearly in tears, got down on the floor and picked up all the shattered pieces and with only the kind of pride a Southern woman could muster, insisted on paying for them.
When he spoke of this story, his voice always became softer, more distant. You could hear the admiration for his mother as he spoke of her, sitting determinedly at a table gluing the pieces of cups and saucers and plates back together. He remembered actually trying to use those broken dishes for a while.
In a way, I think this snapshot of his childhood became a defining theme for his life. He was a wanderer, a seeker who never seemed to know what he was trying to find. He entered people's lives with the best of intentions at times, but usually left them in pieces.
I met him when he was most decidedly, a man. A man with life experience, with hopes and dreams, with losses and with great victories behind him. A decade older than me, I looked up to him, admired him even, though in retrospect I realize I never really knew him. I accepted what he showed me, loved him for what he was able to give and hurt for all the damage his emptiness did, both to him and to me.
People come to us throughout our lives, often to teach us things about ourselves we might not otherwise ever discover. For a while I let anger and bitterness toward him color every memory of the 5 years we were together; but time has a way of erasing anger and even pain. Eventually I was able to appreciate even the worst things about him; instead of seeing him as a malicious person who intended me harm, I began to think of him as a four-year old boy in a puffy blue coat trying to be careful, yet always somehow breaking things. Truth is, I needed to be broken and then broken some more and broken yet again before I could begin start to putting myself together the way I was meant to be.
Here I am, all these years later, glued back together, more satisfied with who I am that I've ever been and I cannot discount the role he played the paths I've worn thus far. His road was a different one, one that led him far away from who I was or am or could have ever been. So different from one another, I some times marvel at how the Universe ever threw us together in the first place.
Even broken things give us something to hold onto though, and among the many things he left me, the courage to write this blog is one of them. He gave confidence to my voice, and took joy in knowing my mind. Oh, my heart he tore into pieces, but my mind, he nurtured.
I rarely think about it, but next to my bed sits a little table well worn with time. It has moved from Massachusetts to Charleston. From Charleston to Atlanta. From Atlanta back to SC with me where it has stayed beside me for many years. He gave me that table, had no use for it anymore he said. I've kept nothing else of his. No photos, no letters, no little mementos at all. But that table, it sits beside me every night, my books piled on it, my lamp perched just so that I can read myself to sleep. Years' worth of books have rested there, glasses of water, stacks of journals, abandoned art projects; it has been a landing place for all the things I've used to glue myself back together.
A few nights ago he showed up in my dream. My dreams, a place he has not occupied in so long, I thought were closed to him. But there he was, looking 38 again, that bushy beard on his face, a serious scowl across his brow. "I'm outta here." He said. So I stood too look at him, and it only seemed right to ask for a kiss goodbye. "Kiss me first." I said, and so he dd. Then he was gone.
I woke up knowing he had finally found the end of that long road he always itched to travel.
He traveled it well. Left trails of broken people all along the way, likely carrying pieces of each of them with him everywhere he went. I hope he left this world finally glued together the way he was supposed to be.
Perhaps we all need a good breaking; but I hope we all deserve the chance to put ourselves together again before we have to go.
How amazing would it be if in the afterlife there are no more china shops or puffy coats? Just wide open spaces and nothing breakable, ever again.
Rest in peace, my friend.
Grief is Never Easy: Why loss matters, no matter how old you are
My mother died two months shy of my parents' 63rd wedding anniversary. She was lying in a hospital bed in the living room of the house my parents shared for more than 40 years, where they raised 5 daughters and played with 11 grandchildren. On the night before her death my dad sat beside her holding her hand. He had earnest conversations with her, even though she was growing more and more unresponsive. He apologized or all the times he wasn't patient with her, for all the times when he felt he wasn't a good enough husband. He told her sincerely and with tears streaming down his face, that he loved her.
"You know I love you, don't you?" he asked.
With what strength she had left she let him know that indeed, she always knew he loved her, no matter what.
My parents were less than perfect. Like any two people who share more than half their lives together they had their good times and bad. They had days when they got on one another's nerves, when they disagreed about things, when petty disagreements brought out the worst in each of them; but the life lived between them that spanned decades affected change in them both. It humbled them, made them appreciate one another more and more with every year that passed, until at last my mother lay dying in front of the picture window where our Christmas tree used to stand when we were kids, my dad sitting by her listening as her breathing slowed and finally stopped for good.
My sister left the room and let him have a few moments alone with our mother's body. She described the sound of his weeping as he kissed Mama's forehead and lamented her passing--too soon for him. Too soon.
We watched our father transform before our eyes in the days and weeks to follow. His grief was so palpable, so heart wrenching that we, even in the our own loss couldn't fathom his pain. His memory started to slip away rapidly. There were times when I would visit and he would tell me that his wife passed away, going into great detail about the last few days of her life and the moment of her passing. He didn't recall that I was he daughter anymore, he only remembered Bonnie, the love of his life forever lost to him. The house they shared seemed too empty, her very essence gone even from the pictures she hung on the walls. Her big easy chair sat empty straight across from his. Often he would stare at it as if in doing so, he might make her reappear there.
My sisters felt we needed to discourage him from talking about our mom. They thought he needed distraction, but nothing they tried got his mind off of the deep aching pain of loss that overwhelmed him.
Loss is the common denominator of mankind. Sooner or later we will all face it and hopefully when we do we will have the love and support of friends and family to help us cope. As a society we do a much better job of shoring up the defenses for children who lose parents or friends or siblings. We do a fair job at being at the side of a friend who loses a spouse or a child at a young age. However, when it comes to our elders, we often neglect to give them the time and care we offer others who have experienced loss. For some reason we convince ourselves that loss is such a fact of life for our elders that it must not take a toll on them as much as it does on younger people.
I work with a group of seniors in which there is one member who is about to turn 100 in a few weeks. A year ago a few days shy of her 99th birthday, her son who was in his 70's died from pancreatic cancer. Sue is a tenacious lady. She was a nurse who worked until she was 77 years old. She attends our senior center daily, plays scrabble and never misses an outing about town. But after her son's death she changed for a while. She missed several weeks of attending Senior Action. When she did come back I noticed she sat with her shoulders hunched. She suddenly sighed a lot and became quiet and withdrawn. One day she said to me, "It's just not right for a child to die before their parent."
We have all heard this before, haven't we? It's usually after a young child has passed away and her parents are left with that huge hole in their hearts; but we often fail to consider that a person who has outlived most of her friends and family might grieve just as deeply over the death of a son. Sue grappled with the notion that she has had such a long life, yet her son's life was cut short at a much younger age than her own. I had to remind myself that her pain was just as real, just as poignant as the pain of a young parent who has lost a young child.
Another man I know lost his wife 2 years ago after a long bout of illness and dementia. He was her husband and caregiver and although there were times when she challenged him almost past his limits, her death shook him to the core. Unable to even feel a sense of comfort at their happy memories together, he covered up every picture of her that hangs in his home. He cannot bear to this day, to look at a photo of his deceased wife. He tells me often that he would give anything to have her back again. On her birthday he takes balloons to her grave and releases them, earnestly hoping they'll somehow reach her. For a long time it was hard for him to go to church because her grave sits directly behind the building. He no longer sings in the Christmas Cantata because his last memory of her at Christmas is of her singing in the choir. He rambles through drawers in the house and finds knick knacks that were hers. Sometimes he gives them away and other times, he hides them back where they came from. A little blown glass angel sits on the dashboard of his car--a representation of her presence with him. His daughter sent me a message a few weeks ago.
"Do you know of any support groups for dad? I really think he needs to move on. It has been two years since his wife died, he should be doing better by now."
She and I see things differently I suppose. It is often far past the first year after a death when grief becomes the most acute. As the loss becomes more distant, the realization that you can never go back, can never call that person up again or make a new memory with them becomes more and more real. The sadness sets in deeper, the acceptance of that loss growing ever clearer does not dull the pain of its reality.
Here is where I think those of us who spend our days working with elders can make a difference. We need to be ready, willing and emotionally available to hear their stories.
Every life is a story. When two lives come together in marriage or friendship, our stories become deeper, more meaningful and more closely intertwined. As time passes the story of one becomes the story of two. The novel of a life, intricately written by moments and days becomes the essence of who we are. When one half of that narrative is suddenly taken out of the storyline, the story does not simply end. It is not as easy as ending one book and starting another. There are no new novels, only new chapters, and the transitions that take place between the pages of loss and acceptance are filled with struggle and grief.
Grief is its own story. It is a story that needs to be told over and over again until we have told it enough. As caregivers, children, family members of elders, we have to learn how to be available to their grief. I listened to the story of my mother's death so many times that it became almost too much to hear, but I knew my father needed to tell that part of his story. It often started with their wedding day, reminders of how many years they spent together, how many children they had and stories of all the struggles they faced raising 5 girls together. He talked of victories, of laughter and tears, disappointment and joy, and then he told in great detail about holding my mama's hand as she slipped away.
I watched my dad wither, withdraw from the world and begin to long for some other place--a place where he could join his wife again and feel at home in her presence. We could learn so much from witnessing a love like that, even after the pain of loss has made that love a heavy burden to bear. My father's health declined so rapidly after our mother's death. It was hard for us to face, but as we watched him mentally transition, we knew he was preparing to leave us. Two years to the day of our mother's death, our dad drew his last breath. His story told for the last time, he left it with us to carry on. Now it is ours, both to tell and to live and to incorporate into who we are still becoming. I want to use it as a way to reach out to others who are struggling to find peace with their losses, to find meaning in their stories, and to reach that place of acceptance knowing they are loved, understood and supported.
In the coming months, my goal is to create a caring, safe place for seniors to come together in their journeys through grief and have a chance to tell their stories to one another and to anyone with the empathy and courage to listen. I want my friend to go home and uncover the pictures of his wife because he has told his story of loss enough, and can finally look at her again and appreciate that she was, that she made his life better, and that his memories are too precious to hide away and try to forget. He needs someone to let him know that it is okay to feel that pain, it is okay to be sad and to miss her. Until he feels it is safe and acceptable and very normal to feel pangs of grief, he will avoid feeling those things and he will carry the heaviness of that pain so deeply inside him that it will eat away at his soul. We have to give our elders a safe outlet for their grief. We have to extend our empathy and understanding, we have to let them know that we do not expect them to soldier on as if nothing has changed.
A stoic generation, many of them have lived through hardships we could never imagine; but it is our job to let them know that they do not have to hide their grief. We must let them experience it fully, feel it acutely, comfort them through it, and guide them to a place of peace and acceptance. We do that by hearing their stories, by offering them a hug, a sympathetic word. We give them room to grieve by letting them talk about their lost loved ones, by sharing in memories of good times with them, by not seemingly forgetting that they've lost someone who was very important to them. We give them space to share their experiences without changing the subject or pretending we do not hear them.
Death is very much a part of life, and no one understands that more than the elderly; that doesn't mean the pain is any less real to them than it is to us when we have to say goodbye to someone we love. We owe them our support and encouragement, and we have so much to learn from the stories they need so desperately to share.
"You know I love you, don't you?" he asked.
With what strength she had left she let him know that indeed, she always knew he loved her, no matter what.
My parents were less than perfect. Like any two people who share more than half their lives together they had their good times and bad. They had days when they got on one another's nerves, when they disagreed about things, when petty disagreements brought out the worst in each of them; but the life lived between them that spanned decades affected change in them both. It humbled them, made them appreciate one another more and more with every year that passed, until at last my mother lay dying in front of the picture window where our Christmas tree used to stand when we were kids, my dad sitting by her listening as her breathing slowed and finally stopped for good.
My sister left the room and let him have a few moments alone with our mother's body. She described the sound of his weeping as he kissed Mama's forehead and lamented her passing--too soon for him. Too soon.
We watched our father transform before our eyes in the days and weeks to follow. His grief was so palpable, so heart wrenching that we, even in the our own loss couldn't fathom his pain. His memory started to slip away rapidly. There were times when I would visit and he would tell me that his wife passed away, going into great detail about the last few days of her life and the moment of her passing. He didn't recall that I was he daughter anymore, he only remembered Bonnie, the love of his life forever lost to him. The house they shared seemed too empty, her very essence gone even from the pictures she hung on the walls. Her big easy chair sat empty straight across from his. Often he would stare at it as if in doing so, he might make her reappear there.
My sisters felt we needed to discourage him from talking about our mom. They thought he needed distraction, but nothing they tried got his mind off of the deep aching pain of loss that overwhelmed him.
Loss is the common denominator of mankind. Sooner or later we will all face it and hopefully when we do we will have the love and support of friends and family to help us cope. As a society we do a much better job of shoring up the defenses for children who lose parents or friends or siblings. We do a fair job at being at the side of a friend who loses a spouse or a child at a young age. However, when it comes to our elders, we often neglect to give them the time and care we offer others who have experienced loss. For some reason we convince ourselves that loss is such a fact of life for our elders that it must not take a toll on them as much as it does on younger people.
I work with a group of seniors in which there is one member who is about to turn 100 in a few weeks. A year ago a few days shy of her 99th birthday, her son who was in his 70's died from pancreatic cancer. Sue is a tenacious lady. She was a nurse who worked until she was 77 years old. She attends our senior center daily, plays scrabble and never misses an outing about town. But after her son's death she changed for a while. She missed several weeks of attending Senior Action. When she did come back I noticed she sat with her shoulders hunched. She suddenly sighed a lot and became quiet and withdrawn. One day she said to me, "It's just not right for a child to die before their parent."
We have all heard this before, haven't we? It's usually after a young child has passed away and her parents are left with that huge hole in their hearts; but we often fail to consider that a person who has outlived most of her friends and family might grieve just as deeply over the death of a son. Sue grappled with the notion that she has had such a long life, yet her son's life was cut short at a much younger age than her own. I had to remind myself that her pain was just as real, just as poignant as the pain of a young parent who has lost a young child.
Another man I know lost his wife 2 years ago after a long bout of illness and dementia. He was her husband and caregiver and although there were times when she challenged him almost past his limits, her death shook him to the core. Unable to even feel a sense of comfort at their happy memories together, he covered up every picture of her that hangs in his home. He cannot bear to this day, to look at a photo of his deceased wife. He tells me often that he would give anything to have her back again. On her birthday he takes balloons to her grave and releases them, earnestly hoping they'll somehow reach her. For a long time it was hard for him to go to church because her grave sits directly behind the building. He no longer sings in the Christmas Cantata because his last memory of her at Christmas is of her singing in the choir. He rambles through drawers in the house and finds knick knacks that were hers. Sometimes he gives them away and other times, he hides them back where they came from. A little blown glass angel sits on the dashboard of his car--a representation of her presence with him. His daughter sent me a message a few weeks ago.
"Do you know of any support groups for dad? I really think he needs to move on. It has been two years since his wife died, he should be doing better by now."
She and I see things differently I suppose. It is often far past the first year after a death when grief becomes the most acute. As the loss becomes more distant, the realization that you can never go back, can never call that person up again or make a new memory with them becomes more and more real. The sadness sets in deeper, the acceptance of that loss growing ever clearer does not dull the pain of its reality.
Here is where I think those of us who spend our days working with elders can make a difference. We need to be ready, willing and emotionally available to hear their stories.
Every life is a story. When two lives come together in marriage or friendship, our stories become deeper, more meaningful and more closely intertwined. As time passes the story of one becomes the story of two. The novel of a life, intricately written by moments and days becomes the essence of who we are. When one half of that narrative is suddenly taken out of the storyline, the story does not simply end. It is not as easy as ending one book and starting another. There are no new novels, only new chapters, and the transitions that take place between the pages of loss and acceptance are filled with struggle and grief.
Grief is its own story. It is a story that needs to be told over and over again until we have told it enough. As caregivers, children, family members of elders, we have to learn how to be available to their grief. I listened to the story of my mother's death so many times that it became almost too much to hear, but I knew my father needed to tell that part of his story. It often started with their wedding day, reminders of how many years they spent together, how many children they had and stories of all the struggles they faced raising 5 girls together. He talked of victories, of laughter and tears, disappointment and joy, and then he told in great detail about holding my mama's hand as she slipped away.
I watched my dad wither, withdraw from the world and begin to long for some other place--a place where he could join his wife again and feel at home in her presence. We could learn so much from witnessing a love like that, even after the pain of loss has made that love a heavy burden to bear. My father's health declined so rapidly after our mother's death. It was hard for us to face, but as we watched him mentally transition, we knew he was preparing to leave us. Two years to the day of our mother's death, our dad drew his last breath. His story told for the last time, he left it with us to carry on. Now it is ours, both to tell and to live and to incorporate into who we are still becoming. I want to use it as a way to reach out to others who are struggling to find peace with their losses, to find meaning in their stories, and to reach that place of acceptance knowing they are loved, understood and supported.
In the coming months, my goal is to create a caring, safe place for seniors to come together in their journeys through grief and have a chance to tell their stories to one another and to anyone with the empathy and courage to listen. I want my friend to go home and uncover the pictures of his wife because he has told his story of loss enough, and can finally look at her again and appreciate that she was, that she made his life better, and that his memories are too precious to hide away and try to forget. He needs someone to let him know that it is okay to feel that pain, it is okay to be sad and to miss her. Until he feels it is safe and acceptable and very normal to feel pangs of grief, he will avoid feeling those things and he will carry the heaviness of that pain so deeply inside him that it will eat away at his soul. We have to give our elders a safe outlet for their grief. We have to extend our empathy and understanding, we have to let them know that we do not expect them to soldier on as if nothing has changed.
A stoic generation, many of them have lived through hardships we could never imagine; but it is our job to let them know that they do not have to hide their grief. We must let them experience it fully, feel it acutely, comfort them through it, and guide them to a place of peace and acceptance. We do that by hearing their stories, by offering them a hug, a sympathetic word. We give them room to grieve by letting them talk about their lost loved ones, by sharing in memories of good times with them, by not seemingly forgetting that they've lost someone who was very important to them. We give them space to share their experiences without changing the subject or pretending we do not hear them.
Death is very much a part of life, and no one understands that more than the elderly; that doesn't mean the pain is any less real to them than it is to us when we have to say goodbye to someone we love. We owe them our support and encouragement, and we have so much to learn from the stories they need so desperately to share.
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