I've got a real mailbox!
If you are cocking your head to the side and wondering what my excitement is about, let me tell you: I have never lived anyplace where my name was on my mailbox. Ever. But this in not a story about a name on a mailbox, it is a story about finding myself, and having choices.
Yes, I have lived in apartments, where the inside of the box had a piece of tape for the mailman to know the occupants. Usually scratched over someone else's name, in black Sharpie, spelled wrong. I have had PO Boxes, with the same kind of tape deal at the Post Office. I have lived in houses with door or curbside mail boxes, made of plain black sheet metal or ugly gold aluminum.
I had a house with my ex-husband. The mailbox was old, there from the original owner. It had the man's first initial and last name on the side in faded gold painted stencil letters. It had a dent in the top from where the mirror on the truck had hit it. It had ivy growing inside it most of the time. It was rusty. It was often home to ants that liked the ivy. It always had spider webs, and by deduction, spiders. It was ugly, and I hated it. More than the way it looked, I hated that my name was not there. My mail was delivered daily into someone else's mailbox. Granted, my ex's name was never on the mailbox either.
This never bothered my ex-husband. His take on the whole thing was one of both economy and control. He liked that he had saved the house from being torn down after the fire that had caused the house to sit empty for years. He liked that he rebuilt it with his dad and brother. He liked that it cost almost nothing because the previous owner had already given up on the property. He got very wrapped up in the house's history, the house's things and objects, and the notoriety of having a house that had an infamous, if not famous, legacy. It was all gone by this point, destroyed in the fire, and not really of any meaning to anyone, but that did not keep my ex from thinking it needed to be preserved. His pride was wrapped up in it and I understand that for the most part.
So when I asked to put my name on the mailbox, the answer was flat-out no. This stunned me. It is a name on a mailbox of the house I am going to live in forever, love in forever, and be happy in forever, and my name would not be part of it. I would have no worldly frontage of existence in the house. There goes that theme again, having no place inside my own life.
Last week, my brother told me he was building me a post for my mailbox at the new house, and to go pick out a container. It had to meet US MAIL regs and stuff, but the choice was entirely mine. Cast iron with a horse and buggy on top in hunter green. Large black steel with a lock and stainless steel handle. White aluminum with a red plastic flag and round reflector. And the letters were mind boggling. Traditional gold stenciling. Silver leaf with filigree. Black Army-box peel and sticks. There were flag choices and placement decisions and height requirements and cement mixing.
I took the kids to Home Depot. They picked a very pretty, very practical standard size mailbox, with no lock, in a lovely pewter gray-green. It has a plain brass colored pull and flag. It was about 18 bucks.
So all that talk about having my name on the side, and feeling like I needed an outside statement went away as soon as the mailbox was home. We took out bright colored acrylic paints and painted our hands, and pressed our now messy palms right on to the side of that brand new mailbox. We wiggled them and pulled them away, and had a water fight to get our hands clean after. It looks spectacular. A pink-purple-blue-yellow-red-orange personalization that makes me smile when I see it.
There is no name on it whatsoever. Just the three hand prints of the family that calls the place home. That is what I had wanted from the other mail boxes, the ones everywhere else. It never was about the name after all, just the feeling that I could put my name there if I wanted to, because it was home. It is about the right to say yes just because it will invite in happiness and belonging. This time it was yes to whimsy, and that is all that made the difference.
I think I will write myself a letter.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
What I know about brain surgery...
Today is Administrative Professionals Day. Whoo hoo for me.
I like my job, most days. Today was one of them. I was invited to lunch with some wonderful other professionals from my office group, given a plant (that we all know will die a slow and painful death) and got to spend a really good hour NOT talking about work. We talked about the housing market, restaurants in Monterey, how I kill all plants in my vicinity, the cost of shoes, and watercress soup.
What made me think to write about this is this feeling I get sometimes when I think about my current job. I wonder if I made the right choices, like everyone else, and the feeling that I wonder where I would be if I had made different choices. Would my life be happier, healthier, more fulfilling? Would I be writing this blog now, or celebrating the publishing of my third novel with a glass of champagne in my hand on my yacht off the coast of Crete.
Truth be told, I would never have made this plan if you had to make me swear an oath. I was going to be the first female Secretary of State, after having blazed my way through law school (Harvard, Yale, Princeton, whatever) and worked as both a public and private attorney, defending criminals and corporations with the same amount of tact and professionalism, even if I knew they were all crooks.
To that end, I was a poli-sci major for most of my undergrad work. I was on the Associated Student Council and was the Student Trustee for my community college. I did an internship in my local Congressman's office in Sacramento while enrolled at Sac State. I took Business for Pre-law as an elective (I hated that class, but whatever). I worked for Amnesty International since high school, starting two different chapters. I still do work for them. I also worked for Habitat for Humanity, and still like to swing a hammer whenever I have a chance. So with the impressive, going-places resume, what changed? How did I get to be an upper level secretary for a Dean on a military installation?
Here is how: I changed my major my senior year, becoming a Child Development major, with a Political Science minor. It does not seem like much of a change (still both dealing with childish attitudes, but I digress) but it helped me focus on the fact that I wanted people in my life, and not policies. I needed the policies that I did work on to focus on the good of the kids in the world, and not just on the needs of the adults. I realized I could not really break into the ranks of the Ivy League on a blue collar education, but maybe I could influence children who could. My children, even. I accepted that I was a "behind the scenes" small time player. And while I know I am smart, and can usually see and understand politics and the back-play that goes on, I did not see how I could be the front man. I was just not that charming, and definitely not that sexy, to get noticed.
So I started teaching, running preschools, then resource programs, then working with Developmentally Disabled adults. I taught a severely handicapped, full-spectrum autistic, and visually impaired man how to sort his laundry. He was never going to be able to do his laundry by himself, more than likely, without at least some minor help, but I taught anyway. Why? Because his dream was to be a brain surgeon. And brain surgeons need to wear clean clothes. I was the only one that could frame it for him in that context, and get him to attempt a true life skill. Everyone else had told him he could never be a brain surgeon, and so he had refused to pick up his clothes off the floor. Most of the time, before I met him, he refused to change his clothes or shower. Once he had someone acknowledge for him that being a brain surgeon was not a stupid idea, and one that he could control by working towards it, he was willing to try to do many basic things, including eventually shower and do a load of underwear.
So when I burned out of doing that job (it is hard to teach someone the same task, twice a week for 2 years, with no chance of them getting it right, and not burn out), I had two children, a husband who was drinking all the time and not working much, and a windfall chance to go work for the federal government.
I mention all of this now, because I am becoming okay with the road I am on. I am the mom to two amazing and wonderful children, who would probably have been spoiled brats being raised by nannys on that yacht a few paragraphs back. I am a writer who is learning to speak my soul, and I am sure that is a gift I cannot be anything but grateful for. I am learning that I matter, and maybe (as a very wonderful friend recently reminded me) I get to be a gift to someone else eventually.
I will eventually not be an Admin either. I will be something else, and it will just be part of the journey. I will, however, remember that my dreams change to fit my life. And that dreams, like being a brain surgeon, are wrapped up in what I value. I always valued being progressive, I always valued making things better. I have just seen that those big dreams of being in charge are not going to be how I define a good life. It is a good life in the "living", more than in the "doing".
And living it is more important than the titles it comes with. I make no promises on the plant though, it is on it's own.
I like my job, most days. Today was one of them. I was invited to lunch with some wonderful other professionals from my office group, given a plant (that we all know will die a slow and painful death) and got to spend a really good hour NOT talking about work. We talked about the housing market, restaurants in Monterey, how I kill all plants in my vicinity, the cost of shoes, and watercress soup.
What made me think to write about this is this feeling I get sometimes when I think about my current job. I wonder if I made the right choices, like everyone else, and the feeling that I wonder where I would be if I had made different choices. Would my life be happier, healthier, more fulfilling? Would I be writing this blog now, or celebrating the publishing of my third novel with a glass of champagne in my hand on my yacht off the coast of Crete.
Truth be told, I would never have made this plan if you had to make me swear an oath. I was going to be the first female Secretary of State, after having blazed my way through law school (Harvard, Yale, Princeton, whatever) and worked as both a public and private attorney, defending criminals and corporations with the same amount of tact and professionalism, even if I knew they were all crooks.
To that end, I was a poli-sci major for most of my undergrad work. I was on the Associated Student Council and was the Student Trustee for my community college. I did an internship in my local Congressman's office in Sacramento while enrolled at Sac State. I took Business for Pre-law as an elective (I hated that class, but whatever). I worked for Amnesty International since high school, starting two different chapters. I still do work for them. I also worked for Habitat for Humanity, and still like to swing a hammer whenever I have a chance. So with the impressive, going-places resume, what changed? How did I get to be an upper level secretary for a Dean on a military installation?
Here is how: I changed my major my senior year, becoming a Child Development major, with a Political Science minor. It does not seem like much of a change (still both dealing with childish attitudes, but I digress) but it helped me focus on the fact that I wanted people in my life, and not policies. I needed the policies that I did work on to focus on the good of the kids in the world, and not just on the needs of the adults. I realized I could not really break into the ranks of the Ivy League on a blue collar education, but maybe I could influence children who could. My children, even. I accepted that I was a "behind the scenes" small time player. And while I know I am smart, and can usually see and understand politics and the back-play that goes on, I did not see how I could be the front man. I was just not that charming, and definitely not that sexy, to get noticed.
So I started teaching, running preschools, then resource programs, then working with Developmentally Disabled adults. I taught a severely handicapped, full-spectrum autistic, and visually impaired man how to sort his laundry. He was never going to be able to do his laundry by himself, more than likely, without at least some minor help, but I taught anyway. Why? Because his dream was to be a brain surgeon. And brain surgeons need to wear clean clothes. I was the only one that could frame it for him in that context, and get him to attempt a true life skill. Everyone else had told him he could never be a brain surgeon, and so he had refused to pick up his clothes off the floor. Most of the time, before I met him, he refused to change his clothes or shower. Once he had someone acknowledge for him that being a brain surgeon was not a stupid idea, and one that he could control by working towards it, he was willing to try to do many basic things, including eventually shower and do a load of underwear.
So when I burned out of doing that job (it is hard to teach someone the same task, twice a week for 2 years, with no chance of them getting it right, and not burn out), I had two children, a husband who was drinking all the time and not working much, and a windfall chance to go work for the federal government.
I mention all of this now, because I am becoming okay with the road I am on. I am the mom to two amazing and wonderful children, who would probably have been spoiled brats being raised by nannys on that yacht a few paragraphs back. I am a writer who is learning to speak my soul, and I am sure that is a gift I cannot be anything but grateful for. I am learning that I matter, and maybe (as a very wonderful friend recently reminded me) I get to be a gift to someone else eventually.
I will eventually not be an Admin either. I will be something else, and it will just be part of the journey. I will, however, remember that my dreams change to fit my life. And that dreams, like being a brain surgeon, are wrapped up in what I value. I always valued being progressive, I always valued making things better. I have just seen that those big dreams of being in charge are not going to be how I define a good life. It is a good life in the "living", more than in the "doing".
And living it is more important than the titles it comes with. I make no promises on the plant though, it is on it's own.
Monday, April 25, 2011
...lighted fools the way...
I get to write today! I must write today!
The weird part is, it feels like work. Not hard labor, I will not be sweating or toiling. I have no deadlines or requirements. I don't have to publish it, inspire anyone, or even make it public. What it is though, is the part of me that MUST write is being a little rebellious.
Must write you ask? Yep, I must. I wrote before that I wrote for years, stopped for years, and wrote when I wanted to. I have journals sitting around. Some are pretty and wordless. Some filled on every line. And some I realized, as I cracked open two boxes I have been hauling around for years, are gone. Evaporated by the years of packing and unpacking. I had hoped there would be some magic in the boxes. Magic I had buried, some secret lost in the dusty and yellowing paper. Something so deeply powerful that I would be able conquer the world and be done by bedtime.
What I got instead was a couple of regular boxes, (that must have been wet at sometime since they were a bit moldy), and a really tired butt from sitting on the floor in my garage. I sat there for quite a while, sorting, cleaning, figuring out what everything was. When all was done, and the piles were figuratively labeled as "notebooks", "photos", "school-reports", "keepsakes" and "this-smells-too-bad-to-look-at", the stack I had opened the boxes for was smaller than I had imagined. The notebook pile, those secret journals I had no desire to look at, that held my inner thoughts and reasons for being, was really just a handful, totalling 10 or 12 half-filled lined paper spirals and pee-chees.
There is the story of how I met a guy at the library when I was in 8th grade. We went out a total of one time. I never saw him again. I wrote his name down, and my name next to it, about 400 times, over about 25 pages in a diary, in the course of the one week I knew him. I never said anything else about him. Just his name, and my name, over and over and over. I don't remember what he looks like. I do remember he had a car that smelled like mold and cigarettes.
There is the story about going to Great America and not being allowed on one of the rollercoasters because they could not close the safety restraint over my belly. I don't remember the name of the coaster. I did draw a sketch of it, with me flying out and landing on the operator, crushing him. It is a pretty funny sketch, but I am sure at the time I was angry. I can still feel the hurt (30+ years later) of being rejected already because of my size.
There are my Music Appreciation class notes. It was the most boring class. Ever. It was, however, the first time I drew the castle that I doodle all the time. I have used that castle drawing on personal cards and birth announcements. I will find it on the edges of staff meeting notes and credit card receipts. I have taught my kids to draw it, too. I have been asked recently to paint it on my daughter's wall.
I was surprised to find that I had not written much about my life that seems coherent and complete. In the margins I find single sentences like "Why does my mom have to be such a bitch!" and "My brother is stoned! Again!". I guess those words in the margins is how I took care of the immediate needs, and released it.
I did find some pages about what I was feeling, but mostly what I found was stories. Delicious fantasy stories. Stories about friendships. Stories about relationships. Stories about space travel and working in giftshops and being a servant in a medieval castle. All of them unfinished. Some of them very badly written. Some in the third person, some in the first. Some with complex characters. Many just the settings. All of them an insight into who I was, right then. There are napkins, and back pages of math papers. There are notebooks and loose binder paper. There are corrections, and colored pens, and scribbles that I can't read in the edges.
I was shocked a bit to find that this is what I have been afraid to open for so long. Carting these boxes around, like they needed protection and preservation. If you had asked me before I opened the boxes, how much I was writing about my self, I would have said "Tons, it is all I write about". Truth not so much. I didn't write about myself in the traditional sense, I wrote about where I wanted to be.
So how does this relate to my rebellious self, and why I MUST write today? I realized that writing was always taking me somewhere, but I left it unfinished. And when I stopped writing, I lost something that says I could go anywhere, be anyone, do anything. It is not really my rebellious self at all, it is my fearful self. The one that gave up. So today, I write. I will re-read this post, and probably think it is not the best I have ever done. I will want to re-write it, knowing that I can't. I will learn from it that once you have a moment in time, you don't get it back, but lucky me, I get to write again tomorrow. It is my lesson in letting go, and claiming my space, all at the same time. I have to write, because if I don't, all the stuff I am working on now, for myself, gets stuffed back into a moldy box. I run the risk of ignoring it again for years, building it up into something it is not. I just don't want to go there again. This time around, it is too important to think I can just get back to it later.
I just re-read it (ugh!), and will put it out there anyway. Tomorrow I will do it again.
Oh, and so I don't forget (or if somehow I lose all my ability to use a calendar) today is my 45th birthday. Happy Birthday to me, on a bunch of different levels.
The weird part is, it feels like work. Not hard labor, I will not be sweating or toiling. I have no deadlines or requirements. I don't have to publish it, inspire anyone, or even make it public. What it is though, is the part of me that MUST write is being a little rebellious.
Must write you ask? Yep, I must. I wrote before that I wrote for years, stopped for years, and wrote when I wanted to. I have journals sitting around. Some are pretty and wordless. Some filled on every line. And some I realized, as I cracked open two boxes I have been hauling around for years, are gone. Evaporated by the years of packing and unpacking. I had hoped there would be some magic in the boxes. Magic I had buried, some secret lost in the dusty and yellowing paper. Something so deeply powerful that I would be able conquer the world and be done by bedtime.
What I got instead was a couple of regular boxes, (that must have been wet at sometime since they were a bit moldy), and a really tired butt from sitting on the floor in my garage. I sat there for quite a while, sorting, cleaning, figuring out what everything was. When all was done, and the piles were figuratively labeled as "notebooks", "photos", "school-reports", "keepsakes" and "this-smells-too-bad-to-look-at", the stack I had opened the boxes for was smaller than I had imagined. The notebook pile, those secret journals I had no desire to look at, that held my inner thoughts and reasons for being, was really just a handful, totalling 10 or 12 half-filled lined paper spirals and pee-chees.
There is the story of how I met a guy at the library when I was in 8th grade. We went out a total of one time. I never saw him again. I wrote his name down, and my name next to it, about 400 times, over about 25 pages in a diary, in the course of the one week I knew him. I never said anything else about him. Just his name, and my name, over and over and over. I don't remember what he looks like. I do remember he had a car that smelled like mold and cigarettes.
There is the story about going to Great America and not being allowed on one of the rollercoasters because they could not close the safety restraint over my belly. I don't remember the name of the coaster. I did draw a sketch of it, with me flying out and landing on the operator, crushing him. It is a pretty funny sketch, but I am sure at the time I was angry. I can still feel the hurt (30+ years later) of being rejected already because of my size.
There are my Music Appreciation class notes. It was the most boring class. Ever. It was, however, the first time I drew the castle that I doodle all the time. I have used that castle drawing on personal cards and birth announcements. I will find it on the edges of staff meeting notes and credit card receipts. I have taught my kids to draw it, too. I have been asked recently to paint it on my daughter's wall.
I was surprised to find that I had not written much about my life that seems coherent and complete. In the margins I find single sentences like "Why does my mom have to be such a bitch!" and "My brother is stoned! Again!". I guess those words in the margins is how I took care of the immediate needs, and released it.
I did find some pages about what I was feeling, but mostly what I found was stories. Delicious fantasy stories. Stories about friendships. Stories about relationships. Stories about space travel and working in giftshops and being a servant in a medieval castle. All of them unfinished. Some of them very badly written. Some in the third person, some in the first. Some with complex characters. Many just the settings. All of them an insight into who I was, right then. There are napkins, and back pages of math papers. There are notebooks and loose binder paper. There are corrections, and colored pens, and scribbles that I can't read in the edges.
I was shocked a bit to find that this is what I have been afraid to open for so long. Carting these boxes around, like they needed protection and preservation. If you had asked me before I opened the boxes, how much I was writing about my self, I would have said "Tons, it is all I write about". Truth not so much. I didn't write about myself in the traditional sense, I wrote about where I wanted to be.
So how does this relate to my rebellious self, and why I MUST write today? I realized that writing was always taking me somewhere, but I left it unfinished. And when I stopped writing, I lost something that says I could go anywhere, be anyone, do anything. It is not really my rebellious self at all, it is my fearful self. The one that gave up. So today, I write. I will re-read this post, and probably think it is not the best I have ever done. I will want to re-write it, knowing that I can't. I will learn from it that once you have a moment in time, you don't get it back, but lucky me, I get to write again tomorrow. It is my lesson in letting go, and claiming my space, all at the same time. I have to write, because if I don't, all the stuff I am working on now, for myself, gets stuffed back into a moldy box. I run the risk of ignoring it again for years, building it up into something it is not. I just don't want to go there again. This time around, it is too important to think I can just get back to it later.
I just re-read it (ugh!), and will put it out there anyway. Tomorrow I will do it again.
Oh, and so I don't forget (or if somehow I lose all my ability to use a calendar) today is my 45th birthday. Happy Birthday to me, on a bunch of different levels.
Friday, April 22, 2011
the allure of pretty paper...
I have been taking vitamins and other supplements for about 5 weeks now. Faithfully, each morning, I swallow a handful of "pills" with names like Omega-3 and SAMe and B blah blah complex. This has been all so I don't find myself needing to swallow Prozac or Valium, or any of a dozen other mood enhancing/stabilizing/moderating drugs.
Trying to get myself (with help) out of depression is taking a whole fucking lot of effort. I don't want to take any meds, so I am doing all the other stuff. This blog is just the tip of a very cold, steep, slippery iceberg I cling to. I am looking for some sunshine.
I need to confess something though. Something I just figured out about why I write, and more importantly why I stopped, and why I have started again. I wrote before that I have been journalling for years. What I didn't mention is that I stopped. Oh, I had fits and starts, and have pretty, but empty, leather-bound and engraved journals to prove it. But mostly, I have been only making myself write consistently for the last little bit. I stopped writing on a daily basis in September 2000.
Here is the backstory.
I was a year and a half into my now-defunct relationship with my ex-husband. We hadn't exchanged rings yet, so he was still my boyfriend and lover then. We had hit the usual wall when initial newness wears off, and the real work of a relationship begins. The place where your good and honorable commitment kicks in, or you go your separate ways. I was ready to call it quits. We were not progressing. We never went anywhere together. We never spoke about love and adventure and holding each other as the most important part. I was already getting the inklings of the verbal and emotional abuse that would come later, and I had lost even the idea of myself along the way. I was at the bottom of my own list, and involved with a man who always had himself at the top. I did not exist, and as liberal a woman as I like to profess that I am, my 50's housewife ideal of a perfect marriage was evaporating.
He had recently begun talking again to a woman he had known before me. I didn't know at the time that she was very young and had just been dumped by her boyfriend. My ex was sympathetic, and had begun to show feelings for her again. In a strange way I was relieved, but I was also panicking. I had already allowed myself to become dependent on him for my feeling of financial security, and home stability. I had already given up many of my friends, most because they did not like him and I took sides. I had already failed at one marriage , and was feeling like I could not pull out now when I had such a great guy in my life, one with a family I already adored. I was willing to settle for that less-than feeling because all I had had in my life until that point was nothing. I willing accepted this going nowhere "relationship" as a step up. Maybe even all I deserved.
Still, I started saving money, looked for higher paying work, and writing every single day in my journal, making plans to leave. If I were to re-read the journals, I would not be surprised to find the word "survive" as all I was hoping for. I remember writing it a lot. When the day came that I had enough strength to ask him about the other woman (who I had known about for weeks), he basically begged me to stay. It was not what I expected, and had nothing to counter with. I had hoped for him to give me an out, tell me that he was in love with her blah blah blah. The fact that he was still seeing her was wasted on me. I was numb. Before I could get myself out of numb (about three weeks), I found out I was pregnant. Pregnant with Seth.
I was trapped. Here I was, joyous that I was having the baby I was never-supposed-to-be-able-to-get-pregnant-with. Having a baby with a man, that just a month before, I was leaving because I could not even imagine being with him forever. And a baby to me meant forever. I would be my parents. Miserable but responsible. Accommodating and abused. I would live his life because I had no choice. And looking back on it now (with the help of some counseling, thank you!) my previous outlet of journalling went away. I complied, and in essence, ceased to exist. From then on, I would be a dutiful wife, a perfect and giving mother, a homemaker and housekeeper and a perfect model citizen. I would be the ever ready lover, the never tired partner, and the giver of things to please, never even questioning if it was right for me. I would not need to write because it was all already written for me. No one would know. How could they know? I was already invisible.
This goes back to why I write now, and why I am opening eight different bottles every morning. I am reclaiming the person I was, healing the wound I kept hidden. I am also becoming someone I have never been. Someone on the top of my own list. Reclaiming isn't even the right word, not really, since I am not sure I want her back. A different, healthier version maybe. I am reclaiming the writing though, remembering that I have a story, and again, that I exist. I think this is a theme. Time for me to relearn my own core, become better than my teachings and experiences. Allow me to feel for myself, and reject the idea that my future is already etched by someone else. That, and keep myself from having to swallw one more pill. I know I have swallowed too many bitter ones already.
Trying to get myself (with help) out of depression is taking a whole fucking lot of effort. I don't want to take any meds, so I am doing all the other stuff. This blog is just the tip of a very cold, steep, slippery iceberg I cling to. I am looking for some sunshine.
I need to confess something though. Something I just figured out about why I write, and more importantly why I stopped, and why I have started again. I wrote before that I have been journalling for years. What I didn't mention is that I stopped. Oh, I had fits and starts, and have pretty, but empty, leather-bound and engraved journals to prove it. But mostly, I have been only making myself write consistently for the last little bit. I stopped writing on a daily basis in September 2000.
Here is the backstory.
I was a year and a half into my now-defunct relationship with my ex-husband. We hadn't exchanged rings yet, so he was still my boyfriend and lover then. We had hit the usual wall when initial newness wears off, and the real work of a relationship begins. The place where your good and honorable commitment kicks in, or you go your separate ways. I was ready to call it quits. We were not progressing. We never went anywhere together. We never spoke about love and adventure and holding each other as the most important part. I was already getting the inklings of the verbal and emotional abuse that would come later, and I had lost even the idea of myself along the way. I was at the bottom of my own list, and involved with a man who always had himself at the top. I did not exist, and as liberal a woman as I like to profess that I am, my 50's housewife ideal of a perfect marriage was evaporating.
He had recently begun talking again to a woman he had known before me. I didn't know at the time that she was very young and had just been dumped by her boyfriend. My ex was sympathetic, and had begun to show feelings for her again. In a strange way I was relieved, but I was also panicking. I had already allowed myself to become dependent on him for my feeling of financial security, and home stability. I had already given up many of my friends, most because they did not like him and I took sides. I had already failed at one marriage , and was feeling like I could not pull out now when I had such a great guy in my life, one with a family I already adored. I was willing to settle for that less-than feeling because all I had had in my life until that point was nothing. I willing accepted this going nowhere "relationship" as a step up. Maybe even all I deserved.
Still, I started saving money, looked for higher paying work, and writing every single day in my journal, making plans to leave. If I were to re-read the journals, I would not be surprised to find the word "survive" as all I was hoping for. I remember writing it a lot. When the day came that I had enough strength to ask him about the other woman (who I had known about for weeks), he basically begged me to stay. It was not what I expected, and had nothing to counter with. I had hoped for him to give me an out, tell me that he was in love with her blah blah blah. The fact that he was still seeing her was wasted on me. I was numb. Before I could get myself out of numb (about three weeks), I found out I was pregnant. Pregnant with Seth.
I was trapped. Here I was, joyous that I was having the baby I was never-supposed-to-be-able-to-get-pregnant-with. Having a baby with a man, that just a month before, I was leaving because I could not even imagine being with him forever. And a baby to me meant forever. I would be my parents. Miserable but responsible. Accommodating and abused. I would live his life because I had no choice. And looking back on it now (with the help of some counseling, thank you!) my previous outlet of journalling went away. I complied, and in essence, ceased to exist. From then on, I would be a dutiful wife, a perfect and giving mother, a homemaker and housekeeper and a perfect model citizen. I would be the ever ready lover, the never tired partner, and the giver of things to please, never even questioning if it was right for me. I would not need to write because it was all already written for me. No one would know. How could they know? I was already invisible.
This goes back to why I write now, and why I am opening eight different bottles every morning. I am reclaiming the person I was, healing the wound I kept hidden. I am also becoming someone I have never been. Someone on the top of my own list. Reclaiming isn't even the right word, not really, since I am not sure I want her back. A different, healthier version maybe. I am reclaiming the writing though, remembering that I have a story, and again, that I exist. I think this is a theme. Time for me to relearn my own core, become better than my teachings and experiences. Allow me to feel for myself, and reject the idea that my future is already etched by someone else. That, and keep myself from having to swallw one more pill. I know I have swallowed too many bitter ones already.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
rocks and dancing jesters...
I play Crush the Castle 2.
Whew, there, I said it. There is something strangely relaxing about destroying all those castles. The pitiful little sounds of the cardboard cut-out "people" when they go from being cartoons to being gravestones. The weird way that acid and fire work in random patterns. The way you can accidentally kill yourself with a really big rock. It is all very stress-relieving.
For those that have never played, and now think I am insane, it is a computer based game where you get to use a trebuchet to launch large objects at fake castles. The objects get more and more inventive the more castles you crush. You start out throwing a large log (snore) and end up getting to throw acid vials and timer detonated bombs (wow). You can accidentally kill yourself, and destroy your own trebuchet by launching your cargo too early. You get rewarded with gold medals (and more stuff to throw) along the way if you do odd things like "melt" more than 100 castle pieces at a time, or drop a parachute bomb directly on a jester's head. I am laughing out loud right now, just remembering the first time this happened. Weirdly enough, this never gets old.
So what , you might ask, does this do for your life, except waste it like so many other violent video games I try to keep away from my children? I could say that it teaches History: it uses a trebuchet. I could say it teaches hand eye coordination and timing skills: clicking the mouse at the right time is a difficult skill to master. I could say that it helps with your building and survival skills: understanding the castle's weak point would help in a earthquake. Humor: it is just damn funny. But the reality for me is it is a way to take out feelings of anger and destruction in a way that will not get me arrested.
I say this lightly now, but there have been days when I have used Crush the Castle to calm me so I could function. I would be wound up about something, usually involving my ex-husband and something I allowed to push my fear and insecurity buttons. I would feel victimized and afraid, and I would turn on Crush the Castle (available to you in two versions at Armor games, just sayin') and I could kill as many people as I needed to, completely envisioned with his face on the victims, until my body felt lighter. I will have laughed a few times (you have to hear the little screams to understand), and felt powerful over my fake 8.5 x 11 little world.
Maybe that's why some people garden, control on a long term scale. Playing in dirt and getting the chance to control what lives (the good plants, your own trebuchet guards) and what dies (the snails and the stupid harlequin dancing jester on the roof). Maybe that explains why quiet bullied kids play DOOM or World of Warcraft. (I don't know anything about video games, so if those titles sounded lame, forgive me.) But I wonder just how many other people are out there, like me, using distractions as tools. Farmville, Knighthood, online Chess or Bingo. In that context, is it a bad thing?
Here I am admitting that I have angry feelings towards things. I have found an outlet that keeps me from having to purchase a real gun. I don't really have any guilt about it, and that is a totally new thing, since I usually feel guilty about everything. I might have to explore that in another post. Will I still keep my kids from playing violent video games? You bet! I hope though, that I understand a bit more about outlets, and can learn to recognize them, and the need for them, in both myself and my children. I am thinking a silly sting fight needs to be organized really soon.
Whew, there, I said it. There is something strangely relaxing about destroying all those castles. The pitiful little sounds of the cardboard cut-out "people" when they go from being cartoons to being gravestones. The weird way that acid and fire work in random patterns. The way you can accidentally kill yourself with a really big rock. It is all very stress-relieving.
For those that have never played, and now think I am insane, it is a computer based game where you get to use a trebuchet to launch large objects at fake castles. The objects get more and more inventive the more castles you crush. You start out throwing a large log (snore) and end up getting to throw acid vials and timer detonated bombs (wow). You can accidentally kill yourself, and destroy your own trebuchet by launching your cargo too early. You get rewarded with gold medals (and more stuff to throw) along the way if you do odd things like "melt" more than 100 castle pieces at a time, or drop a parachute bomb directly on a jester's head. I am laughing out loud right now, just remembering the first time this happened. Weirdly enough, this never gets old.
So what , you might ask, does this do for your life, except waste it like so many other violent video games I try to keep away from my children? I could say that it teaches History: it uses a trebuchet. I could say it teaches hand eye coordination and timing skills: clicking the mouse at the right time is a difficult skill to master. I could say that it helps with your building and survival skills: understanding the castle's weak point would help in a earthquake. Humor: it is just damn funny. But the reality for me is it is a way to take out feelings of anger and destruction in a way that will not get me arrested.
I say this lightly now, but there have been days when I have used Crush the Castle to calm me so I could function. I would be wound up about something, usually involving my ex-husband and something I allowed to push my fear and insecurity buttons. I would feel victimized and afraid, and I would turn on Crush the Castle (available to you in two versions at Armor games, just sayin') and I could kill as many people as I needed to, completely envisioned with his face on the victims, until my body felt lighter. I will have laughed a few times (you have to hear the little screams to understand), and felt powerful over my fake 8.5 x 11 little world.
Maybe that's why some people garden, control on a long term scale. Playing in dirt and getting the chance to control what lives (the good plants, your own trebuchet guards) and what dies (the snails and the stupid harlequin dancing jester on the roof). Maybe that explains why quiet bullied kids play DOOM or World of Warcraft. (I don't know anything about video games, so if those titles sounded lame, forgive me.) But I wonder just how many other people are out there, like me, using distractions as tools. Farmville, Knighthood, online Chess or Bingo. In that context, is it a bad thing?
Here I am admitting that I have angry feelings towards things. I have found an outlet that keeps me from having to purchase a real gun. I don't really have any guilt about it, and that is a totally new thing, since I usually feel guilty about everything. I might have to explore that in another post. Will I still keep my kids from playing violent video games? You bet! I hope though, that I understand a bit more about outlets, and can learn to recognize them, and the need for them, in both myself and my children. I am thinking a silly sting fight needs to be organized really soon.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
in the pages of an old book..
I learned last night, that I am not nearly as secure in my parenthood as I thought or hoped I was.
This has nothing to do with my parenting abilities. I rock as a mom. My kids are happy, well fed, make it to school on time, finish their homework and can snowboard. I have taught them how to tie their shoes, given them guidance on what to do with their hair, and taught them how to do laundry. I make really good milkshakes, and I buy mint Girl Scout cookies. I tell them daily I love them, and I think they know it.
What threw me for a loop was seeing my children's father walk in with his new wife to my children's Open House at school. I fully expect to see him at everything, I even encourage it (the whole they-are-both-of-ours bullshit). I just did not expect to see her. Until last night, it had sorta been unwritten; I didn't fuck with her time, she didn't fuck with mine. I guess that just changed. And sometimes I hate change, especially one so obviously meant to throw me off. It worked. I also know, having been her at one point in my existence, that it had nothing to do with me at all. But I let it effect me, I gave him the power.
It did not change how I interacted with my kids during the event, even when I watched as "she" corrected my son's reading. I did not change how I interacted with my kids even as my ex introduced her to the teachers with my children's last name (more about that some other time). I did not change how I interacted with my kids, as the happy couple purchased every book (all expensive spineless crap) from the Book Faire my children put in their hands.
What did change? Something left over from my and my children's father's relationship that said I was not good enough. He had told me often enough, about my body, my wishes, my thoughts, my life and desires not being good enough, that while I was in the deepest part of my depression I actually believed him. It was so deep, this feeling that somehow he must be right, that he didn't even have to say a word last night. It was a body memory. He just brought his new female crutch with him and I did all the work for him. I felt weak and not good enough, and tortured by thoughts that my children would see right through me, and they would see me as not good enough too, and cling to the new woman that currently holds their father's attention. The one he holds out for them as a much better happier mom, so much better than me, just because of all the things I am not.
Pathetic. And what did I do about it? For the first time ever, I went home and confessed it to my kids. I confessed my fear and doubt. I told them about hurt and anger. I told them I was learning to let go so they could choose anything they wanted, because more than anything I want them to think for themselves. I took full responsibility for my own insecurity, not in any way expecting them to fix me. I cried in front of them and told them I loved them.
And what did they do? They asked me to read them a bed time story, and cuddled up under the blanket on my son's bed. They picked the oldest baby book we have. It is falling apart from the thousands of times we have read it. They don't even need to look at it any more, they have it memorized, words, pictures, tone, everything. We laughed. My son told me that "she" had to be jealous of me because he was such a great kid and belonged to me, and how could she not be jealous. He also said (and I quote) "tough shit" she can't have him, and dad would just have to get over it. My daughter just rolled her eyes because instead of getting mad that my son had cussed, I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants. This time the tears were absolute joy.
This has nothing to do with my parenting abilities. I rock as a mom. My kids are happy, well fed, make it to school on time, finish their homework and can snowboard. I have taught them how to tie their shoes, given them guidance on what to do with their hair, and taught them how to do laundry. I make really good milkshakes, and I buy mint Girl Scout cookies. I tell them daily I love them, and I think they know it.
What threw me for a loop was seeing my children's father walk in with his new wife to my children's Open House at school. I fully expect to see him at everything, I even encourage it (the whole they-are-both-of-ours bullshit). I just did not expect to see her. Until last night, it had sorta been unwritten; I didn't fuck with her time, she didn't fuck with mine. I guess that just changed. And sometimes I hate change, especially one so obviously meant to throw me off. It worked. I also know, having been her at one point in my existence, that it had nothing to do with me at all. But I let it effect me, I gave him the power.
It did not change how I interacted with my kids during the event, even when I watched as "she" corrected my son's reading. I did not change how I interacted with my kids even as my ex introduced her to the teachers with my children's last name (more about that some other time). I did not change how I interacted with my kids, as the happy couple purchased every book (all expensive spineless crap) from the Book Faire my children put in their hands.
What did change? Something left over from my and my children's father's relationship that said I was not good enough. He had told me often enough, about my body, my wishes, my thoughts, my life and desires not being good enough, that while I was in the deepest part of my depression I actually believed him. It was so deep, this feeling that somehow he must be right, that he didn't even have to say a word last night. It was a body memory. He just brought his new female crutch with him and I did all the work for him. I felt weak and not good enough, and tortured by thoughts that my children would see right through me, and they would see me as not good enough too, and cling to the new woman that currently holds their father's attention. The one he holds out for them as a much better happier mom, so much better than me, just because of all the things I am not.
Pathetic. And what did I do about it? For the first time ever, I went home and confessed it to my kids. I confessed my fear and doubt. I told them about hurt and anger. I told them I was learning to let go so they could choose anything they wanted, because more than anything I want them to think for themselves. I took full responsibility for my own insecurity, not in any way expecting them to fix me. I cried in front of them and told them I loved them.
And what did they do? They asked me to read them a bed time story, and cuddled up under the blanket on my son's bed. They picked the oldest baby book we have. It is falling apart from the thousands of times we have read it. They don't even need to look at it any more, they have it memorized, words, pictures, tone, everything. We laughed. My son told me that "she" had to be jealous of me because he was such a great kid and belonged to me, and how could she not be jealous. He also said (and I quote) "tough shit" she can't have him, and dad would just have to get over it. My daughter just rolled her eyes because instead of getting mad that my son had cussed, I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants. This time the tears were absolute joy.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Reloaded...
***This is the original post on Facebook I spoke about yesterday in the post titled " If wishes were horses..." I am posting it today so you have a frame of reference. It was written on January 6th, 2011.***
It feels like walking through mud. I don’t mean that I can’t breathe. I can. I am. But the days move in slow motion. I can count the years between the seconds that click on the red hand circling the clock on the wall. And the stories that find their way into that time leave me reeling, and exhausted, and heavy.
This is not classic depression. No rocking in the corner. No bingeing. No night sweats. On the contrary, I am sleeping fine. I am dreaming, if you can call it that. The same dream. At least it has the same feeling when I wake up. I have had this dream before, known this feeling before. And it aches. Aches somewhere. I can’t pinpoint it. I would massage it out if I could just find the source. I wish I could remember the details, or the people in it. I think there are people in it, though I cannot be sure. I never see the faces when I wake up.
I laugh with my children. I write. I go to work. I eat. I exercise. I see my friends, and laugh with them, too. I play loud games of checkers, never backing down on the cut-throat action-packed maneuvers my 7 year old throws at me. His smile and snort makes me warm. My 8 year old looks on, rolls her eyes at our silliness, and cuddles up on my lap anyway. When did she get this big? I don’t remember. Yes I do. I remember every minute. Her need to stay small warms me, too.
So why the mud? I move. I am moving. I can move. When I said I am breathing, I don’t mean deeply. I breathe on the surface. Enough for inertia, to take the next step. But breathing deep would mean exhaling deep, too. The surface around me might crush me if I let too much air out. Not like a crushing blow that comes in once, blind-sides me, flattens me in an instant. Those, well, those I can stand up from. Recover from. Dust off from. The slow steady crush of the mud around me, creeping in, filling my pores, caking my hair, collecting under my nails, filling my shoes. Am I wearing shoes? I forgot that I had shoes on. They are heavy. I should take them off.
That didn’t answer it, did it? I don’t know why the mud is here. Yes, I do, but it surrounds me like a blanket and protects me and ….
I am tired. Exhausted. And the tears on my cheeks only make the mud stick more.
It feels like walking through mud. I don’t mean that I can’t breathe. I can. I am. But the days move in slow motion. I can count the years between the seconds that click on the red hand circling the clock on the wall. And the stories that find their way into that time leave me reeling, and exhausted, and heavy.
This is not classic depression. No rocking in the corner. No bingeing. No night sweats. On the contrary, I am sleeping fine. I am dreaming, if you can call it that. The same dream. At least it has the same feeling when I wake up. I have had this dream before, known this feeling before. And it aches. Aches somewhere. I can’t pinpoint it. I would massage it out if I could just find the source. I wish I could remember the details, or the people in it. I think there are people in it, though I cannot be sure. I never see the faces when I wake up.
I laugh with my children. I write. I go to work. I eat. I exercise. I see my friends, and laugh with them, too. I play loud games of checkers, never backing down on the cut-throat action-packed maneuvers my 7 year old throws at me. His smile and snort makes me warm. My 8 year old looks on, rolls her eyes at our silliness, and cuddles up on my lap anyway. When did she get this big? I don’t remember. Yes I do. I remember every minute. Her need to stay small warms me, too.
So why the mud? I move. I am moving. I can move. When I said I am breathing, I don’t mean deeply. I breathe on the surface. Enough for inertia, to take the next step. But breathing deep would mean exhaling deep, too. The surface around me might crush me if I let too much air out. Not like a crushing blow that comes in once, blind-sides me, flattens me in an instant. Those, well, those I can stand up from. Recover from. Dust off from. The slow steady crush of the mud around me, creeping in, filling my pores, caking my hair, collecting under my nails, filling my shoes. Am I wearing shoes? I forgot that I had shoes on. They are heavy. I should take them off.
That didn’t answer it, did it? I don’t know why the mud is here. Yes, I do, but it surrounds me like a blanket and protects me and ….
I am tired. Exhausted. And the tears on my cheeks only make the mud stick more.
Monday, April 18, 2011
If wishes were horses...
I have been wishing for a long time that I could find the time and energy to write more. Now, I understand that everyone (and their mother) has a blog, and why would mine be any different? It was when (this week) I realized that I did not have to have it be different, just real, that the title, and the time, and the energy mystically appeared.
I have been journaling for years. For those that don't know what journaling is, it is like blogging, but with a pen, and paper. Some may remember it as writing in a diary, or keeping a slam book, or, for the visually inspired, a scrapbook with captions and quotations and little thought bubbles. Me? I just had a spiral bound notebook, and a really good pen, and some spare time every day. And by every day, I really mean whenever-the-hell-I-felt-like-it. Sometimes that was all day on a Sunday. Sometimes it was on the third full moon of the month. It didn't matter, just that I would write. A few months ago, the writing was just not enough anymore. It was not enough of a catharsis to have any impact. It had become routine. It was a "Dear Diary", except I knew no one was listening. I wasn't even listening anymore. The words were cold. I was hiding.
So I put myself out there. I wrote a "note" for facebook, published it to a group, and sat back, crying and shaking and terrified and embarrassed and excited, and in more pain than I thought I could bear. I got exactly what I needed. Someone read it. It was not the who, or whether or not that person commented (they did, but that is not the point). It was that I transported myself outside the realm of wishing, and into the scary world of feeling. I existed.
I haven't been truly letting myself feel things for long time. Ten plus years by my calculations, about the time that Seth died. And by now, I have gotten really good at keeping going, and putting my emotions in a little box to be dealt with later. I was really good at doing that as a child, and it just kept me safe and sane into my adult hood. I would write everything down in whatever journal I keeping at the time, and then never read it, never acknowledge it, never think about it again. I had dealt with it and that was that.
So why now? Why write a blog, and post it where the world can read it? (Ok, I am not vain enough to believe the world is reading it, and will be grateful if my best friend reads it, but you get the gist.) My reasons seem tied up in allowing myself to remember that I exist. I had been told for a long time that my existence in this world was dependent on the size of my body, the cleanliness of my house, the amount of money I brought in, the happiness I publicly displayed even when I was in a total state of panic and grief on the inside. I can't try to fake it any more. I can't drag myself along, not even knowing what happy is, and settling for less than feeling everything.
I will write. I will write here. I won't edit beyond grammar and spelling. I will scare myself. I will revel in fear and praise. I will find gratitude and anger in the silence. I will exist. Along that way, I will learn to let go. I will remember that letting go of bad stuff does not make the good stuff go away. No babies with bathwater. I will remember that wishes are a good thing. Working towards the wishes is even better.
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