Ok, just because I haven't blogged, doesn't mean that nothing bad is happening....
I've joined Facebook.
I really don't have oodles of free time. I don't have a job with lots of downtime that affords me the luxury of unlimited access and the occasion to fritter it away on the Internet, AND get paid for it. I don't need friends. I have friends that I like and social outlets (not virtual) to meet more friends, should I desire them. I don't, won't ever, don't ask me to....network. So what in the world have I done?
I wasn't bored. No body under any circumstances, except for prisoner-of-war or jury duty and neither of those are applicable, could be THAT bored. I wasn't compelled. No one was bothering, nagging at me, coercing, or even urging me to participate...in fact one really good friend wasn't even sure he wanted to confirm me as his "friend" - what is he hiding? I'm quite sure my children and their spouses don't want me prying into their accounts. Most of the people I know aren't interesting in receiving "flare" or participating in questionnaires to find out who they were in a former life, or being friends with everyone I'm friends with or...networking.
So what is it with this web site? It's strangely intriguing. I get to answer the question in real time, "What am I doing right now?" It's voyeuristic. I get to "see" what other people are doing. I look at their pictures, read their profiles. It's communicative and artistic. I write on walls, send messages, comment, and read pithy sayings on "bumper stickers". I could create bumper stickers if I'm so inclined.
I have a pathetic cell phone, a digital camera, and my very own laptop. We have wireless Internet access and in-house computer/printer networking (which is acceptable, it's not the "other" kind of networking). Our business is fully automated, except for the Tall One who programs the automation. We have a DVR, which I'm not sure how we lived without. What we don't have is a GPS device, really good cell phones with all the bells and whistles, iPods and/or MP3 players, or blackberries.
And that my friend (virtual or real), is bogus.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Dinner and a Song
I had dinner with Song, at my house. I made quinoa pie, and Christmas cookies. We opened a bottle of Grapeful Red. She told me where she's at...
She's been pretty depressed...and she has good reason. Dead husband, no insurance money, lack of security. She lost, or forfeited, her vocation. But, she's not defeated. The thing I like about Song, well one of the things, is that she will ask for help. She's been feeling badly. She went to the doctor and got a prescription for, not an antidepressant, but anti-anxiety, the new emotional challenge. But, she's doing everything she can for herself. I love that. She has every reason to give up and give in. But she won't.
She's going to contact the local rescue mission, to see if they need help on Christmas day. She thinks that'll be good for her. I do too.
I have to send her an email. She was supposed to go, with her sister and brother-in-law, to the place where she and her deceased husband spent their first date. I hope she had a lovely time. She deserves to have a lovely time.
She's made reservations at her husband's favorite natural resource. That's where she and her family will scatter his ashes. She has the most practical, thought-out plan you can surmise. She has put effort into her life.
She's cutting back her work hours. She needs time. She should have time. Isn't that a truly remarkable revelation? I hope we get to take walks together. I need her perspective.
Survive the holidays, Song, you should be able to breathe a little real, real soon.
She's been pretty depressed...and she has good reason. Dead husband, no insurance money, lack of security. She lost, or forfeited, her vocation. But, she's not defeated. The thing I like about Song, well one of the things, is that she will ask for help. She's been feeling badly. She went to the doctor and got a prescription for, not an antidepressant, but anti-anxiety, the new emotional challenge. But, she's doing everything she can for herself. I love that. She has every reason to give up and give in. But she won't.
She's going to contact the local rescue mission, to see if they need help on Christmas day. She thinks that'll be good for her. I do too.
I have to send her an email. She was supposed to go, with her sister and brother-in-law, to the place where she and her deceased husband spent their first date. I hope she had a lovely time. She deserves to have a lovely time.
She's made reservations at her husband's favorite natural resource. That's where she and her family will scatter his ashes. She has the most practical, thought-out plan you can surmise. She has put effort into her life.
She's cutting back her work hours. She needs time. She should have time. Isn't that a truly remarkable revelation? I hope we get to take walks together. I need her perspective.
Survive the holidays, Song, you should be able to breathe a little real, real soon.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Holiday Fun Begins
Yesterday, as the FIRST of the two twenty pound turkeys was cooking, and I was doing some last minute cleaning and rearranging, I was fairly certain that I wasn't going to make it this year. I wasn't concerned about the preparations. I've been hostessing the BIG family Thanksgiving celebration since we moved to this home twelve years ago. I was bothered, and a little surprised, by my emotional state. If I would have had the time, I think I may have indulged in a good pity cry.
Things have been hitting me sideways, with melancholy thoughts of O.S. and D.I.L.ly. As I readied the Christmas Tree in our Library, a heaviness began settling on my heart. I top this tree with a wooden star that O.S. created one Christmas time about 10 years ago. I had been grumbling about not having an appropriate tree topper. I'd tried bows, angels, lighted aluminum stars, but nothing ever worked to MY satisfaction. O.S. disappeared into our shop, and emerged later with the gift. It's a wonderful thing. It's five points are perfect. The shaft is hand tooled and fits perfectly over the highest artificial branch. O.S. stained it a distressed gold. I keep it out all year long. It perches on a bookshelf until called into service as the crowning glory on the most traditional evergreen.
Since I notice it often, and admire it regularly, I was startled by the sadness that griped by heart as I placed it this year. I never, never think of O.S. apart from D.I.L.ly. They have been friends and then more for most of the years of their youth and young adulthood. I know that to be without her would injure my son in all the ways that could never be made well again. And yet, unbidden, the fantasy came with crystal clarity. I am adept at turning my mind from unpleasant thoughts and inappropriate, harmful ruminations, but this one ran it's course. O.S. came home alone, and broken, but not destroyed...and I felt happy.
I saw him as he always was. Sad but intact. I saw his melancholy smile, I felt his hug, mine matched the tears in his eyes. A wash of HOPE poured over me. And I've been undone ever since. I'm ashamed that I value my joy over D.I.L.ly's, although I despair that love is beyond her understanding. I'm wary of feeling an emotion for a scenario that I'd never imagined before, let alone entertained. A scenario that I'm convinced will never play out. And yet, this is the one, above all others that I long for.
I don't wish D.I.L.ly ill. She's deeply troubled, damaged in a fundamental, unreachable area of her mind and heart. If anyone can reach her, save her, it is O.S. A large portion of my motivation in separating from, and distancing myself was to protect O.S. from ever having to choose between his wife and his mother. Tall One and I worked to instill the importance of connubial commitment. We value that attribute, and have striven to exemplify it in our own marriage.
So, I am sad. Sad to know that hope has been stirred. Sad to realize I'm not the realist I strive to be, but more the emotional, needy sot that I've expected all along.
And, today, Happy Thanksgiving, will bring challenges I'm not up to. I've no more strength to comfort or cajole. I wonder about my resources to remain civil. My sister-in-law, I imagine is facing similar trials. Her son, my favorite nephew, was arrested for an offense that we wish was drug related, it's that much worse. And, actually, the thoughts of her difficulties, her dilemma in dealing with family en mass, is the only calming, strengthen, motivating factor in my involuntary resolve to stay and not flee to a little known tropical island and begin drowning all memories in copious amounts of adult beverages.
So, my goals for this most festive of holiday seasons will be:
1). To not offend my mother's limited emotional resources. I WILL NOT tell her to "fuck off"...no matter how many times I have to stifle the impulse. It's like a poison ivy itch...It would only feel good for a moment, and then I risk infection.
2). Not to alienate further, my already emotionally stunted mother-in-law. It's not her fault. She tries her best. She's just hopelessly mired in her desire to present a socially pleasing fiction. I will stifle my overwhelming urge to yell, "get a clue"! It's too late, she wouldn't understand. There would be no satisfaction. I'd look like a lunatic.
3). To concentrate on the good stuff, the fine things, the circumstances that will buoy my dwindling reserves...and when I start to "count my blessings", I am encouraged. I CAN do this. I WILL survive...
Happy fucking Thanksgiving...I'm eating two desserts....
Things have been hitting me sideways, with melancholy thoughts of O.S. and D.I.L.ly. As I readied the Christmas Tree in our Library, a heaviness began settling on my heart. I top this tree with a wooden star that O.S. created one Christmas time about 10 years ago. I had been grumbling about not having an appropriate tree topper. I'd tried bows, angels, lighted aluminum stars, but nothing ever worked to MY satisfaction. O.S. disappeared into our shop, and emerged later with the gift. It's a wonderful thing. It's five points are perfect. The shaft is hand tooled and fits perfectly over the highest artificial branch. O.S. stained it a distressed gold. I keep it out all year long. It perches on a bookshelf until called into service as the crowning glory on the most traditional evergreen.
Since I notice it often, and admire it regularly, I was startled by the sadness that griped by heart as I placed it this year. I never, never think of O.S. apart from D.I.L.ly. They have been friends and then more for most of the years of their youth and young adulthood. I know that to be without her would injure my son in all the ways that could never be made well again. And yet, unbidden, the fantasy came with crystal clarity. I am adept at turning my mind from unpleasant thoughts and inappropriate, harmful ruminations, but this one ran it's course. O.S. came home alone, and broken, but not destroyed...and I felt happy.
I saw him as he always was. Sad but intact. I saw his melancholy smile, I felt his hug, mine matched the tears in his eyes. A wash of HOPE poured over me. And I've been undone ever since. I'm ashamed that I value my joy over D.I.L.ly's, although I despair that love is beyond her understanding. I'm wary of feeling an emotion for a scenario that I'd never imagined before, let alone entertained. A scenario that I'm convinced will never play out. And yet, this is the one, above all others that I long for.
I don't wish D.I.L.ly ill. She's deeply troubled, damaged in a fundamental, unreachable area of her mind and heart. If anyone can reach her, save her, it is O.S. A large portion of my motivation in separating from, and distancing myself was to protect O.S. from ever having to choose between his wife and his mother. Tall One and I worked to instill the importance of connubial commitment. We value that attribute, and have striven to exemplify it in our own marriage.
So, I am sad. Sad to know that hope has been stirred. Sad to realize I'm not the realist I strive to be, but more the emotional, needy sot that I've expected all along.
And, today, Happy Thanksgiving, will bring challenges I'm not up to. I've no more strength to comfort or cajole. I wonder about my resources to remain civil. My sister-in-law, I imagine is facing similar trials. Her son, my favorite nephew, was arrested for an offense that we wish was drug related, it's that much worse. And, actually, the thoughts of her difficulties, her dilemma in dealing with family en mass, is the only calming, strengthen, motivating factor in my involuntary resolve to stay and not flee to a little known tropical island and begin drowning all memories in copious amounts of adult beverages.
So, my goals for this most festive of holiday seasons will be:
1). To not offend my mother's limited emotional resources. I WILL NOT tell her to "fuck off"...no matter how many times I have to stifle the impulse. It's like a poison ivy itch...It would only feel good for a moment, and then I risk infection.
2). Not to alienate further, my already emotionally stunted mother-in-law. It's not her fault. She tries her best. She's just hopelessly mired in her desire to present a socially pleasing fiction. I will stifle my overwhelming urge to yell, "get a clue"! It's too late, she wouldn't understand. There would be no satisfaction. I'd look like a lunatic.
3). To concentrate on the good stuff, the fine things, the circumstances that will buoy my dwindling reserves...and when I start to "count my blessings", I am encouraged. I CAN do this. I WILL survive...
Happy fucking Thanksgiving...I'm eating two desserts....
Friday, November 21, 2008
Near Death Experience
I can't sleep. This doesn't happen often, and it's probably hormonal, not stress related, but my mind's racing and I had this "experience" I need to document....
I don't write about Nana. At least not publicly. I'm a wuss, of grand proportion. I'm afraid she'll find out.
The other day, after eating breakfast, on our way to the grocery store, Nana looks at me and asks, "Do you think I'm a positive person?"
I am a deer in the headlights of a speeding eighteen wheeler....and the road's wet and the brakes are out...
"No, you are the most negative person I know. You hate blacks, Jews and men. You hate all of your neighbors, especially the ones you've never met. You've hated every job you ever had. You hate your daughter-in-law and her children from her first marriage. You think your youngest son is an idiot. And, even though you coerced and shamed him into calling you once a week you use that time to criticise and fight with him and then complain to me. You hate football, basketball, and baseball even though you watch the games. You think your oldest son, the one who lived with you for seventeen years as an adult, and would do anything for you, is a waste. You used to talk to me everyday on the phone, crying about how he was going to drive you insane, you couldn't live with him anymore. When he comes to visit you now, you criticise him for everything, even for using your bathroom too many times. He talks to you everyday on the phone, and his conversation annoys you.You bring up others' perceived shortcomings over and over again. Even your "best" friends have "no sense". You don't like my husband, you don't even acknowledge him except with veiled criticism. You have accused us of emotionally abusing our son. Most of the time you don't recognize that I AM a mother of grown children. You treat me like a mentally challenged adolescent. You accuse my daughter of taking advantage of me. You criticise my grandsons' HAIR! Your condo is noisy, where you lived before, being driven insane, no one was allowed to breath, apparently before 9am or after 5pm. Here, apparently, "anything goes". Your next door neighbor, whom you've never met or talked to is a whore. I have to sit with you on the 4th of July, because the fireworks scare your cat. You tell me you can't die before your cat because no one can take care of her like you can. Be that as it may, she is a CAT. But, you used to have 12 of them. And, they couldn't do anything right either. You're lonely, but you don't want company. When people come to see you, they stay too long, talk too loudly, have opinions that you don't agree with, or don't show proper appreciation for your hospitality. It's always too warm or too cold. You can't see anything out of your windows. The borough doesn't take proper care of the roads. The little league teams, and the peewee football teams that play and practice outside your home on improperly prepared fields, are "pigs". So are Hispanic people. So are the people we see at the grocery store. So is the UPS man because he doesn't put your package where you want him to on your porch. So is anyone that doesn't do everything exactly the way you think they should. You hate the Channel 8 News Team, especially the weather man. You take offense for imaginary slights of sports figures by their coaches and managers, and celebrities by their fans and the paparazzi. I can't get out of your way fast enough, even though you use a walker. I screw up the grocery list. I don't open packages of cereal properly. I don't sit still long enough. I'm not allowed to do anything else while I'm talking to you on the phone...BUT I DO, and then I lie about it. I spend a disproportionate amount of time trying to figure out what to tell you and what to say so as not to upset you or cause a negative reaction. I fail miserably 100% of the time. You never remarried after Dad died because you didn't want to give my brother and me a step father....we were 13 and 16, we would've been grown by the time you dated, fell in love, became engaged and married. You tell us that we children are your life....you hold it over our heads like a sledge hammer. You obsess over minor details of which you have no control. And then your day, week, month, year, life is ruined when someone or something deviates from your expected plan. You have always been this way, it has nothing to do with your age."
I gather my wits and what I actually say is, "I sometimes worry that you're not happy."
Nana ignores me and continues, " T. said that I amaze her with my positive attitude."
"Yes, Mom, I think people can see that in you."
I don't write about Nana. At least not publicly. I'm a wuss, of grand proportion. I'm afraid she'll find out.
The other day, after eating breakfast, on our way to the grocery store, Nana looks at me and asks, "Do you think I'm a positive person?"
I am a deer in the headlights of a speeding eighteen wheeler....and the road's wet and the brakes are out...
"No, you are the most negative person I know. You hate blacks, Jews and men. You hate all of your neighbors, especially the ones you've never met. You've hated every job you ever had. You hate your daughter-in-law and her children from her first marriage. You think your youngest son is an idiot. And, even though you coerced and shamed him into calling you once a week you use that time to criticise and fight with him and then complain to me. You hate football, basketball, and baseball even though you watch the games. You think your oldest son, the one who lived with you for seventeen years as an adult, and would do anything for you, is a waste. You used to talk to me everyday on the phone, crying about how he was going to drive you insane, you couldn't live with him anymore. When he comes to visit you now, you criticise him for everything, even for using your bathroom too many times. He talks to you everyday on the phone, and his conversation annoys you.You bring up others' perceived shortcomings over and over again. Even your "best" friends have "no sense". You don't like my husband, you don't even acknowledge him except with veiled criticism. You have accused us of emotionally abusing our son. Most of the time you don't recognize that I AM a mother of grown children. You treat me like a mentally challenged adolescent. You accuse my daughter of taking advantage of me. You criticise my grandsons' HAIR! Your condo is noisy, where you lived before, being driven insane, no one was allowed to breath, apparently before 9am or after 5pm. Here, apparently, "anything goes". Your next door neighbor, whom you've never met or talked to is a whore. I have to sit with you on the 4th of July, because the fireworks scare your cat. You tell me you can't die before your cat because no one can take care of her like you can. Be that as it may, she is a CAT. But, you used to have 12 of them. And, they couldn't do anything right either. You're lonely, but you don't want company. When people come to see you, they stay too long, talk too loudly, have opinions that you don't agree with, or don't show proper appreciation for your hospitality. It's always too warm or too cold. You can't see anything out of your windows. The borough doesn't take proper care of the roads. The little league teams, and the peewee football teams that play and practice outside your home on improperly prepared fields, are "pigs". So are Hispanic people. So are the people we see at the grocery store. So is the UPS man because he doesn't put your package where you want him to on your porch. So is anyone that doesn't do everything exactly the way you think they should. You hate the Channel 8 News Team, especially the weather man. You take offense for imaginary slights of sports figures by their coaches and managers, and celebrities by their fans and the paparazzi. I can't get out of your way fast enough, even though you use a walker. I screw up the grocery list. I don't open packages of cereal properly. I don't sit still long enough. I'm not allowed to do anything else while I'm talking to you on the phone...BUT I DO, and then I lie about it. I spend a disproportionate amount of time trying to figure out what to tell you and what to say so as not to upset you or cause a negative reaction. I fail miserably 100% of the time. You never remarried after Dad died because you didn't want to give my brother and me a step father....we were 13 and 16, we would've been grown by the time you dated, fell in love, became engaged and married. You tell us that we children are your life....you hold it over our heads like a sledge hammer. You obsess over minor details of which you have no control. And then your day, week, month, year, life is ruined when someone or something deviates from your expected plan. You have always been this way, it has nothing to do with your age."
I gather my wits and what I actually say is, "I sometimes worry that you're not happy."
Nana ignores me and continues, " T. said that I amaze her with my positive attitude."
"Yes, Mom, I think people can see that in you."
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Economic stress
Hurray, we have a new grand Glorious Leader to usher us into an economic crisis of grand proportions. Our promised tax cuts will never materialize, but the news media tells me that I'm ok with that. We're all willing to sacrifice.
And, frankly, I'm not worried on a global level. We've been through lean times, relying on thrift and creativity. Materially, we may have more to lose than we did three decades ago, but I'm not overly emotionally attached to our belongings. I can always take pictures if I need the memories...and then promptly download them from the camera and forever forget about them...I'm not particularly sentimental.
But, Tall One is thinking ahead, and the possibility that I become gainfully employed looms large in his conscience. I'm not opposed to this. There are alot of things I can do. I just want to make sure this is a necessary step. I've started and stopped so many things, and they've all been legitimate. I worked in insurance before we were married and for a short time after. I clerked at Tall One's family's deli counter. I had a part time mall job to pay for groceries that lasted about six weeks when the kids were small and we were really just starting the business. I babysat full time for maybe a year and then part time for another year when our sons were in kindergarten. That was brutally hard to quit. I felt as if I was leaving everyone down, including myself. I've become motivated to, and then unmotivated, take a bigger part in the business. I've done sewing alterations, made dolls, and worked twelve years as a personal assistant to Wheeler. But, Wheeler was hit-and-miss in the financial remuneration department. I went back to work for Wheeler - for real documented money - to pay for Daughter's wedding. I've been more than ok with all of this.
The "problem" is...I always come home. I think it's where I'm best. It seems as if it's where I'm the most profitable. I love being available. I think that's my gift. I just don't know.
If I go back to work for Wheeler, how long will it last? I can start, but can I stop again? It would be the most convenient, practical solution to earning a little (and it would be little) extra. He's part of the family. The situation would mostly flow. But, do I have the energy for the long haul? I can barely answer his occasional emergency call in the night...something I used to do automatically. And, if I need more hours, more money, and need to get something that pays more and provides a full time position, or if I just can't physically hack it, that would leave him in a situation that we've found ourselves in before, and it's more than just inconvenient. It's an unfair loss- on many levels - for us, both.
Should I search out something full-time? That would necessitate a life-style reorientation for not only me, but, Tall One, Daughter and grandsons, and Nana. I would be much less "available". I think the ramifications would be more profound than we anticipate. Which is ok, but is it expedient? Can I gain enough financially to make the alternatives worthwhile. I'd lose time with my grandsons and daughter. I would miss that, so would they. I would be more tired, sick and lethargic than I already am. Tall One would take up the slack, but he shouldn't have to, and again, is it worth the price? And Nana would be "more independent" once again. The stress of reassuring her would double, something I struggle with already and only manage with the support of Daughter, and Tall One, and they would be less able to compensate.
I would not have a fulfilling career in any endeavor other than Wheeler. I would have a job. Something I would do well, but certainly not passionately, and I am passionate about my day-to-day drudgery right now.
What to do? What to do?
I'll probably sit on it for the weekend. Wheeler is my first choice. But I want to be fair. To everyone. I need a crystal ball...
And, frankly, I'm not worried on a global level. We've been through lean times, relying on thrift and creativity. Materially, we may have more to lose than we did three decades ago, but I'm not overly emotionally attached to our belongings. I can always take pictures if I need the memories...and then promptly download them from the camera and forever forget about them...I'm not particularly sentimental.
But, Tall One is thinking ahead, and the possibility that I become gainfully employed looms large in his conscience. I'm not opposed to this. There are alot of things I can do. I just want to make sure this is a necessary step. I've started and stopped so many things, and they've all been legitimate. I worked in insurance before we were married and for a short time after. I clerked at Tall One's family's deli counter. I had a part time mall job to pay for groceries that lasted about six weeks when the kids were small and we were really just starting the business. I babysat full time for maybe a year and then part time for another year when our sons were in kindergarten. That was brutally hard to quit. I felt as if I was leaving everyone down, including myself. I've become motivated to, and then unmotivated, take a bigger part in the business. I've done sewing alterations, made dolls, and worked twelve years as a personal assistant to Wheeler. But, Wheeler was hit-and-miss in the financial remuneration department. I went back to work for Wheeler - for real documented money - to pay for Daughter's wedding. I've been more than ok with all of this.
The "problem" is...I always come home. I think it's where I'm best. It seems as if it's where I'm the most profitable. I love being available. I think that's my gift. I just don't know.
If I go back to work for Wheeler, how long will it last? I can start, but can I stop again? It would be the most convenient, practical solution to earning a little (and it would be little) extra. He's part of the family. The situation would mostly flow. But, do I have the energy for the long haul? I can barely answer his occasional emergency call in the night...something I used to do automatically. And, if I need more hours, more money, and need to get something that pays more and provides a full time position, or if I just can't physically hack it, that would leave him in a situation that we've found ourselves in before, and it's more than just inconvenient. It's an unfair loss- on many levels - for us, both.
Should I search out something full-time? That would necessitate a life-style reorientation for not only me, but, Tall One, Daughter and grandsons, and Nana. I would be much less "available". I think the ramifications would be more profound than we anticipate. Which is ok, but is it expedient? Can I gain enough financially to make the alternatives worthwhile. I'd lose time with my grandsons and daughter. I would miss that, so would they. I would be more tired, sick and lethargic than I already am. Tall One would take up the slack, but he shouldn't have to, and again, is it worth the price? And Nana would be "more independent" once again. The stress of reassuring her would double, something I struggle with already and only manage with the support of Daughter, and Tall One, and they would be less able to compensate.
I would not have a fulfilling career in any endeavor other than Wheeler. I would have a job. Something I would do well, but certainly not passionately, and I am passionate about my day-to-day drudgery right now.
What to do? What to do?
I'll probably sit on it for the weekend. Wheeler is my first choice. But I want to be fair. To everyone. I need a crystal ball...
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Semantics.
Let's talk semantics. I've been pondering a few grievous misconceptions in our "estrangement scenario", but, I think they also apply politically, and perhaps globally. I think many people may get into "trouble" by "misunderstanding".
When we first became aware of serious problems between ourselves and D.I.L.ly, we often heard the mantra, "My family is different." Our son took pains to explain this in simple language, speaking slowly, and clearly, so that we could perhaps absorb it into our thickened, warped minds, "D.I.L.ly's...family...is...different." I took this to mean that there were some aspects of our familial interaction that were unfamiliar or even uncomfortable for D.I.L.ly and that these were issues we could work on, compromise in, and come to understand and accept. I found this a bit disturbing, because, D.I.L.ly had been intimately familiar with our family and how it functioned for nigh on 10 years at this point, but, hey, this seemed a reasonable "demand". We should certainly work out a comfortable way to socially interact.
I have come to realize that "different" does not mean "not alike in character or quality" or even "not ordinary; unusual". In the universal language of D.I.L.ly, different means "wrong". There is no amount of familiarity, understanding or compromise that will change D.I.L.ly's perception of our family as "wrong". There can be no acceptance. WE must change, conform, acquiesce, and surrender.
This understanding on a small personal level has helped me to apply this misunderstanding in a much larger format. Be it race, gender, sexual orientation, religion, appearance...different is just different. NOT wrong. Wrong is Wrong. And there is much that is. But, not just being different.
There is also the question of "equal". "In my family everyone was treated equally", D.I.L.ly told us. Again, I pondered this. Because my daughter and I have a good, close, supportive relationship and because we spend lots of time together was I inflicting D.I.L.ly with the same expectations? Or, was I short changing my sons by not spending most days with them or calling more frequently or confiding, or shopping? Should I be buying my childless offspring and their spouses diapers, or the equivalent?
No, D.I.L.ly didn't want me to spend more time with her. She wanted me to spend less with my daughter so things would be equal. It would truly be creepy to have the same kind of relationship with my sons, so I wasn't to have the relationship I do with my daughter. I wasn't to buy diapers for my grandsons because my other children don't have children, and this isn't equal.
"Equal" is not the same as "fair". And I have always treated my children fairly. They all have different needs, different desires, different wants, and I've tried to meet those expectations. Do I always succeed? Of course not. But I always try.
Would it be fair to sacrifice my relationship with my daughter and her children for the appearance of equality. NO. Would it be fair to inflict D.I.L.ly and my son with my presence when they have always been much more self contained and assertive with their "independence" and "need for privacy". NO. I'm not convinced, no, I'm opposed to bowing to the lowest common relational denominator. I want to provide what my family needs, what's fair, not what's equal.
One of my children needed more help with homework, should I have inflicted the two that didn't with my interference? Or should I have let the one flounder because the others moved ahead? Two of my children went to college. We helped. The other needed space, physical space, in our yard and garage and we provided, gave, encouraged that, probably at more of an expense than a formal education. None of this is "equal", but it is all fair. It is all profitable. It is all love.
There is a global application here, too. We aren't all equal. We can't be treated equally. We can be recognized as individuals with separate abilities, needs, goals, and personalities. We can strive for fairness, we won't always succeed. We mustn't settle for the lowest common denominator, and sacrifice the stellar possibilities.
When we first became aware of serious problems between ourselves and D.I.L.ly, we often heard the mantra, "My family is different." Our son took pains to explain this in simple language, speaking slowly, and clearly, so that we could perhaps absorb it into our thickened, warped minds, "D.I.L.ly's...family...is...different." I took this to mean that there were some aspects of our familial interaction that were unfamiliar or even uncomfortable for D.I.L.ly and that these were issues we could work on, compromise in, and come to understand and accept. I found this a bit disturbing, because, D.I.L.ly had been intimately familiar with our family and how it functioned for nigh on 10 years at this point, but, hey, this seemed a reasonable "demand". We should certainly work out a comfortable way to socially interact.
I have come to realize that "different" does not mean "not alike in character or quality" or even "not ordinary; unusual". In the universal language of D.I.L.ly, different means "wrong". There is no amount of familiarity, understanding or compromise that will change D.I.L.ly's perception of our family as "wrong". There can be no acceptance. WE must change, conform, acquiesce, and surrender.
This understanding on a small personal level has helped me to apply this misunderstanding in a much larger format. Be it race, gender, sexual orientation, religion, appearance...different is just different. NOT wrong. Wrong is Wrong. And there is much that is. But, not just being different.
There is also the question of "equal". "In my family everyone was treated equally", D.I.L.ly told us. Again, I pondered this. Because my daughter and I have a good, close, supportive relationship and because we spend lots of time together was I inflicting D.I.L.ly with the same expectations? Or, was I short changing my sons by not spending most days with them or calling more frequently or confiding, or shopping? Should I be buying my childless offspring and their spouses diapers, or the equivalent?
No, D.I.L.ly didn't want me to spend more time with her. She wanted me to spend less with my daughter so things would be equal. It would truly be creepy to have the same kind of relationship with my sons, so I wasn't to have the relationship I do with my daughter. I wasn't to buy diapers for my grandsons because my other children don't have children, and this isn't equal.
"Equal" is not the same as "fair". And I have always treated my children fairly. They all have different needs, different desires, different wants, and I've tried to meet those expectations. Do I always succeed? Of course not. But I always try.
Would it be fair to sacrifice my relationship with my daughter and her children for the appearance of equality. NO. Would it be fair to inflict D.I.L.ly and my son with my presence when they have always been much more self contained and assertive with their "independence" and "need for privacy". NO. I'm not convinced, no, I'm opposed to bowing to the lowest common relational denominator. I want to provide what my family needs, what's fair, not what's equal.
One of my children needed more help with homework, should I have inflicted the two that didn't with my interference? Or should I have let the one flounder because the others moved ahead? Two of my children went to college. We helped. The other needed space, physical space, in our yard and garage and we provided, gave, encouraged that, probably at more of an expense than a formal education. None of this is "equal", but it is all fair. It is all profitable. It is all love.
There is a global application here, too. We aren't all equal. We can't be treated equally. We can be recognized as individuals with separate abilities, needs, goals, and personalities. We can strive for fairness, we won't always succeed. We mustn't settle for the lowest common denominator, and sacrifice the stellar possibilities.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Ouch!
A couple of disturbing things happened today. 1) I got a package in the mail. A small, pretty package addressed to "The __________ Family" as a "special gift". Inside were some samples of various types of Kotex products. 2) I received an email from my sister-in-law about Christmas. It's only October 22! Don't rush me...
...And Nana received a newsy letter from OS. This in itself, would cause a bare ripple across my healing psyche, but it's never "in itself" is it? The ripples travel outward, growing larger and consuming more and more of the calm. I ended up ripping the scab off "The Estrangement" part of my heart.
It's funny (or it would be in vastly "other" circumstances) what infuriates me. I refuse to credit any motives to OS's letter other than a desire to keep in touch with Nana. However, it was through the blatant manipulations of D.I.L.ly that Nana is so involved that she finally called a halt. Months ago, Nana left a message on OS's voice mail that she no longer wanted contact with D.I.Lly and therefore with OS, if D.I.L.ly needed to be present. Nana did not consult me before she did this, she did not ask for my opinion or advice. But, she did it in my name. And, while I understand why she did it that way, and while on most days I'm benign about it, today, I was furious.
I have gone to pains, not to provoke anyone into a confrontational relationship. I have only spoken to family to defend myself and others who happen on the periphery of this awful conflict. And yet today, because of a letter, I have to sooth the feelings of my mother at the expense of my own. I have to defend innocent members of the family against her accusations of "fanning the flame". I have to consider where the next "shoe will drop" and on whom. I have to anticipate a dreadful holiday season, a time that is traditionally stressful for reasons other than "The Estrangement". And I just wanted someone to acknowledge ME. I'm OS's mother for God's sake! I don't always want to be the strong, rational one!
This is only the second time in this almost two years of emotional trauma that I have been angry. The other time was last Halloween when OS, D.I.Lly and their dog dressed up as black sheep for the annual "Pet Parade". I was busting an emotional gut trying to facilitate some sort of peace and reconciliation and they saw themselves as the outcasts? I told you "it's funny" what I "choose" to be livid about.
Anyway, I spoke (vented) to Daughter and Tall One and received sympathy and council. But, I was still feeling very, very unsettled. So, I emailed A. I didn't say much and I wasn't coherent, but the ramble in writing soothed me quickly. And this is today's conclusion:
It's good that the scab is periodically pulled off. There's a lot of rotten, putrid stuff building up. And if it gets released, before it ruptures, that saves a trip to the emergency room and massive doses of antibiotics. I really am better now. And even better for recording it here.
If anyone cares, I'm drinking less and for all the right reasons.
...And Nana received a newsy letter from OS. This in itself, would cause a bare ripple across my healing psyche, but it's never "in itself" is it? The ripples travel outward, growing larger and consuming more and more of the calm. I ended up ripping the scab off "The Estrangement" part of my heart.
It's funny (or it would be in vastly "other" circumstances) what infuriates me. I refuse to credit any motives to OS's letter other than a desire to keep in touch with Nana. However, it was through the blatant manipulations of D.I.L.ly that Nana is so involved that she finally called a halt. Months ago, Nana left a message on OS's voice mail that she no longer wanted contact with D.I.Lly and therefore with OS, if D.I.L.ly needed to be present. Nana did not consult me before she did this, she did not ask for my opinion or advice. But, she did it in my name. And, while I understand why she did it that way, and while on most days I'm benign about it, today, I was furious.
I have gone to pains, not to provoke anyone into a confrontational relationship. I have only spoken to family to defend myself and others who happen on the periphery of this awful conflict. And yet today, because of a letter, I have to sooth the feelings of my mother at the expense of my own. I have to defend innocent members of the family against her accusations of "fanning the flame". I have to consider where the next "shoe will drop" and on whom. I have to anticipate a dreadful holiday season, a time that is traditionally stressful for reasons other than "The Estrangement". And I just wanted someone to acknowledge ME. I'm OS's mother for God's sake! I don't always want to be the strong, rational one!
This is only the second time in this almost two years of emotional trauma that I have been angry. The other time was last Halloween when OS, D.I.Lly and their dog dressed up as black sheep for the annual "Pet Parade". I was busting an emotional gut trying to facilitate some sort of peace and reconciliation and they saw themselves as the outcasts? I told you "it's funny" what I "choose" to be livid about.
Anyway, I spoke (vented) to Daughter and Tall One and received sympathy and council. But, I was still feeling very, very unsettled. So, I emailed A. I didn't say much and I wasn't coherent, but the ramble in writing soothed me quickly. And this is today's conclusion:
It's good that the scab is periodically pulled off. There's a lot of rotten, putrid stuff building up. And if it gets released, before it ruptures, that saves a trip to the emergency room and massive doses of antibiotics. I really am better now. And even better for recording it here.
If anyone cares, I'm drinking less and for all the right reasons.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Viva La Sisterhood!
After Tall One read my last post, he came upstairs and told me, "I read your menopause post". I was a little irritated. Ok, I was a lot irritated...if he read what I wrote (and read between the lines) he should know not to speak to me...anyway, I told him, in no uncertain terms, that it was not a "menopause" post. It's all about the cycle, the common travail of the feminine mystic, the sisterhood, blah, blah, blah...
Guess what, it just may be a menopause post. I got my period...mid-cycle. Up to this point, there have been indications that, menstrual-wise, I was approaching the beginning of the end. The cycle isn't always 28 days, consistently. I am bleeding more or less, for longer or shorter periods of time. I missed a whole month recently, and my tubes have been tied since PhD was born, so I KNEW I wasn't pregnant (and I'm early '50's, another really good indicator of mere hormonal fluctuation). I've been having more definite symptoms mid way through the month as documented (again blah, blah, blah). But, I was hoping, really hoping, that everything would just fade away, or better yet, STOP. And, then I could be really smug about "going through the change" au naturel. Sort of like the superiority of experiencing natural childbirth. I could commiserate with my afflicted sisters, nodding sympathetically, and offering sage advice gleaned from the medical websites and Oprah show, secure in my own superior aging processes. No hormone replacement therapy for me, thank you, no hysterectomy, no antidepressants, no problems.
Well, let me tell you about the debilitating lethargy. No seriously. There are days when I struggle to get out of bed. And days when I can't wait to lie down for my THREE HOUR nap!!! I'm cranky. Irritable. And so very, very tired. I can't think, literally...or figuratively, for that matter. I can't think. If you've never experienced this, just let me say right now, you have no idea. I read about the foggy, fuzzy-headedness that some women experience. They fear dementia, tumors, or stroke. They are not exaggerating. It's been so bad that I can't recall names....of immediate family members! I couldn't remember the number of our street address, and I was just out for a walk, thinking idly, not in a pressure situation WHAT-SO-EVER, and we've lived at this address for over TEN YEARS! I don't finish sentences. I either lose track, lack motivation, or can't - for the life of me - express a coherent thought. Don't ask me for directions, don't ask me to explain...anything, and don't - for the love of God - ask me for an opinion. I'm hanging for days by my last nerve.
But, Friday morning I woke up to a song. Happy, happy me. No bleeding, no bloating, no belligerency! I cleaned the house, rearranged the furniture and canned some salsa. I always do the wash, even when I'm feeling particularly miserable, either physically or emotionally. Laundry is something I can handle during the "bad" times, but I did a few loads today, just because I felt so darn good!
I keep track of these ups and downs. I'm hoping I won't have to, too much longer. Then all I'll have to worry about is osteoporosis, facial hair, and vaginal dryness. Be careful what you wish for, eh?
Guess what, it just may be a menopause post. I got my period...mid-cycle. Up to this point, there have been indications that, menstrual-wise, I was approaching the beginning of the end. The cycle isn't always 28 days, consistently. I am bleeding more or less, for longer or shorter periods of time. I missed a whole month recently, and my tubes have been tied since PhD was born, so I KNEW I wasn't pregnant (and I'm early '50's, another really good indicator of mere hormonal fluctuation). I've been having more definite symptoms mid way through the month as documented (again blah, blah, blah). But, I was hoping, really hoping, that everything would just fade away, or better yet, STOP. And, then I could be really smug about "going through the change" au naturel. Sort of like the superiority of experiencing natural childbirth. I could commiserate with my afflicted sisters, nodding sympathetically, and offering sage advice gleaned from the medical websites and Oprah show, secure in my own superior aging processes. No hormone replacement therapy for me, thank you, no hysterectomy, no antidepressants, no problems.
Well, let me tell you about the debilitating lethargy. No seriously. There are days when I struggle to get out of bed. And days when I can't wait to lie down for my THREE HOUR nap!!! I'm cranky. Irritable. And so very, very tired. I can't think, literally...or figuratively, for that matter. I can't think. If you've never experienced this, just let me say right now, you have no idea. I read about the foggy, fuzzy-headedness that some women experience. They fear dementia, tumors, or stroke. They are not exaggerating. It's been so bad that I can't recall names....of immediate family members! I couldn't remember the number of our street address, and I was just out for a walk, thinking idly, not in a pressure situation WHAT-SO-EVER, and we've lived at this address for over TEN YEARS! I don't finish sentences. I either lose track, lack motivation, or can't - for the life of me - express a coherent thought. Don't ask me for directions, don't ask me to explain...anything, and don't - for the love of God - ask me for an opinion. I'm hanging for days by my last nerve.
But, Friday morning I woke up to a song. Happy, happy me. No bleeding, no bloating, no belligerency! I cleaned the house, rearranged the furniture and canned some salsa. I always do the wash, even when I'm feeling particularly miserable, either physically or emotionally. Laundry is something I can handle during the "bad" times, but I did a few loads today, just because I felt so darn good!
I keep track of these ups and downs. I'm hoping I won't have to, too much longer. Then all I'll have to worry about is osteoporosis, facial hair, and vaginal dryness. Be careful what you wish for, eh?
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Hormonal Imbalances Not Karma.
I am extremely unmotivated....and very, very tired. I am doing nothing....for days. Baby and Larger One come over and I keep them alive and supplied with "pink milk" and " 'mallows". When they nap - I nap. I can barely get up the curiosity to check my email. I've been reading even more than usual. I think I know the problem. Mid-cycle hormones gone wild.
When I start eating ice-cream at 10am and icing my bread with butter...When the bread is just an excuse to eat the butter, and I lick the knife and think, "damn, that's good"...When I wake up feeling vaguely troubled, like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, but the first one hasn't yet, progressing through the day to a dull sadness...Not unlike a dull headache...You're not always conscience of it, but it's always there, taking the sharp edge off of feeling well, or feeling happy. ..I'm restless, agitated, unsettled, but, I nap for three hours in the afternoon anyway...Then, I know there's something seriously unbalanced transpiring. This has NOTHING to do with circumstances. This is purely organic.
And the next day, more of the same only less. I'm ambiguously blase. I don't care in a snarly way, but I'm too numb to verbalize. Probably, if I would do anything I wanted, I would order a large pizza, have it delivered, and spend the day on the sofa eating and reading. I would not have contact with any other human, I would not turn on the TV or listen to music. I might play computer games. I'd probably kick the cat. But, I'm not going to do any of that. That would truly make things worse. Then I'd have to add regret to the long and growing list of negative character traits I seem to be exhibiting at an escalating pace. I'm grumpy, lethargic, petty, ungrateful, negative, guilty, remorseless, antagonistic, needy, dishonest, tactless... You get the point. Now, excuse me while I go eat worms.
Anyway, what I am going to do is what I need to do...no heroics. Dude will be here soon with the boys. They will need dirt piles, and special treats. I have massive amounts of tomatoes to peel and chop. I won't be so ambitious as to actually make or can salsa, but at least the main ingredient will be prepared when I begin to recover my manic equilibrium. I think we will consider pizza for dinner, though.
I wonder about this whole hormonal fiasco we deal with as women. It's these hormones that regulate our sex drive and procreative processes. We need to ovulate, copulate, and either menstruate or gestate, to keep the human race a viable planetary force. How does feeling various shades of crappy, three out of four weeks a month help this along? If there is a supreme maker, or just natural selective species-improving evolution, I'm wondering if he/it couldn't develop a better system? Especially in this enlightened age of feminism?
I'm just glad that I don't have to radically subvert my womanly inconveniences, in order to appear more equally qualified. I'm glad I don't have to suck it up in the board room, deal with cramps and flooding during basic training. It's usually enough just to make it out of bed in the morning, not snap at Tall One, refrain from eating ALL the chocolate in the house, and manage something, anything, productive.
And I know that this is temporary, that it's not fatal, and if I just "keep it together" it'll pass without catastrophic, lasting consequences. My period is still two weeks away...And that's when it really hits the fan...
When I start eating ice-cream at 10am and icing my bread with butter...When the bread is just an excuse to eat the butter, and I lick the knife and think, "damn, that's good"...When I wake up feeling vaguely troubled, like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, but the first one hasn't yet, progressing through the day to a dull sadness...Not unlike a dull headache...You're not always conscience of it, but it's always there, taking the sharp edge off of feeling well, or feeling happy. ..I'm restless, agitated, unsettled, but, I nap for three hours in the afternoon anyway...Then, I know there's something seriously unbalanced transpiring. This has NOTHING to do with circumstances. This is purely organic.
And the next day, more of the same only less. I'm ambiguously blase. I don't care in a snarly way, but I'm too numb to verbalize. Probably, if I would do anything I wanted, I would order a large pizza, have it delivered, and spend the day on the sofa eating and reading. I would not have contact with any other human, I would not turn on the TV or listen to music. I might play computer games. I'd probably kick the cat. But, I'm not going to do any of that. That would truly make things worse. Then I'd have to add regret to the long and growing list of negative character traits I seem to be exhibiting at an escalating pace. I'm grumpy, lethargic, petty, ungrateful, negative, guilty, remorseless, antagonistic, needy, dishonest, tactless... You get the point. Now, excuse me while I go eat worms.
Anyway, what I am going to do is what I need to do...no heroics. Dude will be here soon with the boys. They will need dirt piles, and special treats. I have massive amounts of tomatoes to peel and chop. I won't be so ambitious as to actually make or can salsa, but at least the main ingredient will be prepared when I begin to recover my manic equilibrium. I think we will consider pizza for dinner, though.
I wonder about this whole hormonal fiasco we deal with as women. It's these hormones that regulate our sex drive and procreative processes. We need to ovulate, copulate, and either menstruate or gestate, to keep the human race a viable planetary force. How does feeling various shades of crappy, three out of four weeks a month help this along? If there is a supreme maker, or just natural selective species-improving evolution, I'm wondering if he/it couldn't develop a better system? Especially in this enlightened age of feminism?
I'm just glad that I don't have to radically subvert my womanly inconveniences, in order to appear more equally qualified. I'm glad I don't have to suck it up in the board room, deal with cramps and flooding during basic training. It's usually enough just to make it out of bed in the morning, not snap at Tall One, refrain from eating ALL the chocolate in the house, and manage something, anything, productive.
And I know that this is temporary, that it's not fatal, and if I just "keep it together" it'll pass without catastrophic, lasting consequences. My period is still two weeks away...And that's when it really hits the fan...
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Resolved....
I've been mulling over a post about personal consequences and responsibility, or perhaps about the newly energized political climate (that would certainly fall under "Bogus"), but I think I'll just write about me.
This is the situation in a nutshell. My daughter and I have come up with this fictitious example in order to explain the estrangement of my son (O.S.) and his wife (D.I.L.ly) from the rest of the family without getting into complicated personal details.
If D.I.L.ly were to witness me saving a child from certain death by pushing him off of the railroad tracks and out of the way of a speeding locomotive, D.I.L.ly would proceed to tell everyone that I abuse small children. She has seen me shove them hard enough to fall down. She would call me on this, and never give me the chance to explain. There would be the constant, "You pushed that child, didn't you, I saw you, you pushed them!" "Yes, but...". "You did, you admit it, you pushed them. And they have scraps on their hands and knees. And you never apologized!" "You're right, but there was a train..." "Can't you just admit what you've done!"........
I have "caused" her to seek personal counseling, couple's counseling, family counseling, mediation, and finally, to move 500 miles away. Every member of our family has been affected. My daughter and her husband have been cursed at and threatened. My grandsons, intimidated. My husband accused. My mother distressed. My relatives and in-laws confused and manipulated. All this, in the cause of stopping me from "turning the family against her" and curing my "severe psychological problems".
I've never been angry. All I've ever wanted to do was support my son and his wife in any way that they would deem acceptable. They could write the book, call the shots. I had no master plan or fore drawn conclusion of how we would interact. I am flexible and accommodating. I am accepting to a fault (that is not to say that I don't have strong opinions, but I know when, where and to whom to articulate them). But I, and other family members were being abused. For us, and for O.S. and D.I.L.ly, this was unacceptable. So now there can be no contact. They have alienated their best and purest support and approval. And, I am sad beyond words for them.
I have thought through each and every possible contingency, for and against. I have imagined and played multitudes of scenarios, joyous and devastating. I have read, meditated, and talked ad nauseam. I can find no regret in my heart for the actions I have taken. There is huge regret for the circumstances and consequences.
Which brings me to the point of this recap. For over a year now, since things began to get really "tense" between O.S., D.I.L.ly and the rest of the family (ie: me), I've been handling my pain, confusion, and utter ineffectual efforts at understanding and reconciliation by self-medicating. I'm by no means an alcoholic (isn't denial one of the symptoms), but I have been really looking forward to that glass of wine with dinner (while preparing dinner) and then another, and sometimes a third. I'd go to bed lethargically sedated, and most often have no trouble falling and staying asleep. There are virtually no consequences. Maybe a little heartburn, a few pounds, and new friends at the liquor store.
But, now I'm tired of the every evening "fuzzy logic". So, two nights ago, I just didn't drink, and last night either. I like the more clearheaded version of me, but I also had a huge problem falling asleep. And with that problem, comes the pain that's been more or less successfully ignored.
This is going to hurt forever, isn't it? Not even in my posts, will I dwell where my mind tends to wander. At least not yet. Not until I'm pretty sure I've made it past the self-medicating stage and am firmly anchored in the much more self-delusionally acceptable social-drinker arena...and, when I have lost the five alcohol related pounds. What a sad, tragic state of affairs.
I want to see my son. I want to comfort my ill and delusional daughter-in-law. This will not happen, and so I've been substituting a bottle of Red Cat, or a huge glass of Dubonnet. But, it isn't a good trade. And, I'm ready to feel unimpeded...
And, I'm a little afraid it's going to get worse, and I better be strong and able to think clearly.
This is the situation in a nutshell. My daughter and I have come up with this fictitious example in order to explain the estrangement of my son (O.S.) and his wife (D.I.L.ly) from the rest of the family without getting into complicated personal details.
If D.I.L.ly were to witness me saving a child from certain death by pushing him off of the railroad tracks and out of the way of a speeding locomotive, D.I.L.ly would proceed to tell everyone that I abuse small children. She has seen me shove them hard enough to fall down. She would call me on this, and never give me the chance to explain. There would be the constant, "You pushed that child, didn't you, I saw you, you pushed them!" "Yes, but...". "You did, you admit it, you pushed them. And they have scraps on their hands and knees. And you never apologized!" "You're right, but there was a train..." "Can't you just admit what you've done!"........
I have "caused" her to seek personal counseling, couple's counseling, family counseling, mediation, and finally, to move 500 miles away. Every member of our family has been affected. My daughter and her husband have been cursed at and threatened. My grandsons, intimidated. My husband accused. My mother distressed. My relatives and in-laws confused and manipulated. All this, in the cause of stopping me from "turning the family against her" and curing my "severe psychological problems".
I've never been angry. All I've ever wanted to do was support my son and his wife in any way that they would deem acceptable. They could write the book, call the shots. I had no master plan or fore drawn conclusion of how we would interact. I am flexible and accommodating. I am accepting to a fault (that is not to say that I don't have strong opinions, but I know when, where and to whom to articulate them). But I, and other family members were being abused. For us, and for O.S. and D.I.L.ly, this was unacceptable. So now there can be no contact. They have alienated their best and purest support and approval. And, I am sad beyond words for them.
I have thought through each and every possible contingency, for and against. I have imagined and played multitudes of scenarios, joyous and devastating. I have read, meditated, and talked ad nauseam. I can find no regret in my heart for the actions I have taken. There is huge regret for the circumstances and consequences.
Which brings me to the point of this recap. For over a year now, since things began to get really "tense" between O.S., D.I.L.ly and the rest of the family (ie: me), I've been handling my pain, confusion, and utter ineffectual efforts at understanding and reconciliation by self-medicating. I'm by no means an alcoholic (isn't denial one of the symptoms), but I have been really looking forward to that glass of wine with dinner (while preparing dinner) and then another, and sometimes a third. I'd go to bed lethargically sedated, and most often have no trouble falling and staying asleep. There are virtually no consequences. Maybe a little heartburn, a few pounds, and new friends at the liquor store.
But, now I'm tired of the every evening "fuzzy logic". So, two nights ago, I just didn't drink, and last night either. I like the more clearheaded version of me, but I also had a huge problem falling asleep. And with that problem, comes the pain that's been more or less successfully ignored.
This is going to hurt forever, isn't it? Not even in my posts, will I dwell where my mind tends to wander. At least not yet. Not until I'm pretty sure I've made it past the self-medicating stage and am firmly anchored in the much more self-delusionally acceptable social-drinker arena...and, when I have lost the five alcohol related pounds. What a sad, tragic state of affairs.
I want to see my son. I want to comfort my ill and delusional daughter-in-law. This will not happen, and so I've been substituting a bottle of Red Cat, or a huge glass of Dubonnet. But, it isn't a good trade. And, I'm ready to feel unimpeded...
And, I'm a little afraid it's going to get worse, and I better be strong and able to think clearly.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Song.
Yes, I'm still here. But, I haven't been idle. I've been working on an essay, and I think it's finished, finally. I will send it in to the contest after the weekend.
I have a new friend, Song. That's what I'm calling her. Her life sings. She's not a particularly compelling person, although I would imagine, as an acquaintance, anyone would like her. When I first met her, not quite two years ago, I did. At first impression, she's spectacularly ordinary. But, something struck me. A feeling that I should get to know her better. I procrastinated. In the meantime, a year later, her husband died. Suddenly, unexpectedly, at a truly terrible, tragic time.
This is what I've come to know about the circumstances. S.H. (Song's Husband) was getting ready to retire at the end of the month, just after his 55th birthday. He had put in his time at the factory. He was going to become a personal trainer. It would fit in nicely with Song's massage therapy business. They would work together. They had sold their home, Song has some chronic health problems, under control, that made the daily living and maintenance difficult. And they could better use their time and effort for other pursuits. They bought a condo. S.H. was looking forward to his very active role on the association's Board of Directors. He was going to take care of a large portion of the grounds keeping. He missed his yard and garden. He and Song were married, I believe, twelve years.
S.H. has three children from his first marriage, all in their mid-twenties. On the day of his death, S.H. received a phone call at 2:30 in the morning, from his ex-wife. His son had been arrested, on a felony charge. Song and S.H. stayed up talking. Song was concerned, repeatedly asking her husband if he was alright. He felt some pressure in his chest, but after the emotional blow he had just received, who wouldn't? He was tired. He needed to sleep. Song was wide awake. Anger will do that to you. She left S.H. sleeping and prowled the condo, finally dosing on the sofa. She woke around 9am. S.H. wasn't up. This wasn't unusual when he was working second shift. At 10am, Song found him dead in their bed.
All that day, in addition to dealing with the police, coroner, funeral home, family, and friends, Song fielded phone calls from the Ex. dealing with the dilemma of her incarcerated son, exacerbated by the news of his father's death. He was now on suicide watch. Song had to make the phone calls notifying S.H.'s two daughters, both with young children of their own.
Within the first few days following S.H.'s death, Song was informed that financial considerations would be substantially less than anticipated. S.H.'s insurance coverage was cancelled and negated by a "pre-existing" situation that was reported "untruthfully". S.H. had previously gone to the emergency room for chest pain, but was never admitted because test results showed no problems. When filling out the insurance application, he had checked the box marked "none" , under the heading, "Previous Hospitalizations". His retirement pension, only a few weeks away, was replaced by a small lump sum "courtesy".
And then the really hard part begins.....
Song had to continue living.
In the year since S.H.'s death, Song has given up her massage therapy business. Her heart isn't in it. She has sold the condo and moved into a mobile home, she needs the security and stability that a small bank account provides. She has worked at low-stress, part-time jobs to fill in financial gaps and too much time. She's recently started a new, full time position with responsibility reflecting her capabilities and experience, and potential for the future.
This is to be expected. But what makes Song's life sing? It's not the crushing grief that morphed into anger. It's that, through it, she's reached out for help. She hasn't nursed her pain, wallowing in sorrow and self pity, demanding a savior. She's dressed her wounds, seeking out company, council and therapy. The new "flesh" of future contentment, joy and peace is evident around the gaping holes of despair, confusion and defeat. She was flayed by unfairness. Losing not only her husband's life, but their life together; their plans, her security, the future. But, in accepting the inevitability of uncertainty and by giving up the illusion of control, she's covering the raw places with tough, lasting resolve. She's getting stronger.
We can never calculate the cost of her effort. She will never be free of the scars. But, someday she'll embrace them, knowing, believing how much more capable, effective and affirming they have made her. She will see the beauty in her survival. And her song will become a symphony.
I have a new friend, Song. That's what I'm calling her. Her life sings. She's not a particularly compelling person, although I would imagine, as an acquaintance, anyone would like her. When I first met her, not quite two years ago, I did. At first impression, she's spectacularly ordinary. But, something struck me. A feeling that I should get to know her better. I procrastinated. In the meantime, a year later, her husband died. Suddenly, unexpectedly, at a truly terrible, tragic time.
This is what I've come to know about the circumstances. S.H. (Song's Husband) was getting ready to retire at the end of the month, just after his 55th birthday. He had put in his time at the factory. He was going to become a personal trainer. It would fit in nicely with Song's massage therapy business. They would work together. They had sold their home, Song has some chronic health problems, under control, that made the daily living and maintenance difficult. And they could better use their time and effort for other pursuits. They bought a condo. S.H. was looking forward to his very active role on the association's Board of Directors. He was going to take care of a large portion of the grounds keeping. He missed his yard and garden. He and Song were married, I believe, twelve years.
S.H. has three children from his first marriage, all in their mid-twenties. On the day of his death, S.H. received a phone call at 2:30 in the morning, from his ex-wife. His son had been arrested, on a felony charge. Song and S.H. stayed up talking. Song was concerned, repeatedly asking her husband if he was alright. He felt some pressure in his chest, but after the emotional blow he had just received, who wouldn't? He was tired. He needed to sleep. Song was wide awake. Anger will do that to you. She left S.H. sleeping and prowled the condo, finally dosing on the sofa. She woke around 9am. S.H. wasn't up. This wasn't unusual when he was working second shift. At 10am, Song found him dead in their bed.
All that day, in addition to dealing with the police, coroner, funeral home, family, and friends, Song fielded phone calls from the Ex. dealing with the dilemma of her incarcerated son, exacerbated by the news of his father's death. He was now on suicide watch. Song had to make the phone calls notifying S.H.'s two daughters, both with young children of their own.
Within the first few days following S.H.'s death, Song was informed that financial considerations would be substantially less than anticipated. S.H.'s insurance coverage was cancelled and negated by a "pre-existing" situation that was reported "untruthfully". S.H. had previously gone to the emergency room for chest pain, but was never admitted because test results showed no problems. When filling out the insurance application, he had checked the box marked "none" , under the heading, "Previous Hospitalizations". His retirement pension, only a few weeks away, was replaced by a small lump sum "courtesy".
And then the really hard part begins.....
Song had to continue living.
In the year since S.H.'s death, Song has given up her massage therapy business. Her heart isn't in it. She has sold the condo and moved into a mobile home, she needs the security and stability that a small bank account provides. She has worked at low-stress, part-time jobs to fill in financial gaps and too much time. She's recently started a new, full time position with responsibility reflecting her capabilities and experience, and potential for the future.
This is to be expected. But what makes Song's life sing? It's not the crushing grief that morphed into anger. It's that, through it, she's reached out for help. She hasn't nursed her pain, wallowing in sorrow and self pity, demanding a savior. She's dressed her wounds, seeking out company, council and therapy. The new "flesh" of future contentment, joy and peace is evident around the gaping holes of despair, confusion and defeat. She was flayed by unfairness. Losing not only her husband's life, but their life together; their plans, her security, the future. But, in accepting the inevitability of uncertainty and by giving up the illusion of control, she's covering the raw places with tough, lasting resolve. She's getting stronger.
We can never calculate the cost of her effort. She will never be free of the scars. But, someday she'll embrace them, knowing, believing how much more capable, effective and affirming they have made her. She will see the beauty in her survival. And her song will become a symphony.
Monday, July 21, 2008
So Sorry, Not Gifted...
There's been something that I've been thinking about for a few days. And I think I've come to a conclusion.
I'm not gifted.
I'm not surprised by this....just a little disappointed.
I'm not an artist. I am "crafty". This isn't impressive. I can sew, bake, and cook. But, this is only because I can follow instructions and I don't mind prep work. I actually like prep work. I enjoy laying out the patterns, cutting precisely, assembly the ingredients and measuring correctly, I like to chop up vegetables, stir till a sauce thickens, and fill individual serving dishes with exactly the same amount of vanilla pudding. I prefer projects that are precise and not free form. I enjoy cross-stitch more than crewel work. I agonize over the uniformity of my knitting or crochet stitches. I like my cookies the same size and my cupcakes to look virtually identically iced. This also makes me obsessive. Well, perhaps "obsessive" is too strong a term. Picky, ...fussy,... anal.
I do not "scrap book". Too free-form. I do not cut my pictures into fun shapes or add bows, ribbons, or bits of cloth. I assemble photos in an organized way that chronicles a specific time period or particular subject. I save little mementos that I intersperse with the pictures, like ticket stubs or receipts or menus. Flat, appropriate memorabilia, so as not to disrupt the way the album closes or lays flat on the desk or stands precisely on a shelf.
I have not tried quilting. When I do, I bet I will pick a pattern with precision cut geometric shapes fitting together in repetitive designs and possibly machine stitched. I don't like the idea of using a sewing machine for quilting, and my hand hemming is arguably the best and most exact that you'll find anywhere, so I can only hope I'll be just fine.
I am adventurous with color, but only on things that can be easily changed. I prefer neutral walls.
I am not an athlete. My most important attribute when it comes to physical activity is that I am stubborn. Really, really stubborn. Pigheaded. If I set out to do something, or, God forbid, someone tells me I can't or shouldn't, I will complete the task or die trying. I have no natural ability. I don't run, I waddle. I have short legs. But, if I set out to run three miles, I will complete those three miles if I am sick, injured, and irregardless of the weather. I had lightening strike not 25 feet from me on a run a few years ago. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. You could smell the ozone. I waited it out on someone's porch and finished my course. I attend a kickboxing class once a week. I love it. I'm older than anyone by 10 years. I attended covered in poison ivy rash. No one would partner me. But I wouldn't leave. It's what I do on Wednesday nights. I have run races with blisters bleeding into my sneakers. But, I'm not competitive. I only enter races where they won't shoot you if you're last, because I have come in last. And I've entered races since then.
Which leads me to the next little item. I am not a genius. Probably not even close. I don't know what my I.Q. is, but I'd bet I won't be pleasantly surprised. I read voraciously. But, mostly novels. I try poetry, but it hasn't been pretty. I will read the occasional non-fiction selection (I enjoyed "John Adams" by David McCullough, but who didn't?). But mostly, I just read for enjoyment. I read the paper everyday - the comics, the advice columns, and the letters to the editor. I know how to, and I can, balance a check-book. I will not quit till it agrees with the statement. I then close the check-book and couldn't tell you what the balance is to save my life! I multiply on my fingers, for God's sake! Sudoku makes me physically ill! I do enjoy watching Indy films. That's either a big plus, or proves my point.
And I'm afraid I may not be a novelist. What if I'm just a "journalist"? And not a good one?
And there's something else I need to confess. Daughter is pregnant with her third child. This is wonderful news. And even though this baby is no larger that a shirt button, I love it with every fiber of my being. I can't wait till March, when she's due. But, I wonder if I'm up to it. I have limits and that scares me. I HAVE LIMITS! I know this from experience. It's a lie from the pit of hell that we can do and have time for everything we want to do. Sometimes, I'm so tired. I don't want to be too tired for those babies. I don't want to be too tired for my daughter. And I want to have something left over for Tall One. You wouldn't believe how patient and supportive that man has been for the last thirty years. And there are so many others that I treasure, that I don't want to let down. Not for them. They love me, they would understand. But for me, ME. Life flys by. And, I'm not gifted....and I think I might need to be....
I'm not gifted.
I'm not surprised by this....just a little disappointed.
I'm not an artist. I am "crafty". This isn't impressive. I can sew, bake, and cook. But, this is only because I can follow instructions and I don't mind prep work. I actually like prep work. I enjoy laying out the patterns, cutting precisely, assembly the ingredients and measuring correctly, I like to chop up vegetables, stir till a sauce thickens, and fill individual serving dishes with exactly the same amount of vanilla pudding. I prefer projects that are precise and not free form. I enjoy cross-stitch more than crewel work. I agonize over the uniformity of my knitting or crochet stitches. I like my cookies the same size and my cupcakes to look virtually identically iced. This also makes me obsessive. Well, perhaps "obsessive" is too strong a term. Picky, ...fussy,... anal.
I do not "scrap book". Too free-form. I do not cut my pictures into fun shapes or add bows, ribbons, or bits of cloth. I assemble photos in an organized way that chronicles a specific time period or particular subject. I save little mementos that I intersperse with the pictures, like ticket stubs or receipts or menus. Flat, appropriate memorabilia, so as not to disrupt the way the album closes or lays flat on the desk or stands precisely on a shelf.
I have not tried quilting. When I do, I bet I will pick a pattern with precision cut geometric shapes fitting together in repetitive designs and possibly machine stitched. I don't like the idea of using a sewing machine for quilting, and my hand hemming is arguably the best and most exact that you'll find anywhere, so I can only hope I'll be just fine.
I am adventurous with color, but only on things that can be easily changed. I prefer neutral walls.
I am not an athlete. My most important attribute when it comes to physical activity is that I am stubborn. Really, really stubborn. Pigheaded. If I set out to do something, or, God forbid, someone tells me I can't or shouldn't, I will complete the task or die trying. I have no natural ability. I don't run, I waddle. I have short legs. But, if I set out to run three miles, I will complete those three miles if I am sick, injured, and irregardless of the weather. I had lightening strike not 25 feet from me on a run a few years ago. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. You could smell the ozone. I waited it out on someone's porch and finished my course. I attend a kickboxing class once a week. I love it. I'm older than anyone by 10 years. I attended covered in poison ivy rash. No one would partner me. But I wouldn't leave. It's what I do on Wednesday nights. I have run races with blisters bleeding into my sneakers. But, I'm not competitive. I only enter races where they won't shoot you if you're last, because I have come in last. And I've entered races since then.
Which leads me to the next little item. I am not a genius. Probably not even close. I don't know what my I.Q. is, but I'd bet I won't be pleasantly surprised. I read voraciously. But, mostly novels. I try poetry, but it hasn't been pretty. I will read the occasional non-fiction selection (I enjoyed "John Adams" by David McCullough, but who didn't?). But mostly, I just read for enjoyment. I read the paper everyday - the comics, the advice columns, and the letters to the editor. I know how to, and I can, balance a check-book. I will not quit till it agrees with the statement. I then close the check-book and couldn't tell you what the balance is to save my life! I multiply on my fingers, for God's sake! Sudoku makes me physically ill! I do enjoy watching Indy films. That's either a big plus, or proves my point.
And I'm afraid I may not be a novelist. What if I'm just a "journalist"? And not a good one?
And there's something else I need to confess. Daughter is pregnant with her third child. This is wonderful news. And even though this baby is no larger that a shirt button, I love it with every fiber of my being. I can't wait till March, when she's due. But, I wonder if I'm up to it. I have limits and that scares me. I HAVE LIMITS! I know this from experience. It's a lie from the pit of hell that we can do and have time for everything we want to do. Sometimes, I'm so tired. I don't want to be too tired for those babies. I don't want to be too tired for my daughter. And I want to have something left over for Tall One. You wouldn't believe how patient and supportive that man has been for the last thirty years. And there are so many others that I treasure, that I don't want to let down. Not for them. They love me, they would understand. But for me, ME. Life flys by. And, I'm not gifted....and I think I might need to be....
Saturday, July 5, 2008
The Fun House Mirror
My dreams were indicative of my waking emotional state. Settling for instant gratification...Contemplating shoplifting birthday party favors for my grown nephews...Sandra Bullock at the grocery check-out, opening and explaining all my purchases...Spending too much money. In the light of day, there may be rational explanations for my restless dreaming. Too much to drink, too much to eat and watching the end of "Marie Antoinette", visually beautiful, but disturbing and depressing, just before going to sleep. On Sandra Bullock, I'm completely stunned.
I woke up in a foul mood, full of self-loathing and self-doubt. This doesn't happen often, but it's terribly troubling today. I wonder who I've offended, who I've put off. Am I really so self absorbed and selfish that I can't see beyond my own wants and desires? I don't believe that I see myself correctly. Do any of us? We see through the filter of others, our own perceptions and prejudices, and the veil of fantasy with which we surround ourselves. It's how most of us survive.
Daughter called to tell me a "gym story". In her late teens, Daughter was a competitive body builder. She's still very physically active and works at the gym a few hours a week. One of the ladies that she's known from her body building days, a former competitor herself, was in for her workout. Daughter and Former Competitor were talking about kids and summer activities and Former Competitor told Daughter that her children go to the pool everyday with their father. Former Competitor doesn't go. She won't wear a bathing suit. This is a fit, firm, low body fat, workout fanatic, with an impressive boob job. She would look amazing in a bathing suit. And, yet, she chooses not to spend pool time with her husband and children. I don't think that she's making this decision for positive life affirming reasons, like not making the rest of us look awful, or not enticing men-not-her-husband to lust. I have a strong feeling that how she sees herself, physically, is extremely distorted in an unflattering way. This is an all too frequent phenomenon. I don't believe it's any different with our character or personality. We're looking in a fun house mirror.
So what's true for me? How do I gauge my own obnoxiousness? Am I compassionate or perceptive, intelligent, wise? Or am I just a major fuck up, gaily moving through the world causing offense and damaged feelings? Could I be doing ill, thinking that I'm ok? I know that I'm not perfect. There are things that I'm aware of and working on changing right now. I don't set out to purposely hurt people. I try hard not to judge. I smile. I'm competent in the day-to-day minutia of life. I can use a computer, cell phone, and program a DVR. I love.
Some days that's not enough. But, so far, I'm not afraid enough of negative consequences not to act. As insecure as this day began, I've talked to Daughter and Dude, walked with Tall One, briefly related to business clients in a professional and friendly manner. I've tried to brighten Nana's day during our phone conversations. I cleaned, did laundry, and took out the trash. I showered, brushed my teeth, made the bed, watched TV, and ate ice cream. This is not a chronological list. Nor is it complete. But in all I've done or tried to be, I've to the best of my ability behaved honorably. I haven't lied for personal gain. I haven't cheated. I haven't yelled obscenities at small children or kicked puppies. I don't hate.
Perhaps the fun house mirror is the best we can hope. Some days we can laugh hysterically at the clownish distortions, other days we howl at the grotesque image leering back at us. Most days, thank God, I don't even have time to look.
I woke up in a foul mood, full of self-loathing and self-doubt. This doesn't happen often, but it's terribly troubling today. I wonder who I've offended, who I've put off. Am I really so self absorbed and selfish that I can't see beyond my own wants and desires? I don't believe that I see myself correctly. Do any of us? We see through the filter of others, our own perceptions and prejudices, and the veil of fantasy with which we surround ourselves. It's how most of us survive.
Daughter called to tell me a "gym story". In her late teens, Daughter was a competitive body builder. She's still very physically active and works at the gym a few hours a week. One of the ladies that she's known from her body building days, a former competitor herself, was in for her workout. Daughter and Former Competitor were talking about kids and summer activities and Former Competitor told Daughter that her children go to the pool everyday with their father. Former Competitor doesn't go. She won't wear a bathing suit. This is a fit, firm, low body fat, workout fanatic, with an impressive boob job. She would look amazing in a bathing suit. And, yet, she chooses not to spend pool time with her husband and children. I don't think that she's making this decision for positive life affirming reasons, like not making the rest of us look awful, or not enticing men-not-her-husband to lust. I have a strong feeling that how she sees herself, physically, is extremely distorted in an unflattering way. This is an all too frequent phenomenon. I don't believe it's any different with our character or personality. We're looking in a fun house mirror.
So what's true for me? How do I gauge my own obnoxiousness? Am I compassionate or perceptive, intelligent, wise? Or am I just a major fuck up, gaily moving through the world causing offense and damaged feelings? Could I be doing ill, thinking that I'm ok? I know that I'm not perfect. There are things that I'm aware of and working on changing right now. I don't set out to purposely hurt people. I try hard not to judge. I smile. I'm competent in the day-to-day minutia of life. I can use a computer, cell phone, and program a DVR. I love.
Some days that's not enough. But, so far, I'm not afraid enough of negative consequences not to act. As insecure as this day began, I've talked to Daughter and Dude, walked with Tall One, briefly related to business clients in a professional and friendly manner. I've tried to brighten Nana's day during our phone conversations. I cleaned, did laundry, and took out the trash. I showered, brushed my teeth, made the bed, watched TV, and ate ice cream. This is not a chronological list. Nor is it complete. But in all I've done or tried to be, I've to the best of my ability behaved honorably. I haven't lied for personal gain. I haven't cheated. I haven't yelled obscenities at small children or kicked puppies. I don't hate.
Perhaps the fun house mirror is the best we can hope. Some days we can laugh hysterically at the clownish distortions, other days we howl at the grotesque image leering back at us. Most days, thank God, I don't even have time to look.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
No Regrets.
Well, this morning turned out to be a little slice of my own personal hell. I slept poorly. I had recurring dreams where I would try to call out warnings, but couldn't make any sounds. When I'd wake up, I'd feel nauseous. I really thought of food poisoning, but I'm better this morning. No more nausea anyway.
I followed my normal routine, until I got the phone call from MomMom. She's my mother-in-law. She deserves a page in "Excellent Adventures". She's one of the "good guys". She called to tell me about "The-First-Great-Goodbye-Pig-Roast" hosted by O.S. and D.I.L.ly. They have sold their home, stored their furniture, and are moving to New Hampshire. I am glad and relieved. I did not attend. The reasons will most likely come clear over time in future posts. MomMom knows that there are "issues", but this morning I told her that the situation goes far beyond a familial misunderstanding. There is no common ground for reconciliation. There probably never will be. I love my son and his wife. I just won't live with them anymore (I never literally lived with them, I'm talking in the metaphorical sense). I'm done being manipulated, I'm over any sense of guilt or responsibility, I won't stand the abuse. And I do mean abuse in the literal sense. The blame and accusations, the misrepresentation of fact and the misinterpretation of motives is over. I no longer want to talk, I can't listen. I wish them well in their life, not in mine. I'm having to say this to a grandmother, a mother, a woman with feelings and hurts I can't begin to understand. But, I'm understanding my own hurts pretty well, so my imagination of her pain isn't pretty. We ended the conversation as we always do, with cordial love.
Take a deep breath and answer Nana's call. My mother, a grandmother as well, embroiled in this situation, not of my choosing. She's suffering, too. She's had a front row seat to this attempted annihilation. She got involved over a year ago, when D.I.L.ly choose her as a trusted confidant. Nana got a phone call yesterday from O.S. He can't bear to leave for the New Hampshire wilderness without seeing her and saying goodbye (Nana did not attend the Pig Roast Party either, and the lack of her attendance is laid squarely at my feet). So, he will stop by sometime after work. Nana told him to come alone. We'll see. This doesn't feel over.
So, now I've done my best to comfort the two grandmothers. Daughter and Surfer Dude are justifiably angry, annoyed, and disillusioned. They are carrying a huge load of offense for me. I don't want them to do anything regrettable, because they have nothing to be sorry for so far. And we're coming down to the wire. D.I.L.ly really does deserve any retribution she may incur from all the pain and hurt and destruction she has wreaked, but my heart's desire is that she be left to go quietly into the night.
I can't save my son. I can't save D.I.L.ly. They will just pull me under the water with their flailing...and I will drown.
No regrets. I have 25 years of memories that will never be taken from me. Some truly good and fine moments with O.S. and D.I.L.ly, separately and as a couple, that I will always treasure. I still defend them, but not their actions. I still like to hear about their life, just not directly. I've sacrificed nothing that I wasn't willing to surrender. They've taken nothing but what I've chosen to give. This is my choice, given the options.
I followed my normal routine, until I got the phone call from MomMom. She's my mother-in-law. She deserves a page in "Excellent Adventures". She's one of the "good guys". She called to tell me about "The-First-Great-Goodbye-Pig-Roast" hosted by O.S. and D.I.L.ly. They have sold their home, stored their furniture, and are moving to New Hampshire. I am glad and relieved. I did not attend. The reasons will most likely come clear over time in future posts. MomMom knows that there are "issues", but this morning I told her that the situation goes far beyond a familial misunderstanding. There is no common ground for reconciliation. There probably never will be. I love my son and his wife. I just won't live with them anymore (I never literally lived with them, I'm talking in the metaphorical sense). I'm done being manipulated, I'm over any sense of guilt or responsibility, I won't stand the abuse. And I do mean abuse in the literal sense. The blame and accusations, the misrepresentation of fact and the misinterpretation of motives is over. I no longer want to talk, I can't listen. I wish them well in their life, not in mine. I'm having to say this to a grandmother, a mother, a woman with feelings and hurts I can't begin to understand. But, I'm understanding my own hurts pretty well, so my imagination of her pain isn't pretty. We ended the conversation as we always do, with cordial love.
Take a deep breath and answer Nana's call. My mother, a grandmother as well, embroiled in this situation, not of my choosing. She's suffering, too. She's had a front row seat to this attempted annihilation. She got involved over a year ago, when D.I.L.ly choose her as a trusted confidant. Nana got a phone call yesterday from O.S. He can't bear to leave for the New Hampshire wilderness without seeing her and saying goodbye (Nana did not attend the Pig Roast Party either, and the lack of her attendance is laid squarely at my feet). So, he will stop by sometime after work. Nana told him to come alone. We'll see. This doesn't feel over.
So, now I've done my best to comfort the two grandmothers. Daughter and Surfer Dude are justifiably angry, annoyed, and disillusioned. They are carrying a huge load of offense for me. I don't want them to do anything regrettable, because they have nothing to be sorry for so far. And we're coming down to the wire. D.I.L.ly really does deserve any retribution she may incur from all the pain and hurt and destruction she has wreaked, but my heart's desire is that she be left to go quietly into the night.
I can't save my son. I can't save D.I.L.ly. They will just pull me under the water with their flailing...and I will drown.
No regrets. I have 25 years of memories that will never be taken from me. Some truly good and fine moments with O.S. and D.I.L.ly, separately and as a couple, that I will always treasure. I still defend them, but not their actions. I still like to hear about their life, just not directly. I've sacrificed nothing that I wasn't willing to surrender. They've taken nothing but what I've chosen to give. This is my choice, given the options.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Healing?
I want to get this down quickly. I own this, but I can't live here. I'll come back later and clean up. This is where I am right now....
Have you ever been sick, and not realized how sick, until you started to feel better? When you're in extreme pain, you know what steps to take. Ease the pain, take the ibuprofen, lots of it, all the time. You start to heal, and you don't expect to be limited. Let's run with the example of physical pain. You've hurt you're back. You can barely breath for the pain. So you go to the doctor, get the muscle relaxants, and walk around in a blissful stupor, not feeling the injury. You're in shock. Time passes and now you're in physical therapy. You have goals, you're actively working at your recuperation, you see progress, you feel the pain. Once done with therapy, everything looks normal, but there's still that dull ache. You don't acknowledge it all the time, but there's a stiffness. You aren't what you used to be. You move differently, gingerly, to protect the sensitive part. You're conscious of the injury, but no one else would notice it.
I've had a series of emotional train wrecks and beatings. My heart is broken, shredded, crushed. My soul's been slashed. My mind's been bruised, a freaking hematoma. When the injuries occurred, I took the steps I needed to survive. I clung to the people who loved me and trusted their wisdom, I focused on my grandsons (pain killers). Then I talked, and talked, and talked with my Daughter, we read, and read, and read for understanding (physical therapy). Now things are quiet, and I'm realizing that this has affected me in subtle ways.
Tall One is a loving man. His greatest characteristic is that he loves me. He wants the best for me, always. He's my friend and confidant. He's been hurt, too, deeply. He's walked through all this with me.Yet, lately he is like cloth on a brush burn. I want him with me, to comfort and soothe, like I'd want the dressing changed on a cut so that it will heal cleanly and with minimal scarring, but because I'm afraid it will hurt, and because I don't have the strength for the pain, I keep slapping away the hands that would help. I'm irritated by him. It's the annoying itch as the wounds start to heal. Scratch it and you open them again. There is nothing he can do to alleviate this. He isn't doing anything wrong or differently.
I'm exhausted with talking. With Daughter, I think I'm making sympathetic sounds, and possibly sense, but there's a screaming echo inside my head, and I'm numb. Even small talk with friends, everyday issues with family, pleasantries, are physically difficult. It's the pain of recovery. I can't stop or my emotions will atrophy. I'm not strong enough to facilitate complete recovery by myself. I need to communicate, to endure , to grow stronger again. I can't stand the noise, yet silence is worse.
I'm fulfilling my responsibilities. I'm not shutting anyone out. I'm not shutting down. But, everything is muffled and muted. I'm swathed in cotton. I'm still weak from the beatings. When I'm alone, I'm restless and anxious, I can't focus. But, being with others is brutal. One relationship, an important relationship, one I will always have even though trying, is especially irksome right now. And I need to be sympathetic, really, there are issues involved! The joy and delight in my grandsons is stifled. The physical and emotional energy isn't there. There are questions and concerns, little daily caring gestures, that I want to extend to family and friends, and I just don't think of them, or if I do, procrastinate. My motivation is unrecognized, or doubted.
This is not "unto death". Even with a cold, I take physical limitation personally. I don't imagine it's different with emotional virus's.
Ok, I've left to deal with the mundane, I've come back and finished feeling what I'm dealing with. I don't live here, but I do own this.
Have you ever been sick, and not realized how sick, until you started to feel better? When you're in extreme pain, you know what steps to take. Ease the pain, take the ibuprofen, lots of it, all the time. You start to heal, and you don't expect to be limited. Let's run with the example of physical pain. You've hurt you're back. You can barely breath for the pain. So you go to the doctor, get the muscle relaxants, and walk around in a blissful stupor, not feeling the injury. You're in shock. Time passes and now you're in physical therapy. You have goals, you're actively working at your recuperation, you see progress, you feel the pain. Once done with therapy, everything looks normal, but there's still that dull ache. You don't acknowledge it all the time, but there's a stiffness. You aren't what you used to be. You move differently, gingerly, to protect the sensitive part. You're conscious of the injury, but no one else would notice it.
I've had a series of emotional train wrecks and beatings. My heart is broken, shredded, crushed. My soul's been slashed. My mind's been bruised, a freaking hematoma. When the injuries occurred, I took the steps I needed to survive. I clung to the people who loved me and trusted their wisdom, I focused on my grandsons (pain killers). Then I talked, and talked, and talked with my Daughter, we read, and read, and read for understanding (physical therapy). Now things are quiet, and I'm realizing that this has affected me in subtle ways.
Tall One is a loving man. His greatest characteristic is that he loves me. He wants the best for me, always. He's my friend and confidant. He's been hurt, too, deeply. He's walked through all this with me.Yet, lately he is like cloth on a brush burn. I want him with me, to comfort and soothe, like I'd want the dressing changed on a cut so that it will heal cleanly and with minimal scarring, but because I'm afraid it will hurt, and because I don't have the strength for the pain, I keep slapping away the hands that would help. I'm irritated by him. It's the annoying itch as the wounds start to heal. Scratch it and you open them again. There is nothing he can do to alleviate this. He isn't doing anything wrong or differently.
I'm exhausted with talking. With Daughter, I think I'm making sympathetic sounds, and possibly sense, but there's a screaming echo inside my head, and I'm numb. Even small talk with friends, everyday issues with family, pleasantries, are physically difficult. It's the pain of recovery. I can't stop or my emotions will atrophy. I'm not strong enough to facilitate complete recovery by myself. I need to communicate, to endure , to grow stronger again. I can't stand the noise, yet silence is worse.
I'm fulfilling my responsibilities. I'm not shutting anyone out. I'm not shutting down. But, everything is muffled and muted. I'm swathed in cotton. I'm still weak from the beatings. When I'm alone, I'm restless and anxious, I can't focus. But, being with others is brutal. One relationship, an important relationship, one I will always have even though trying, is especially irksome right now. And I need to be sympathetic, really, there are issues involved! The joy and delight in my grandsons is stifled. The physical and emotional energy isn't there. There are questions and concerns, little daily caring gestures, that I want to extend to family and friends, and I just don't think of them, or if I do, procrastinate. My motivation is unrecognized, or doubted.
This is not "unto death". Even with a cold, I take physical limitation personally. I don't imagine it's different with emotional virus's.
Ok, I've left to deal with the mundane, I've come back and finished feeling what I'm dealing with. I don't live here, but I do own this.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Woebegone Conclusions, Contrite Apologies
Garrison Keillor is morose!
A few months ago, our local newspapers, one published in the morning (liberal), one published in the evening (conservative) merged their Saturday publications. I'm afraid this is a precursor to a total merger, and this will be disappointing. I'm not happy with the new format. They've done away with the advice columns and kept the teen perspective section. They run all the comics from both papers. (I'm assuming the backlash from readers will be daunting if and when they downsize and combine. I'm also fairly sure they would get rid of my favorites. I will not, however, write to complain. I'm currently enduring the Sunday Comics' new format stoically, in the true spirit of martyrdom.) Garrison Keillor's column has been included on the editorial page along with Andy Rooney. Andy Rooney's getting old, he rambles more and more incoherently. I read his perspective just to keep track of his deterioration. I also read Garrison Keillor. It's only been a few weeks, but I was surprised at the disparity between my preconceived perception of his writing and NPR program (which I've never heard) and the reality of his views.
His program is called "A Prairie Home Companion", as I'm sure everyone who has peeked from beneath their rock or momentarily focused on something other than their own self absorbed preoccupations would recognize. So, I was thinking Sheriff Andy from Mayberry? The guy's from Minnesota. So, I envisioned references to lazy days of ice fishing, or walking barefoot while chewing on wheat stalks, sweet and sappy? But, week to week as I actually read his articles, I'm picking up on disillusionment, disappointment, and a bout with depression. And, it's not subtle. There's not too much "aah, shucks" going on.
Last week, Mother's Day, he talked about the loss of possibilities, individuality, and intelligence inherent when a women produces and then raises offspring. The example he gave of a mother's love and tenacity had to do with fighting to the death to get said child acquitted of murder charges. Definitely worthy of a sentimental Hallmark tribute. A few weeks ago, he expressed the opinion, that I thought was unique to me, that the anniversaries of tragic events just serve as narcissistic opportunities to wallow in self pity. This week, he closed with a story about a classic (and obviously classy) soprano that sang on in spite of a couple of dozen drunken hecklers. His last line struck such a chord* (*clever use of a musical metaphor) that I decided to use it in my blog design.
I'm astounded to identify so closely with views expressed by an NPR program host. I'm amazed at the similarities in our writing styles. I'm humbled, and not a little apologetic. This is an example of how easily and grossly I can misjudge someone on very little information. Nobody's ever asked me what I thought of Garrison Keillor. But if they had, I would have offered a completely irrelevant, wrong and false appraisal based on....nothing substantial. I formed an impression on the titles of a radio program, book (Lake Wobegon Days), political party (Democrat) and NPR affiliation. I still don't know much about Garrison Keillor, but now I know I don't know much.
I remember forming a judgemental opinion based on nothing at ten years old. A neighborhood friend asked me if I was going to watch the newest t.v. show sensation, "The Monkees". "No, that's just stupid." Not very sophisticated, but certainly ignorant. I knew nothing about the program. When I did, I became a life long groupie of Mickey, Peter, Mike and especially Davey Jones. More recently, there was the girl who became my maid-of-honor, HBO, "Desperate Housewives", pop-corn flavored ice-cream, and lesbians. I really, really should have learned my lesson back in our "super-Fundy" days.
When Tall One and I were first married, and for 15 or so years after, we were members of progressively less fundamentalist Christian churches. The first was the worst. We were so narrow and bigoted that we actually believed in "second and third degree separation". This is the doctrine whereby you do not associate with someone that associates with someone that doesn't agree with your convictions. Say that three times, fast. Leaving there, we went to a more "liberal" church. You couldn't eat in a restaurant with a salad "bar", seriously. We were run off from the next church for encouraging the youth in idol worship. It's a long story. The next, because of a huge disagreement over building vs. people. And the last, increasing profound disillusionment.
I want to stop making snap judgements and drawing uninformed conclusions. It's embarrassing. It's an awful character trait. I find it unbecoming in others. But, I'm doing it unconsciously. I'm just not thinking....oh...yeah...right. Sorry.
http://dir.salon.com/topics/garrison_keillor/
A few months ago, our local newspapers, one published in the morning (liberal), one published in the evening (conservative) merged their Saturday publications. I'm afraid this is a precursor to a total merger, and this will be disappointing. I'm not happy with the new format. They've done away with the advice columns and kept the teen perspective section. They run all the comics from both papers. (I'm assuming the backlash from readers will be daunting if and when they downsize and combine. I'm also fairly sure they would get rid of my favorites. I will not, however, write to complain. I'm currently enduring the Sunday Comics' new format stoically, in the true spirit of martyrdom.) Garrison Keillor's column has been included on the editorial page along with Andy Rooney. Andy Rooney's getting old, he rambles more and more incoherently. I read his perspective just to keep track of his deterioration. I also read Garrison Keillor. It's only been a few weeks, but I was surprised at the disparity between my preconceived perception of his writing and NPR program (which I've never heard) and the reality of his views.
His program is called "A Prairie Home Companion", as I'm sure everyone who has peeked from beneath their rock or momentarily focused on something other than their own self absorbed preoccupations would recognize. So, I was thinking Sheriff Andy from Mayberry? The guy's from Minnesota. So, I envisioned references to lazy days of ice fishing, or walking barefoot while chewing on wheat stalks, sweet and sappy? But, week to week as I actually read his articles, I'm picking up on disillusionment, disappointment, and a bout with depression. And, it's not subtle. There's not too much "aah, shucks" going on.
Last week, Mother's Day, he talked about the loss of possibilities, individuality, and intelligence inherent when a women produces and then raises offspring. The example he gave of a mother's love and tenacity had to do with fighting to the death to get said child acquitted of murder charges. Definitely worthy of a sentimental Hallmark tribute. A few weeks ago, he expressed the opinion, that I thought was unique to me, that the anniversaries of tragic events just serve as narcissistic opportunities to wallow in self pity. This week, he closed with a story about a classic (and obviously classy) soprano that sang on in spite of a couple of dozen drunken hecklers. His last line struck such a chord* (*clever use of a musical metaphor) that I decided to use it in my blog design.
I'm astounded to identify so closely with views expressed by an NPR program host. I'm amazed at the similarities in our writing styles. I'm humbled, and not a little apologetic. This is an example of how easily and grossly I can misjudge someone on very little information. Nobody's ever asked me what I thought of Garrison Keillor. But if they had, I would have offered a completely irrelevant, wrong and false appraisal based on....nothing substantial. I formed an impression on the titles of a radio program, book (Lake Wobegon Days), political party (Democrat) and NPR affiliation. I still don't know much about Garrison Keillor, but now I know I don't know much.
I remember forming a judgemental opinion based on nothing at ten years old. A neighborhood friend asked me if I was going to watch the newest t.v. show sensation, "The Monkees". "No, that's just stupid." Not very sophisticated, but certainly ignorant. I knew nothing about the program. When I did, I became a life long groupie of Mickey, Peter, Mike and especially Davey Jones. More recently, there was the girl who became my maid-of-honor, HBO, "Desperate Housewives", pop-corn flavored ice-cream, and lesbians. I really, really should have learned my lesson back in our "super-Fundy" days.
When Tall One and I were first married, and for 15 or so years after, we were members of progressively less fundamentalist Christian churches. The first was the worst. We were so narrow and bigoted that we actually believed in "second and third degree separation". This is the doctrine whereby you do not associate with someone that associates with someone that doesn't agree with your convictions. Say that three times, fast. Leaving there, we went to a more "liberal" church. You couldn't eat in a restaurant with a salad "bar", seriously. We were run off from the next church for encouraging the youth in idol worship. It's a long story. The next, because of a huge disagreement over building vs. people. And the last, increasing profound disillusionment.
I want to stop making snap judgements and drawing uninformed conclusions. It's embarrassing. It's an awful character trait. I find it unbecoming in others. But, I'm doing it unconsciously. I'm just not thinking....oh...yeah...right. Sorry.
http://dir.salon.com/topics/garrison_keillor/
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh..............
"Sometimes when things hurt too badly for words, words are the only solace. Comfort may be found in simple things, but only momentarily. My cup of coffee, familiar if not particularly flavorful. A favorite candle. The flame dances, higher or lower, forcefully or gently depending on the height of the wick. It was given to me by a beloved friend. This room with all it’s treasures, gathered from the places my husband and I have traveled, and housing this computer with it’s immediate, impersonal lifeline to the world.
We have not suffered a death. There is no disease, mutilation, or deformity. No physical or financial calamity. There is just loss, deep, incomprehensible, irrational. And fear, how far can this go? How much can I bear?
There is no logical explanation for what we have been going through. I’ve been over each piece till it’s worn smooth and might be almost endured, and then the next shard, completely unanticipated, is driven into that most sensitive place, my heart, my home, my life, and all those I love most dearly.
I don’t even cry, at least not in that abandoned, cathartic, tears running down your cheeks, feel better for it way. Instead, my heart and mind constrict, my eyes well up, but not to overflowing. It’s hard to breath. Inwardly, I keen, silently and tearless. I fathom the ritual of the wake.
I want to understand. How did it start? Why did it start? What causes a person you love, care about deeply, to pull, rip, shred apart your life and damage themselves, possibly irreparably, in the process?
I want to help, to make it all go away, or at least better."
I wrote this August 7, 2007 at 4:12am. Things have gotten worse, much worse, in all the worst ways, at all the worst times.
We have not suffered a death. There is no disease, mutilation, or deformity. No physical or financial calamity. There is just loss, deep, incomprehensible, irrational. And fear, how far can this go? How much can I bear?
There is no logical explanation for what we have been going through. I’ve been over each piece till it’s worn smooth and might be almost endured, and then the next shard, completely unanticipated, is driven into that most sensitive place, my heart, my home, my life, and all those I love most dearly.
I don’t even cry, at least not in that abandoned, cathartic, tears running down your cheeks, feel better for it way. Instead, my heart and mind constrict, my eyes well up, but not to overflowing. It’s hard to breath. Inwardly, I keen, silently and tearless. I fathom the ritual of the wake.
I want to understand. How did it start? Why did it start? What causes a person you love, care about deeply, to pull, rip, shred apart your life and damage themselves, possibly irreparably, in the process?
I want to help, to make it all go away, or at least better."
I wrote this August 7, 2007 at 4:12am. Things have gotten worse, much worse, in all the worst ways, at all the worst times.
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