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.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
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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