I posted a video by a 50 year old man the other day on my FB who finally admitted through his video about being molested as a child. My friend shared it in an effort to say we REALLY have to be upfront in educating ourselves and others about stranger danger and molestation and the like. It hit me hard because I also have a big issue that I want to educate my kids about, but realized, maybe I'd better share in the effort to help some parents out there. Not to tell you to look for warning signs in your kids, because I exhibited none. My grades didn't slip. I did not turn to drugs. I did not hang out with a different crowd. I want you to share this story with your kids. So they KNOW that it's not always strangers and it's not always obvious when it first begins.
My parents and/or close family may want to stop here. This hurts to write. It will hurt to read.
I was in an abusive relationship for a short time as a young girl in high school. People are often amazed by that. I've gotten "you don't seem like the type to let that happen" or "you were intimidating though" or "you seemed so together".
Have you ever driven home and then realized you have no idea how you got there? Abuse is like that. You don't LET it happen. It's not right in your face. It sneaks up. Incrementally. Small things. And the next thing you know, you're at your destination and you have no idea how you got there. Or how to get out. If he had started out hurting me right away, OF COURSE I would have left. But that's not how it happens.
It's why now... when I hear a concerned parent talk about how their daughter's boyfriend asked her to wear her makeup only a certain way or a their son's girlfriend checks all his texts, the hair on the back of my neck raises. They're worried about control. I worry about what it can turn in to.
It started so small, really. He asked me to try to be a little more affectionate. Could I write more notes or give more hugs? Could I show up to a couple more of his sporting events? Could I not wear that outfit that made guys look at me. Really, he was just trying to protect me. He didn't want guys looking at me like I was an object. That's what he said.
So I came to his events. At first he was happy. And then happy, but asked me not to talk to everyone. And then one day he got angry, because I talked to the other athletes as well. They were my friends too. I didn't see anything wrong with it. I'd never been an attractive girl, it was a new thing being considered attractive, so it didn't occur to me that I couldn't have male friends. But he freaked out. First it was just yelling. Then I apologized and things went back to normal for a couple other visits to his sporting events, but then something would set him off. And slowly the behavior went beyond yelling. Then it was backing me up against a wall while he was yelling. Or asking me to go somewhere with him, but he would be speeding and screaming and slamming his fist on the steering wheel or the dash.
Why didn't you leave then? You're asking. Again, incremental. It was only a couple times followed by tears and "oh my God, I was so hungry and tired and jealous, I'm sorry" and then a long time would pass of nothing. He wouldn't care who I talked to or what I wore. And so you can excuse it. We were young, learning how to do this relationship thing. You know. Excuses because I was a bright, straight-A together girl... I don't make mistakes.
Gradually, it happened more and the backing me up into a wall became a couple of times of holding me by the shoulders as he yelled and pushing me up against it. And then slamming me up against it. By the time this happens, embarrassment kicks in. How do you get out without A) everyone asking questions and B) without him freaking out because now I'm afraid of him. His temper is scary and no on sees it, so they don't know. So now I'm wondering how to break up with him without setting him off or admitting what I'm going through.
In the middle of all this, the sexual abuse began. Again, incremental. His hands would wander while we kissed. I would push them off and say "no". Typical teenage boy, right? He would listen, briefly. Then try again. But it was small and infrequent at first. So again, it builds up so slow it's a long time before you look around and say, "wait! this isn't right!" And, I'm not sure if it was by accident or design, but he only began to do it with others around, somehow knowing I'd be too embarrassed to speak up. It would be at late night gatherings, in the dark rooms, everyone spread out on different couches and chairs all staring at the TV. And we'd be on the last couch so no one was behind us and no one would turn around. And then he would touch me and not listen when I said no. We lived in Los Angeles. It's not cold there. I took to wearing LAYERS of clothing in the hopes he wouldn't have the energy to get through them all. He did and by the time he was done, I was hurting. I was tired. I was embarrassed. Sometimes I wouldn't fight. I would just let the tears roll down my face. And wait to go home.
I knew it was getting worse. I didn't know how to tell my parents. I thought they'd be ashamed of me. Because by this time, you think it's your fault. You've LET it happen. Instead of saying no and pushing him away, I tell myself I should do more. I should punch and kick and bite. But that's stranger danger right? And this is a boyfriend. And I don't want to call attention to us. And I'm scared. And because his words slowly eat at you. "Guys only want one thing from you." "No one knows you like I do." "Your friends say the worst things about you behind your back, you can't trust anyone." "I'm sorry." "I'll kill myself if you leave." And the worst night, the night I really knew I had to find a way out. That night was the night I realized I was believing him. We were at my parents, but it was late and they were asleep. We were on the couch and he began kissing me and touching me hard. We fell to the floor and he pinned me. I thought, for the briefest second, he was being funny. I said, laughing, "get off me or I'll scream." But he leaned down and whispered in my ear and I knew he was serious. "You will do nothing and you will say nothing because I can do ANYTHING to you I want and you won't wake your parents and let them see what you REALLY are." And I believed him. I believed I was the horrible person and I wouldn't want my parents to know what I was.
I won't go into what happened that night. He stopped short of sexual intercourse. I'll say that much. And when he left, I couldn't stop shaking. I went to my room and tried to sleep. My dog, who always seemed to know, lay by my bed and let my hand stay on her. I don't know how much I slept that night, if at all. The next few weeks, I made excuses and saw him as seldom as possible. I had a busy schedule with my classes and extracurricular life, it was easy to do. The next time he got me alone I actually grabbed his hands at the wrists, twisted as hard as I could and burned his skin and said, "I'm SICK of this." I think he knew.
I asked my friend and sister to be there at the house when I broke up with him. Made some flimsy excuse about how then he couldn't cry and make drama. But really, it's because I was terrified. But I did it. Told him I was done. We were breaking up.
Unfortunately, it didn't stop there. The abuse did. But he began to threaten other boys who asked me out. Tried to hit one with his car. He would drive by my cheerleading practices slowly. Wait outside class council meetings, just to say "hi." He would magically show up places I was. We went to school about 20 minutes from my home. Somehow, even at an event he wasn't at, he could find out someone asked me out and call me by the time I was walking in the door. He would yell and berate me about how he KNEW who asked me out and that that guy had talked about me in the locker room. Repeat the theme of boys only wanting one thing from me.
I didn't tell anyone. I didn't let my appearance show anything. My grades stayed up. I dived into cheerleading, drama, class council, everything... just to seem perfect. Only one friend had a sense. My friend Wolf. We could post poetry in our English class and whatever I posted, he knew I was struggling with a darkness. Years later, we would talk about it. I'm forever grateful he cared enough. Wolf and my friend Richard, in fact, were a shelter for me once without knowing it. As we talked after drama rehearsal one day, that boy drove by. Slowly. He had already graduated. I started shaking, but seeing Wolf and Richard, he kept going. I'm forever grateful I was not alone waiting for my ride that day. I'm forever grateful Wolf and Richard were with me.
This abuse has had an effect on me, even though the abuse was rather mild in comparison to the stories I know of friends who have fared far, far worse. Friends, like me, who told no one. And one friend who admitted to me, and he says only to me, that he was molested once when he was 10 and has not told a soul. I don't know that he has admitted to himself the effect it has had. He called it a homosexual encounter and I just wanted to let him know, it wasn't. It was about power and control. I think he has been shamed by that term and cannot talk about it. Not to his parents or wife or son. And it breaks my heart.
I have spent some time facing mine. Finally talked to a therapist about it in my 20's. Told my parents. I've told some friends. And I will tell my kids. I will talk to them about strangers, but I will also talk to them about people you know. About how it can start small and simple, but your gut will tell you. Discomfort or confusion NEEDS to be heeded. I need to tell my kids if this starts to happen to them about how my own shame stopped me, so it CANNOT stop them from speaking up because there is NOTHING I should be ashamed of.
I'm still working on some of my issues. I have trouble embracing my own sexuality. In letting sexual intimacy with a loved one be a GOOD thing because it is tied up in my head as something shameful and horrible and ugly. And it shouldn't be. But that is my struggle and I am getting through it.
What I want you all to get from this is to TALK to your kids... about your story or mine. About strangers and family and boyfriends and girlfriends. About control and predatory behavior and abuse. That a boyfriend or a girlfriend should NEVER tell you how to dress or whom to talk to. That the smallest bits of control or anger can spiral and you're in too deep before you see it. And then about how you CAN get out. I did.
I even talked to my abuser years later. Told him what he did. He admitted he knew why I wore so many layers. He said he had followed some bad advice from friends and was a hormonal kid. Said he didn't consider what he did abuse, but felt so horrible that it had affected me so. He was being physically abused in his family and was messed up. I told him my only purpose in talking to him was so that he could look at himself and get help. And that I never wanted to hear from him nor see him again. EVER. The purpose of our chat was to educate him.
The purpose of my writing this is to educate you. If you've been abused, you can release the control your abuser has on you by facing it and turning it to your own power. It's what I'm doing now. What I have been doing. Childhood molestation is more difficult. It's why that video I posted hit me so hard. I thought of my friend and how he never told anyone and is carrying it around. We have to talk, we have to be open and we have to empower ourselves. Childhood molestation and the betrayal of an adult is so ugly. I hope that video I posted helps others because I did not walk in those shoes. But the shoes I did walk in can educate you too, parents. Let you kids know. While they're young. Let's be open now... so we don't have to say sorry later.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Monday, July 14, 2014
Of Oxygen Masks and Mosaics
"Whose mask do they tell you to put on first on the airplane," my therapist asked, "children and those in need of help? or yours?...YOURS because you can't help someone else when you're dead."
She stared at me pointedly then. This was years ago, as she tried to get at the root of my desperate unhappiness, my lack of ability to think of self care as anything other than horrid selfishness, at my inability to be myself because I feared the costs too much, my inability to feel and admit my feelings. I entered that office hostile. Feet pulled up and head bowed to my knees. I wanted to wake up, live, feel and have the courage to be me, but the prospect was so daunting it was easier to keep up my walls, complete my "should do's" in life, my "obligations" and my mask. I had worked hard on that mask.
Fast forward to now. I have rocked my world and I keep rocking it. It has terrified me, awoken me, made me curious, elated me, broken me, built me and renewed me. I've dared to listen to my heart and not shut it down with "practical" words and overthinking. I've used my voice and insisted that it be heard. I've taken quiet moments unlike ever before to ask myself "what do I WANT?" I'm learning to find out who I am and feel beautiful in my own skin. A long time ago I had shut down my heart, built my walls, convinced myself I was a crazy woman whose opinions cannot be trusted. Now, I'm daring to matter. TO ME. So that I can let myself matter to others.
This may sound selfish and self centered. Some of the choices I've made have had ripples that grew into tsunamis and washed over the innocent. But I am not selfish. I'm putting on my oxygen mask because I have children now and I want them to LIVE. Not just breathe and be. LIVE. Openly, hugely, with joy and childish abandon. I want them to not build such high walls. I want them to dream big. I want them to laugh more, turn from their anxiety, try EVERYTHING, fall, cry and try again.
I actually tell my children three things daily now - "You have to do the thing you fear" and "find a treasure" and "there is always a way." DAILY. I want them to face new experiences like summer camp and making new friends with a sense of curiosity, not trepidation. I want them to look for at least one thing to be thankful for daily. And I want them to ALWAYS be looking for solution and looking ACTIVELY, not just passively waiting for answers to fall to them.
Many think I have broken a lot this past year by making the choices I have. You, reader, may think so. That I've broken my children me, friendships, etc. But as I told a precious friend not too long ago, I think of breakages as just an opportunity to take the pieces and make a beautiful mosaic of them. Sometimes shattered glass pieced together in ways no one had imagined are far more beautiful than the original object those pieces were taken from.
You know the best part? They are LISTENING. My kids are HEARING me and taking it to heart. Just this morning, as Lizzy looked down at her spilled scrambled eggs and began to stress, her brother (who used to explode at this sight) just put his hand on her shoulder and said, "don't worry about it, Mom doesn't care about messes." And when I asked him why he replied, "because they can always be cleaned up." I nodded and agreed, "we always have mops, vacuums and we can always find a solution." I could have cried with joy. He's HEARING me.
And then, when we got home today and I was preparing food to go to the pool, my children did not head for their computers, but sat on barstools to chat with me the way I used to do with my mother. William asked me, "How many people did YOU make smile today, mom? I made 5 people smile" (I had once asked him to look for his treasure by seeing how many people he could make smile or how many new names he could remember). I fought joyful tears again and said, "3 William, I made 3 smile." His counselor has even said she needs to see him less now because he is calming down so much and handling his emotions so much better.
And last week, my daughter (if you've read my blogs you know she has some sensitivities and challenges) who WILL NOT be laid backwards in gymnastics or swim classes, suddenly threw herself backward in the pool and FLOATED ON HER BACK. She did this over and over and then began kicking and swimming on her back. I stood there stunned. I had no idea what to say. Finally I sputtered, "LIZZY, you're floating and swimming on your back! That's amazing, what made you do that?" and she just looked at me matter-of-factly and said, "I was afraid of it and you said I have to do the thing I'm afraid of." I turned away and allowed myself to cry. It was HUGE. Monumental. Like my sensory-issues-plagued little girl flipping on the bars by herself in gymnastics many months ago. HUGE.
Together, we're making a lovely mosaic folks. We may shatter more pieces. We WILL stumble and mess up. But I woke up to the idea that I'm allowed to feel, to be me, to be happy and that I am NOT crazy. I put on my damn oxygen mask and decided to do the thing I was afraid of. As I see a 5 year old whose fears and sensitivities drove her to debilitating tantrums and an 8 year old whose anxiety and anger left him sullen or explosive mold into a little girl facing her fears and a little boy reminding ME to find my treasure... I am humbled, over joyed and encouraged.
What do you fear? How much of you have you buried? How much of you have you let die or numbed away? How many times have you allowed yourself to be trampled or neglected or unheard or minimized because you tell yourself it's sacrifice or unselfishness or what you are supposed to do. Folks, LOOK and you will stumble across that moment, that person, that opportunity that will shake you, wake you and leave you naked. PUT ON YOUR OXYGEN MASK. Let yourself matter. Then take the broken pieces that will inevitably lay at your feet when you finally shatter the false images you created and make the most beautiful mosaic instead.
What will yours look like? What is mine? I'm not totally sure... but it has an ocean, sunshine, calm waters, far away cabins, the sound of rain on a metal roof and a dragonfly because they live such a short life that they make the most of each moment. In all this will stand a me stronger than I ever thought I could be and two amazing kids who keep reaching, asking, laughing, building and doing they thing they are afraid of.
Put on your oxygen mask first, folks. Breathe in and out. And start living.
She stared at me pointedly then. This was years ago, as she tried to get at the root of my desperate unhappiness, my lack of ability to think of self care as anything other than horrid selfishness, at my inability to be myself because I feared the costs too much, my inability to feel and admit my feelings. I entered that office hostile. Feet pulled up and head bowed to my knees. I wanted to wake up, live, feel and have the courage to be me, but the prospect was so daunting it was easier to keep up my walls, complete my "should do's" in life, my "obligations" and my mask. I had worked hard on that mask.
Fast forward to now. I have rocked my world and I keep rocking it. It has terrified me, awoken me, made me curious, elated me, broken me, built me and renewed me. I've dared to listen to my heart and not shut it down with "practical" words and overthinking. I've used my voice and insisted that it be heard. I've taken quiet moments unlike ever before to ask myself "what do I WANT?" I'm learning to find out who I am and feel beautiful in my own skin. A long time ago I had shut down my heart, built my walls, convinced myself I was a crazy woman whose opinions cannot be trusted. Now, I'm daring to matter. TO ME. So that I can let myself matter to others.
This may sound selfish and self centered. Some of the choices I've made have had ripples that grew into tsunamis and washed over the innocent. But I am not selfish. I'm putting on my oxygen mask because I have children now and I want them to LIVE. Not just breathe and be. LIVE. Openly, hugely, with joy and childish abandon. I want them to not build such high walls. I want them to dream big. I want them to laugh more, turn from their anxiety, try EVERYTHING, fall, cry and try again.
I actually tell my children three things daily now - "You have to do the thing you fear" and "find a treasure" and "there is always a way." DAILY. I want them to face new experiences like summer camp and making new friends with a sense of curiosity, not trepidation. I want them to look for at least one thing to be thankful for daily. And I want them to ALWAYS be looking for solution and looking ACTIVELY, not just passively waiting for answers to fall to them.
Many think I have broken a lot this past year by making the choices I have. You, reader, may think so. That I've broken my children me, friendships, etc. But as I told a precious friend not too long ago, I think of breakages as just an opportunity to take the pieces and make a beautiful mosaic of them. Sometimes shattered glass pieced together in ways no one had imagined are far more beautiful than the original object those pieces were taken from.
You know the best part? They are LISTENING. My kids are HEARING me and taking it to heart. Just this morning, as Lizzy looked down at her spilled scrambled eggs and began to stress, her brother (who used to explode at this sight) just put his hand on her shoulder and said, "don't worry about it, Mom doesn't care about messes." And when I asked him why he replied, "because they can always be cleaned up." I nodded and agreed, "we always have mops, vacuums and we can always find a solution." I could have cried with joy. He's HEARING me.
And then, when we got home today and I was preparing food to go to the pool, my children did not head for their computers, but sat on barstools to chat with me the way I used to do with my mother. William asked me, "How many people did YOU make smile today, mom? I made 5 people smile" (I had once asked him to look for his treasure by seeing how many people he could make smile or how many new names he could remember). I fought joyful tears again and said, "3 William, I made 3 smile." His counselor has even said she needs to see him less now because he is calming down so much and handling his emotions so much better.
And last week, my daughter (if you've read my blogs you know she has some sensitivities and challenges) who WILL NOT be laid backwards in gymnastics or swim classes, suddenly threw herself backward in the pool and FLOATED ON HER BACK. She did this over and over and then began kicking and swimming on her back. I stood there stunned. I had no idea what to say. Finally I sputtered, "LIZZY, you're floating and swimming on your back! That's amazing, what made you do that?" and she just looked at me matter-of-factly and said, "I was afraid of it and you said I have to do the thing I'm afraid of." I turned away and allowed myself to cry. It was HUGE. Monumental. Like my sensory-issues-plagued little girl flipping on the bars by herself in gymnastics many months ago. HUGE.
Together, we're making a lovely mosaic folks. We may shatter more pieces. We WILL stumble and mess up. But I woke up to the idea that I'm allowed to feel, to be me, to be happy and that I am NOT crazy. I put on my damn oxygen mask and decided to do the thing I was afraid of. As I see a 5 year old whose fears and sensitivities drove her to debilitating tantrums and an 8 year old whose anxiety and anger left him sullen or explosive mold into a little girl facing her fears and a little boy reminding ME to find my treasure... I am humbled, over joyed and encouraged.
What do you fear? How much of you have you buried? How much of you have you let die or numbed away? How many times have you allowed yourself to be trampled or neglected or unheard or minimized because you tell yourself it's sacrifice or unselfishness or what you are supposed to do. Folks, LOOK and you will stumble across that moment, that person, that opportunity that will shake you, wake you and leave you naked. PUT ON YOUR OXYGEN MASK. Let yourself matter. Then take the broken pieces that will inevitably lay at your feet when you finally shatter the false images you created and make the most beautiful mosaic instead.
What will yours look like? What is mine? I'm not totally sure... but it has an ocean, sunshine, calm waters, far away cabins, the sound of rain on a metal roof and a dragonfly because they live such a short life that they make the most of each moment. In all this will stand a me stronger than I ever thought I could be and two amazing kids who keep reaching, asking, laughing, building and doing they thing they are afraid of.
Put on your oxygen mask first, folks. Breathe in and out. And start living.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Hansel and Gretel
I just talked with an old-new friend about the losing of oneself as you hide who you are. Or bury who you are. Or just plain forget who you are. It's incremental, we agreed. You give bits of yourself away, piece by piece, and you just erode. To keep the peace. To keep the job. To make a relationship work. To get where you want to go. Whatever. You look up and suddenly, you're lost. Like Hansel and Gretel dropping bread crumbs that just get eaten and they lose their way.
Lately, I am back on the path to finding me. Building myself back up. Piece by piece. Granted, it has come at a steep cost. I've faced depression, anxiety and panic. I'm recently divorced. I've lost friends as my social landscape has changed and made new ones. But those weren't what allowed me to find me. What was it? Motherhood. Oddly enough, many woman find motherhood to be the place where they lose themselves. For me... it was the beginning. The beginning of this road I'm on. This time I won't lose pieces of myself and leave them for the birds of depression, negativity and doubt to eat at. I'll set out with eyes straight forward and build a life for my kids and me that I caught a glimpse of when I became a mother.
I remember holding my boy one of the very first nights at home. I was nursing him, dead tired, food packed in a little cooler in his room because he ate so often and woke so often, I hadn't the time to feed myself. I looked down at him and began sobbing. It was huge. This little human had come from me and, at this age, I was all he needed. I was his sustenance, his pillow and his comfort. I understood then, how motherhood changes a woman. Why it makes women do insane things to protect their kids. I told a friend once... in simplest terms motherhood has taken me from the woman who freezes and breaks out in a cold sweat when she thinks someone is breaking into the house to the woman who has grabbed a sword (yes a sword, shut up) off the wall and rushed to the door when she thought someone was breaking in because, fuck it, those bastards were coming through me and this weapon before they got to my kids. That's motherhood. For me.
I had a joyful childhood. Yes, my parents were (gasp) divorced. Yes, we didn't have much for a long time. But I had a lot of joy. In very simple things. I was telling a friend about it recently, who said he wasn't as practiced at joy as I was. And I began to think of what made me "practiced". I'll be honest, I fell out of practice for a while. A long while. Motherhood made me determined to bring it back. I want my kids to get dirty, be silly, laugh, be curious, be adventurous as much as I want them kind, courteous, big-hearted, sensitive and loving. I want them JOYFUL. I cannot MAKE them joyful, each human is responsible for his own happiness. You can exhaust yourself trying to make others joyful, especially when they refuse to be. But I can lead by example and I can give them every opportunity to find it in the little moments by finding it myself and pointing it out.
What made me practiced was not luxury vacations or fine things. It was attitude. I remember a driving vacation with my sister and dad. Dad would plan these trips down to the hour. With how far we'd get and where we'd stay. But one time, life had a different plan. The town we wanted to stay in was COMPLETELY booked by a Shriner's Convention (no joke), so we had to travel to the next little town. The "cabin" (I'll use quotes and you'll see why shortly) we stayed in was ummmm... rustic, to say the least. They had tiny corrugated tin showers and questionable bedding. But that is not what stood out. My dad, exhausted from driving, could have been a grump. Instead, what I remember is he, my sister and I making the best of it and in his exhaustion my dad holding out the Scrabble and Cribbage games and saying "Scribbage or Crabble?" All three of us paused a beat and then... we were on the floor. Rolling, tearing up, laughing hysterically. It has remained a joke to this day. When we're exhausted or when we want to play a game - Scribbage or Crabble. Joy, folks. It is found in the little moments.
And another memory I have is of my mom, my sister and Phil - the man who is now my step-dad but who at the time was my mom's boyfriend. We wanted to go fishing in the Sierras as we had started doing recently with Phil. Mom had this old Toyota Celica hatchback and we were fishing at some place I don't remember well. It was not our typical rocky shored lakes like Gull Lake or Silver Lake. I just remember steep concrete sides and LOTS of rain. It was POURING. But it became an adventure. Mom had some kind of tarp and she opened up the hatchback (like I've done for my own kids in the back of my Ford Escape) and let us take shelter and picnic there. And while we smile at that memory of the driving rain, still trying to fish and that tarp, it isn't even the best part. At one point, Lori and I (quite young, maybe 6 or 7) spotted some kind of bird struggling in the water. I think it was a bird. And we wanted Phil to save it. Now, here is a man who didn't want kids (or so he thought - he and mom had a son together when I was 10). He's not even married to my mom. We're not his kids. But there he goes. Big, strong, Phil... reduced to soaking-wet rescuer because two teary-eyed girls begged him. What I laugh about now, what we all laugh about, is Phil beginning to slide down those steep sides toward that water. Poor man nearly went in the drink himself to save some damn animal that two bleeding-heart tiny girls were worried about. Joy folks. It's there when you look.
I feel like I'm making headway in teaching my kids to look. We've developed a motto called "We'll Make The Best of It" that we particularly use to make us laugh during hard times like when we're all trapped in my place because we're sick or when the day doesn't go as planned. My life has changed financially, so it's forced me into creativity to plan little adventures like hikes and road trips and feeding ducks at the park... but it's during these little adventures that we tend to find our joy. We like to "narrate" the ducks' activities. Giving them voices and conversations. We race around the little docks at the park before we row canoes. We go out in POURING rain on 'worm adventures' or stay holed up inside and do science experiments. We pretend we own a restaurant and all work together to put dinner on the table. We take breaks on our long hikes where the kids start to melt down and "name" the spots to make us laugh. To date we have christened spots on the path to Sweet Creek Falls (which was a long rainy hike) with names like William's Melt Down Rock, Dizzy's Pee Pee Flower, William's Pee Pee Tree, Dizzy's Spider Discovery Hole, Mom's Stumble Spot, etc. so that on the next hike, when we get tired or hot or grumpy or hungry, that we'll remember to laugh and find the joy and just start naming our landmarks. The other night, as I could see them starting to fade, I did my best carnival worker voice and began yelling "GET your hot dogs HERE!" as I slung hot dogs across the bar in my apartment. It worked... silliness always works.
What are you doing, friends? Are you still casting pieces of yourself about to be eaten up so that one day, in your old age, you look up and have no idea where you are? Are you "living" dead inside, drowning in the day-to-day? Are you the one whose first words are a complaint or a sigh or a negative observation about your co-worker or child or home or job? Or are you LIVING? Taking each hill, uncertainty, bend, complication, surprise, etc. as an opportunity? Are you making the hard choices to make sure your heart feels alive, you spread some joy and silliness, and you MAKE yourself? Are you MAKING your first words words of joy or silliness or humor?
Folks, my Opa could make a story about PRISON CAMP funny, because he knew that's where LIVING happened. Living happens when you choose to do it and choose to climb and try and laugh and reach out and not hide in the "what ifs" or "oh wells" or "maybe somedays". He knew, in camp, there might not be a tomorrow. And after liberation, after years of struggle, whenever I listened to my Opa... he reeked of positivity. Funny stories about tricking the guards. Magic tricks even after he was exhausted from a day of work. Laughing at my amazement at his painting. Picking a perfect fruit from a tree and teaching me. Tirelessly teaching my sister and me to swim. He LIVED.
My Dad can make anything joyful. Putting on music and letting his daughters dance in "twirly" dresses before bedtime instead of worrying if it's pumping them up too much. Burning to a crisp at the pool because his little girls can swim all day. Reading fabulous stories like Rikki Tikki Tavi with multiple voices or the same poem (Daddy Fell Into the Pond) over and over and over because it's funny to his girls. My dad taught me joy.
My mom can be joyful even in tough times. She would make goofy faces right in my face to make me laugh after we'd argued. She would dance, flour-covered with us in the kitchen to The Ronnettes or The Supremes because, as usual, we'd waited for the last minute to bake too many Christmas cookies. She can use her sarcasm and humor and just a touch of toughness to deflect a would-be suitor on the slopes in Mammoth or in the Hallmark shop at the mall and let us all laugh about it later.
Live, dear readers. Choose. Your choices, like my recent ones, may earn you pity or anger or disappointment or encouragement or admiration. But it doesn't matter what anyone thinks because now is what you have. You may have to turn your entire world upside down or maybe just make the incremental changes to get your path more in the direction you want. You may merely have to continue on your same path, but just look at it through different glasses so you see (as a friend would put it) the flowers instead of the weeds. It's YOUR choice though. Make no mistake. It's YOURS. No one else is to blame and no one else gets the credit. You are not at the whim of your boss or parents or friends or spouse unless YOU choose to be. Otherwise, pick the boss or friends or partner who brings out the best in you and for whom you do the same or QUIT GRIPING, because you chose.
I could complain about my divorce or my change in finances. I could complain about a hard day or being exhausted or my choices making my kids learn some hard lessons rather young in life. But what good would that do? What would that teach them and what would that do to those around me? I'd rather be thankful I'm good friends with my ex husband. I'd rather be silly when I'm tired and make the kids laugh. I'd rather beat my exhaustion by throwing on a fancy dress and fairy wings and walking the river with my daughter. I'd rather try a hard hike again and name a few more landmarks. I'd rather laugh hysterically with my co-workers about how one of our oldest and most crotchety investors maybe just needs a boyfriend in her old age. I'd rather laugh. I'd rather live.
Don't be the Hansel and Gretel who lost their way. Don't lose you. Instead, be the Hansel and Gretel who, with a bit of ingenuity, cooked the witch and found their way. Your choice, folks, your choice.
Lately, I am back on the path to finding me. Building myself back up. Piece by piece. Granted, it has come at a steep cost. I've faced depression, anxiety and panic. I'm recently divorced. I've lost friends as my social landscape has changed and made new ones. But those weren't what allowed me to find me. What was it? Motherhood. Oddly enough, many woman find motherhood to be the place where they lose themselves. For me... it was the beginning. The beginning of this road I'm on. This time I won't lose pieces of myself and leave them for the birds of depression, negativity and doubt to eat at. I'll set out with eyes straight forward and build a life for my kids and me that I caught a glimpse of when I became a mother.
I remember holding my boy one of the very first nights at home. I was nursing him, dead tired, food packed in a little cooler in his room because he ate so often and woke so often, I hadn't the time to feed myself. I looked down at him and began sobbing. It was huge. This little human had come from me and, at this age, I was all he needed. I was his sustenance, his pillow and his comfort. I understood then, how motherhood changes a woman. Why it makes women do insane things to protect their kids. I told a friend once... in simplest terms motherhood has taken me from the woman who freezes and breaks out in a cold sweat when she thinks someone is breaking into the house to the woman who has grabbed a sword (yes a sword, shut up) off the wall and rushed to the door when she thought someone was breaking in because, fuck it, those bastards were coming through me and this weapon before they got to my kids. That's motherhood. For me.
I had a joyful childhood. Yes, my parents were (gasp) divorced. Yes, we didn't have much for a long time. But I had a lot of joy. In very simple things. I was telling a friend about it recently, who said he wasn't as practiced at joy as I was. And I began to think of what made me "practiced". I'll be honest, I fell out of practice for a while. A long while. Motherhood made me determined to bring it back. I want my kids to get dirty, be silly, laugh, be curious, be adventurous as much as I want them kind, courteous, big-hearted, sensitive and loving. I want them JOYFUL. I cannot MAKE them joyful, each human is responsible for his own happiness. You can exhaust yourself trying to make others joyful, especially when they refuse to be. But I can lead by example and I can give them every opportunity to find it in the little moments by finding it myself and pointing it out.
What made me practiced was not luxury vacations or fine things. It was attitude. I remember a driving vacation with my sister and dad. Dad would plan these trips down to the hour. With how far we'd get and where we'd stay. But one time, life had a different plan. The town we wanted to stay in was COMPLETELY booked by a Shriner's Convention (no joke), so we had to travel to the next little town. The "cabin" (I'll use quotes and you'll see why shortly) we stayed in was ummmm... rustic, to say the least. They had tiny corrugated tin showers and questionable bedding. But that is not what stood out. My dad, exhausted from driving, could have been a grump. Instead, what I remember is he, my sister and I making the best of it and in his exhaustion my dad holding out the Scrabble and Cribbage games and saying "Scribbage or Crabble?" All three of us paused a beat and then... we were on the floor. Rolling, tearing up, laughing hysterically. It has remained a joke to this day. When we're exhausted or when we want to play a game - Scribbage or Crabble. Joy, folks. It is found in the little moments.
And another memory I have is of my mom, my sister and Phil - the man who is now my step-dad but who at the time was my mom's boyfriend. We wanted to go fishing in the Sierras as we had started doing recently with Phil. Mom had this old Toyota Celica hatchback and we were fishing at some place I don't remember well. It was not our typical rocky shored lakes like Gull Lake or Silver Lake. I just remember steep concrete sides and LOTS of rain. It was POURING. But it became an adventure. Mom had some kind of tarp and she opened up the hatchback (like I've done for my own kids in the back of my Ford Escape) and let us take shelter and picnic there. And while we smile at that memory of the driving rain, still trying to fish and that tarp, it isn't even the best part. At one point, Lori and I (quite young, maybe 6 or 7) spotted some kind of bird struggling in the water. I think it was a bird. And we wanted Phil to save it. Now, here is a man who didn't want kids (or so he thought - he and mom had a son together when I was 10). He's not even married to my mom. We're not his kids. But there he goes. Big, strong, Phil... reduced to soaking-wet rescuer because two teary-eyed girls begged him. What I laugh about now, what we all laugh about, is Phil beginning to slide down those steep sides toward that water. Poor man nearly went in the drink himself to save some damn animal that two bleeding-heart tiny girls were worried about. Joy folks. It's there when you look.
I feel like I'm making headway in teaching my kids to look. We've developed a motto called "We'll Make The Best of It" that we particularly use to make us laugh during hard times like when we're all trapped in my place because we're sick or when the day doesn't go as planned. My life has changed financially, so it's forced me into creativity to plan little adventures like hikes and road trips and feeding ducks at the park... but it's during these little adventures that we tend to find our joy. We like to "narrate" the ducks' activities. Giving them voices and conversations. We race around the little docks at the park before we row canoes. We go out in POURING rain on 'worm adventures' or stay holed up inside and do science experiments. We pretend we own a restaurant and all work together to put dinner on the table. We take breaks on our long hikes where the kids start to melt down and "name" the spots to make us laugh. To date we have christened spots on the path to Sweet Creek Falls (which was a long rainy hike) with names like William's Melt Down Rock, Dizzy's Pee Pee Flower, William's Pee Pee Tree, Dizzy's Spider Discovery Hole, Mom's Stumble Spot, etc. so that on the next hike, when we get tired or hot or grumpy or hungry, that we'll remember to laugh and find the joy and just start naming our landmarks. The other night, as I could see them starting to fade, I did my best carnival worker voice and began yelling "GET your hot dogs HERE!" as I slung hot dogs across the bar in my apartment. It worked... silliness always works.
What are you doing, friends? Are you still casting pieces of yourself about to be eaten up so that one day, in your old age, you look up and have no idea where you are? Are you "living" dead inside, drowning in the day-to-day? Are you the one whose first words are a complaint or a sigh or a negative observation about your co-worker or child or home or job? Or are you LIVING? Taking each hill, uncertainty, bend, complication, surprise, etc. as an opportunity? Are you making the hard choices to make sure your heart feels alive, you spread some joy and silliness, and you MAKE yourself? Are you MAKING your first words words of joy or silliness or humor?
Folks, my Opa could make a story about PRISON CAMP funny, because he knew that's where LIVING happened. Living happens when you choose to do it and choose to climb and try and laugh and reach out and not hide in the "what ifs" or "oh wells" or "maybe somedays". He knew, in camp, there might not be a tomorrow. And after liberation, after years of struggle, whenever I listened to my Opa... he reeked of positivity. Funny stories about tricking the guards. Magic tricks even after he was exhausted from a day of work. Laughing at my amazement at his painting. Picking a perfect fruit from a tree and teaching me. Tirelessly teaching my sister and me to swim. He LIVED.
My Dad can make anything joyful. Putting on music and letting his daughters dance in "twirly" dresses before bedtime instead of worrying if it's pumping them up too much. Burning to a crisp at the pool because his little girls can swim all day. Reading fabulous stories like Rikki Tikki Tavi with multiple voices or the same poem (Daddy Fell Into the Pond) over and over and over because it's funny to his girls. My dad taught me joy.
My mom can be joyful even in tough times. She would make goofy faces right in my face to make me laugh after we'd argued. She would dance, flour-covered with us in the kitchen to The Ronnettes or The Supremes because, as usual, we'd waited for the last minute to bake too many Christmas cookies. She can use her sarcasm and humor and just a touch of toughness to deflect a would-be suitor on the slopes in Mammoth or in the Hallmark shop at the mall and let us all laugh about it later.
Live, dear readers. Choose. Your choices, like my recent ones, may earn you pity or anger or disappointment or encouragement or admiration. But it doesn't matter what anyone thinks because now is what you have. You may have to turn your entire world upside down or maybe just make the incremental changes to get your path more in the direction you want. You may merely have to continue on your same path, but just look at it through different glasses so you see (as a friend would put it) the flowers instead of the weeds. It's YOUR choice though. Make no mistake. It's YOURS. No one else is to blame and no one else gets the credit. You are not at the whim of your boss or parents or friends or spouse unless YOU choose to be. Otherwise, pick the boss or friends or partner who brings out the best in you and for whom you do the same or QUIT GRIPING, because you chose.
I could complain about my divorce or my change in finances. I could complain about a hard day or being exhausted or my choices making my kids learn some hard lessons rather young in life. But what good would that do? What would that teach them and what would that do to those around me? I'd rather be thankful I'm good friends with my ex husband. I'd rather be silly when I'm tired and make the kids laugh. I'd rather beat my exhaustion by throwing on a fancy dress and fairy wings and walking the river with my daughter. I'd rather try a hard hike again and name a few more landmarks. I'd rather laugh hysterically with my co-workers about how one of our oldest and most crotchety investors maybe just needs a boyfriend in her old age. I'd rather laugh. I'd rather live.
Don't be the Hansel and Gretel who lost their way. Don't lose you. Instead, be the Hansel and Gretel who, with a bit of ingenuity, cooked the witch and found their way. Your choice, folks, your choice.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Travel Alone... and find the company you love
I had an amazingly rare (during my son's baseball season at least) kid-free, baseball free weekend this weekend. So yesterday, I threw food in a cooler backpack I have, got in my car, rolled the windows all the way down, and hit the road.
I live in an amazing place. Eugene, Oregon. A bit over an hour in one direction and you're at the coast. A bit over an hour in the other and you're in the mountains. Stay right here and you have buttes to hike, rivers to float, ponds to fish in and a strange little town to just swim in and enjoy the oddness. I love it. Yesterday, I took the mountain route and went up to some waterfalls. I parked at a reservoir at the bottom of a trail and sat there for a bit by myself. Watched a family of ducks teach the babies to dive. Watched a family of humans teach their young children to fish. And then I began hiking. Alone.
It's amazing what happens when you take the time to be with yourself. There's a danger in spending too much time in your own head, however, it can be equally as damaging to avoid yourself too. So I got out of my head and into my body, yet back in my head at lovely little stops where I took a moment to REALLY look, REALLY breathe, REALLY think and write and meditate and just "be."
This new venture into single life can be fraught with dangerous self-talk. I'm finding friends who panic at the idea of being lonely. Of never finding love. My father worries for me... that I won't find that connection with someone. I have friends asking me when I'll date, if I'll date. So why don't I care? Why am I not panicking? Why was I so happy, so at peace, so utterly joyful yesterday just sitting and hiking by myself? My self talk can quickly get me into thinking something is WRONG with me that I'm just fine. I'm actually quite happy.
Friends who have been single longer tell me it's because it's new. Just wait until I've been alone for years. Wait until I go a long time without arms to hold me when I need a lift. I have friends who fill their every free moment with activity, activity, activity in a mad rush to fill themselves. And I keep looking at myself wondering, does it mean I'm depressed if I'm not getting OUT there? Joining gyms and taking classes and going on dates and, and, and. This is what I mean by too much time in your own head. We humans were blessed with brains that think, however, we often overshoot our mark and get into overthinking. Like if we mull something long enough and weigh it enough, we'll FINALLY pick the right choice. I'm honestly starting to think my heart does the better thinking and my head needs to shut the hell up. My heart said hike alone. My heart says I'm not lonely. My heart says I'm joyful and I actually REALLY like this woman I've met named Mariska Cooper.
When you were younger, did you dream of what you'd be? I did. And I dreamt of living alone in a small place on the Oregon Coast writing. You may think that sounds lonely. I didn't. I honestly imagined kids would somehow be involved. I imagined good friends and lovers... many, or just one. But I didn't imagine myself married. And it didn't seem lonely to me. Recently, a friend and I discussed the number of unhappy people we know and the number of divorces and he said so many of us get stuck in that choice between "annoyance and loneliness". He was saying there were no easy choices... it's hard to go it alone and hard to make the compromises that come with marriage. I kinda had to call bullshit on that. It's an awfully negative way to frame it, quite honestly, and I've discovered (as I'm finding me) that I am naturally positive, optimistic and downright joyful. I'm silly and playful and I love to laugh. I think our choices are how we frame them. And I'm framing mine in a positive light. Is the road I'm choosing a hard one? Sure... in some ways. But like any good hike, the path with the steeper climb often leads to a more beautiful summit. He calls me brave to make the choice I made... divorcing with kids. Maybe it is. I don't know. Brave or not... I needed to be the best woman and mother I could be. I was dragging down the ship, I had to stop being the anchor.
I don't think of what I've done as choosing to "go it alone". What's lonely about my time with my children? What's lonely about spending time with friends who CHOOSE to spend their time with me and carve out that time? What's lonely about visiting my parents, hanging with my sister, going on a fun date or two if someone intrigues me enough to say yes and not just because I "need to get out there"? I'll tell you what... there's NOTHING lonely about it. It's how you view it. Truly. And why is it bad to be home on a Friday night but not a Tuesday night? It wasn't bad that I cleaned Friday night so I could have an awesome hike yesterday. It wasn't bad that I had drinks with a friend on Thursday night, but no one to come home to last night. I've thoroughly enjoyed myself these past few days. These past couple weeks actually. I'm not distressed at the lack of a body in bed next to me. I'm not sad at the lack of arms to hold me... my kids give the best hugs anyway.
And maybe it is because it's new. Maybe I'm just a little different. I don't know. What I do know is... travel alone folks. Once in a while. Whether you're single or married or have kids or none. Whether you live in a big city or small beautiful place. Travel alone. Don't be afraid of you. Don't be afraid to really, really like who you are and SAY it. We are taught to be careful of too much alone time. We are taught it is conceited to like yourself too much. Always give to others and forget yourself. But as my therapist once said, "Note that they say on the airplane to put your oxygen mask on FIRST before helping your kids or those around you. You can't help someone else if you're dead, so take care of you too."
I turn 41 in August and I'm finding no shame in saying that I REALLY like me. I feel more beautiful than I have ever felt. Whether that beauty is inward or outward, I don't care. I have never felt more beautiful. I like that I'm a goofball. I like that I love Star Wars still, I dance alone in my kitchen, I'll always try a handstand if there's a big enough stretch of grass and I'll eat Fruit Loops for dessert. I love that, if I can find one, I'll walk around in some fluffy costume with wings and a tiara just because my daughter wants me to. And I like the woman I hiked with yesterday - me. She was damn good company.
I live in an amazing place. Eugene, Oregon. A bit over an hour in one direction and you're at the coast. A bit over an hour in the other and you're in the mountains. Stay right here and you have buttes to hike, rivers to float, ponds to fish in and a strange little town to just swim in and enjoy the oddness. I love it. Yesterday, I took the mountain route and went up to some waterfalls. I parked at a reservoir at the bottom of a trail and sat there for a bit by myself. Watched a family of ducks teach the babies to dive. Watched a family of humans teach their young children to fish. And then I began hiking. Alone.
It's amazing what happens when you take the time to be with yourself. There's a danger in spending too much time in your own head, however, it can be equally as damaging to avoid yourself too. So I got out of my head and into my body, yet back in my head at lovely little stops where I took a moment to REALLY look, REALLY breathe, REALLY think and write and meditate and just "be."
This new venture into single life can be fraught with dangerous self-talk. I'm finding friends who panic at the idea of being lonely. Of never finding love. My father worries for me... that I won't find that connection with someone. I have friends asking me when I'll date, if I'll date. So why don't I care? Why am I not panicking? Why was I so happy, so at peace, so utterly joyful yesterday just sitting and hiking by myself? My self talk can quickly get me into thinking something is WRONG with me that I'm just fine. I'm actually quite happy.
Friends who have been single longer tell me it's because it's new. Just wait until I've been alone for years. Wait until I go a long time without arms to hold me when I need a lift. I have friends who fill their every free moment with activity, activity, activity in a mad rush to fill themselves. And I keep looking at myself wondering, does it mean I'm depressed if I'm not getting OUT there? Joining gyms and taking classes and going on dates and, and, and. This is what I mean by too much time in your own head. We humans were blessed with brains that think, however, we often overshoot our mark and get into overthinking. Like if we mull something long enough and weigh it enough, we'll FINALLY pick the right choice. I'm honestly starting to think my heart does the better thinking and my head needs to shut the hell up. My heart said hike alone. My heart says I'm not lonely. My heart says I'm joyful and I actually REALLY like this woman I've met named Mariska Cooper.
When you were younger, did you dream of what you'd be? I did. And I dreamt of living alone in a small place on the Oregon Coast writing. You may think that sounds lonely. I didn't. I honestly imagined kids would somehow be involved. I imagined good friends and lovers... many, or just one. But I didn't imagine myself married. And it didn't seem lonely to me. Recently, a friend and I discussed the number of unhappy people we know and the number of divorces and he said so many of us get stuck in that choice between "annoyance and loneliness". He was saying there were no easy choices... it's hard to go it alone and hard to make the compromises that come with marriage. I kinda had to call bullshit on that. It's an awfully negative way to frame it, quite honestly, and I've discovered (as I'm finding me) that I am naturally positive, optimistic and downright joyful. I'm silly and playful and I love to laugh. I think our choices are how we frame them. And I'm framing mine in a positive light. Is the road I'm choosing a hard one? Sure... in some ways. But like any good hike, the path with the steeper climb often leads to a more beautiful summit. He calls me brave to make the choice I made... divorcing with kids. Maybe it is. I don't know. Brave or not... I needed to be the best woman and mother I could be. I was dragging down the ship, I had to stop being the anchor.
I don't think of what I've done as choosing to "go it alone". What's lonely about my time with my children? What's lonely about spending time with friends who CHOOSE to spend their time with me and carve out that time? What's lonely about visiting my parents, hanging with my sister, going on a fun date or two if someone intrigues me enough to say yes and not just because I "need to get out there"? I'll tell you what... there's NOTHING lonely about it. It's how you view it. Truly. And why is it bad to be home on a Friday night but not a Tuesday night? It wasn't bad that I cleaned Friday night so I could have an awesome hike yesterday. It wasn't bad that I had drinks with a friend on Thursday night, but no one to come home to last night. I've thoroughly enjoyed myself these past few days. These past couple weeks actually. I'm not distressed at the lack of a body in bed next to me. I'm not sad at the lack of arms to hold me... my kids give the best hugs anyway.
And maybe it is because it's new. Maybe I'm just a little different. I don't know. What I do know is... travel alone folks. Once in a while. Whether you're single or married or have kids or none. Whether you live in a big city or small beautiful place. Travel alone. Don't be afraid of you. Don't be afraid to really, really like who you are and SAY it. We are taught to be careful of too much alone time. We are taught it is conceited to like yourself too much. Always give to others and forget yourself. But as my therapist once said, "Note that they say on the airplane to put your oxygen mask on FIRST before helping your kids or those around you. You can't help someone else if you're dead, so take care of you too."
I turn 41 in August and I'm finding no shame in saying that I REALLY like me. I feel more beautiful than I have ever felt. Whether that beauty is inward or outward, I don't care. I have never felt more beautiful. I like that I'm a goofball. I like that I love Star Wars still, I dance alone in my kitchen, I'll always try a handstand if there's a big enough stretch of grass and I'll eat Fruit Loops for dessert. I love that, if I can find one, I'll walk around in some fluffy costume with wings and a tiara just because my daughter wants me to. And I like the woman I hiked with yesterday - me. She was damn good company.
Friday, May 16, 2014
Key Party
My relationship with keys is complicated at best. We don't always get along. I don't always treat them well. They're almost like a lover that I need more than I love. I use them, but forget them, mistreat them and then come screaming back when I need them. I think, sometimes I just need to live in a tree house that doesn't require keys and ride a bus. I'm not good with keys.
I was reminded of this this week as I pulled a whopper... even for me. I'm working late in my office because my hours have been sketchy with the kids getting sick, juggling the kid schedule in the divorce and with Mike traveling. I have a master key to get into the various rooms and my office at work. And it's on the same keychain that my car keys and house keys are on. So I'm proud of myself for rolling through a shitload of work, but I'm tired. Keys and I hit that bump in our relationship when I'm tired. Or distracted (which is often). I'm locking up my office when I see one file sitting on my desk and decide that my OCD will not let it sit there. I'm gonna return it to the file room dammit, like the good little girl who wants her A's and gold stars. I have already, however, locked the file room.
So what do I do? I open the room, TAKE THE KEYS IN WITH ME AND SET THEM DOWN and put the file away. Now, anyone who knows me well KNOWS that setting them down is the kiss of death. I have a poor memory and am easily distracted. I always have too many balls in the air and more than one person has wondered if I'm ADD or ADHD. So I put the file away and close the door. And as I hear the door click, I have that sickening feeling. Oh god. The keys are still in there.
I start to think I'll walk home, but remember I can't get into my apartment now. My spare apartment keys? Yep, IN my apartment. I figure I'll drive to Mike's... oh wait, he has my spare keys to my car. I call my boss who lives super close. No answer. My other boss. No answer. Our Admin Assistant... she's been drinking. oooooookay.
My brain finally engages and I call Mike and ask him to bring my spare car keys and remember that my apartment has an emergency line. The maintenance guy lives RIGHT by me and agrees to let me in. Mike brings me my keys. Whew!
As I get to my place I begin laughing. I should not have keys. The last whopper was the dumpster incident.
I'm sorry, you're thinking, did she say dumpster? Yep. You got it. One morning, at my previous job before I had kids, I get to work early because I'm insane and I LOVE being at the office before everyone else. This is my favorite time to work. But, like the distracted, impatient, I can do it all freak that I am... I'm carrying too much, thinking about too much and as I'm walking toward our side door, I decide to throw something into the recycle dumpster instead of the recycling can I have AT MY DESK inside. But I have a bag on my shoulder, a coat over my arm (why wear it?), the cardboard in one hand and my keys in the other. And as I let go of what was in my hand into the dumpster... I realize I've thrown with the wrong hand. I look and I still have the cardboard just as I hear the CLATTER of my keys going in. Fuck me.
I'm in a shorter skirt and heels. Of course. I realize, thankful only slightly that it's at least the recycling and not the trash, that I'm going to have to dumpster dive. In a skirt. And heels. I set all my shit down and take a quick look around to make sure there's no one around. I hike myself up to the edge of the bin using my arms like a gymnast and now have my hips resting on the side of the dumpster like a gymnast would have hers resting on the bottom of the uneven parallel bars. I swivel my body downward so now my HEAD is in the dumpster and my feet are sticking way up in the air and I'm just praying my skirt isn't totally flipped up. I brace myself with one arm in that position and find the keys with the other and flip back down to the ground.
I should not have keys.
Ask my mother. While one of my best "losing keys" moments resulted in a beautiful serenade by two gentleman of Billy Joel's "The Longest Time"... mom was NOT happy. Lori (my twin) and I hung out with these two guys Curtis and David one night at Denny's (where high schoolers hang out late because we don't drink and it's open all night). It's well past midnight when they walk us to our car and we realize the keys are INSIDE. Yep, I've locked them in there. Totally me. I'll own it.
Now, Lori and I go to school out of district. So this is a good 30 minute drive from our house, we have no curfew and mom is likely asleep. But now we have to call her. So we call mom who is WAY pissed off and while we wait for her to bring the keys, Curtis and David do an AMAZING rendition of "The Longest Time." I'm not kidding. They harmonize beautifully, they're snapping their fingers. It's gorgeous. This moment will forever live in my memory as one of my favorites.
Cue squealing tires. Mom (I'm not kidding, her tires are squealing. You DO NOT want to piss this woman off) ROARS into the parking lot, rolling down her window, DOES NOT STOP HER CAR and CHUCKS, the keys at me and peels away, tires still squealing. Now this is a funny moment, kids. I know I'm in deep shit, I know she's pissed... but it's past1:00 a.m. now and there is something hysterical about your own mother driving like a stock car racer and CHUCKING your keys at you. Lori and I are dying and Curtis and David look like they're not sure whether to duck and hide or laugh with us. They know my mom. They know not to piss her off. I still cannot hear that song without thinking of that night.
My relationship with keys is so bad, kids, that the AAA guys began to know me in high school because of the number of times I lost my keys at the mall. Always in the bathroom. I always hung them on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. If I can see them HANGING IN FRONT OF MY FACE, I won't forget them, right? Wrong. I told you, I'm easily distracted. I have an amazing imagination. By the time I would leave the bathroom my head was in Never Never Land and I didn't see my keys. It's like the file room, once I set something down, it's furniture. I forget.
My sister took to always taking the keys from me. My mom got me this little "credit card" thing that had a punch out of my car key so I would have it in my wallet. Which works until I set down my purse.
I should not have keys.
But folks, there's always a silver lining. Always. I have one great key story that has resulted in a lovely, lifelong friend.
One night, after a football game, Lori decides she will hang out with her buddy Cathy and I'll take the car home. So we put all our stuff in the car and I HAND THE KEYS TO HER. There is much chatting and everyone lingers for a while. I end up chatting with this guy who is now in college, but who was a senior when I was a freshman. Nice guy. Will. Will Shilling. Always kinda wanted to meet him, so I'm totally distracted by how smart and funny and fun he is to talk to. Because, he kinda had a reputation. He was an athlete and a rumored "player," but really, he's just fun to talk to. Oh and he's cute. Way cute. So combine cute, funny, fun and smart and this is a worthwhile conversation. Lori and Cathy finally decide to bug out and drive off. I turn to my car. Lori has the keys. This is super. I stand there. Dumbfounded. What was I thinking? Why did I hand the keys to Lori when I needed the car. Now, kids, there are no cell phones in 1990. I can't just whip out my phone and text mom. Shit!!
I turn to Will and he is utterly amused. He's looking at me like he doesn't know whether to feel sorry for me or just leave. But he takes me to a phone booth and we call my mom. Again, we don't go to school close, so now we have to wait for my mom. We sit in his car and chat. I can't tell you what we talked about. I just know I laughed. A lot. Mom finally comes and gives me my keys without chucking them this time (and with a raised eyebrow because she sees Will) and I get home. Will and I date briefly, but we really make better friends. We lost touch for many years. We're in touch again now and he's truly one of those rare birds. A friend I'm thankful for. A unique human who makes the world a more interesting place. We laughed when we reconnected about how we met. Me and my damn keys. We check on each other now and then.
I guess maybe I should be thankful for my stupid key issues. I had a great serenade once. I got to use my gymnastics skills. I met the really sweet maintenance guy at my apartment, who nicely gave me a fatherly lecture about keeping my spare keys on my person instead of in my apartment. And I met a really cool friend.
Okay, maybe I should have keys. Who knows what will happen next? I'll let you know when I misplace them again. Which will likely be soon...
I was reminded of this this week as I pulled a whopper... even for me. I'm working late in my office because my hours have been sketchy with the kids getting sick, juggling the kid schedule in the divorce and with Mike traveling. I have a master key to get into the various rooms and my office at work. And it's on the same keychain that my car keys and house keys are on. So I'm proud of myself for rolling through a shitload of work, but I'm tired. Keys and I hit that bump in our relationship when I'm tired. Or distracted (which is often). I'm locking up my office when I see one file sitting on my desk and decide that my OCD will not let it sit there. I'm gonna return it to the file room dammit, like the good little girl who wants her A's and gold stars. I have already, however, locked the file room.
So what do I do? I open the room, TAKE THE KEYS IN WITH ME AND SET THEM DOWN and put the file away. Now, anyone who knows me well KNOWS that setting them down is the kiss of death. I have a poor memory and am easily distracted. I always have too many balls in the air and more than one person has wondered if I'm ADD or ADHD. So I put the file away and close the door. And as I hear the door click, I have that sickening feeling. Oh god. The keys are still in there.
I start to think I'll walk home, but remember I can't get into my apartment now. My spare apartment keys? Yep, IN my apartment. I figure I'll drive to Mike's... oh wait, he has my spare keys to my car. I call my boss who lives super close. No answer. My other boss. No answer. Our Admin Assistant... she's been drinking. oooooookay.
My brain finally engages and I call Mike and ask him to bring my spare car keys and remember that my apartment has an emergency line. The maintenance guy lives RIGHT by me and agrees to let me in. Mike brings me my keys. Whew!
As I get to my place I begin laughing. I should not have keys. The last whopper was the dumpster incident.
I'm sorry, you're thinking, did she say dumpster? Yep. You got it. One morning, at my previous job before I had kids, I get to work early because I'm insane and I LOVE being at the office before everyone else. This is my favorite time to work. But, like the distracted, impatient, I can do it all freak that I am... I'm carrying too much, thinking about too much and as I'm walking toward our side door, I decide to throw something into the recycle dumpster instead of the recycling can I have AT MY DESK inside. But I have a bag on my shoulder, a coat over my arm (why wear it?), the cardboard in one hand and my keys in the other. And as I let go of what was in my hand into the dumpster... I realize I've thrown with the wrong hand. I look and I still have the cardboard just as I hear the CLATTER of my keys going in. Fuck me.
I'm in a shorter skirt and heels. Of course. I realize, thankful only slightly that it's at least the recycling and not the trash, that I'm going to have to dumpster dive. In a skirt. And heels. I set all my shit down and take a quick look around to make sure there's no one around. I hike myself up to the edge of the bin using my arms like a gymnast and now have my hips resting on the side of the dumpster like a gymnast would have hers resting on the bottom of the uneven parallel bars. I swivel my body downward so now my HEAD is in the dumpster and my feet are sticking way up in the air and I'm just praying my skirt isn't totally flipped up. I brace myself with one arm in that position and find the keys with the other and flip back down to the ground.
I should not have keys.
Ask my mother. While one of my best "losing keys" moments resulted in a beautiful serenade by two gentleman of Billy Joel's "The Longest Time"... mom was NOT happy. Lori (my twin) and I hung out with these two guys Curtis and David one night at Denny's (where high schoolers hang out late because we don't drink and it's open all night). It's well past midnight when they walk us to our car and we realize the keys are INSIDE. Yep, I've locked them in there. Totally me. I'll own it.
Now, Lori and I go to school out of district. So this is a good 30 minute drive from our house, we have no curfew and mom is likely asleep. But now we have to call her. So we call mom who is WAY pissed off and while we wait for her to bring the keys, Curtis and David do an AMAZING rendition of "The Longest Time." I'm not kidding. They harmonize beautifully, they're snapping their fingers. It's gorgeous. This moment will forever live in my memory as one of my favorites.
Cue squealing tires. Mom (I'm not kidding, her tires are squealing. You DO NOT want to piss this woman off) ROARS into the parking lot, rolling down her window, DOES NOT STOP HER CAR and CHUCKS, the keys at me and peels away, tires still squealing. Now this is a funny moment, kids. I know I'm in deep shit, I know she's pissed... but it's past1:00 a.m. now and there is something hysterical about your own mother driving like a stock car racer and CHUCKING your keys at you. Lori and I are dying and Curtis and David look like they're not sure whether to duck and hide or laugh with us. They know my mom. They know not to piss her off. I still cannot hear that song without thinking of that night.
My relationship with keys is so bad, kids, that the AAA guys began to know me in high school because of the number of times I lost my keys at the mall. Always in the bathroom. I always hung them on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. If I can see them HANGING IN FRONT OF MY FACE, I won't forget them, right? Wrong. I told you, I'm easily distracted. I have an amazing imagination. By the time I would leave the bathroom my head was in Never Never Land and I didn't see my keys. It's like the file room, once I set something down, it's furniture. I forget.
My sister took to always taking the keys from me. My mom got me this little "credit card" thing that had a punch out of my car key so I would have it in my wallet. Which works until I set down my purse.
I should not have keys.
But folks, there's always a silver lining. Always. I have one great key story that has resulted in a lovely, lifelong friend.
One night, after a football game, Lori decides she will hang out with her buddy Cathy and I'll take the car home. So we put all our stuff in the car and I HAND THE KEYS TO HER. There is much chatting and everyone lingers for a while. I end up chatting with this guy who is now in college, but who was a senior when I was a freshman. Nice guy. Will. Will Shilling. Always kinda wanted to meet him, so I'm totally distracted by how smart and funny and fun he is to talk to. Because, he kinda had a reputation. He was an athlete and a rumored "player," but really, he's just fun to talk to. Oh and he's cute. Way cute. So combine cute, funny, fun and smart and this is a worthwhile conversation. Lori and Cathy finally decide to bug out and drive off. I turn to my car. Lori has the keys. This is super. I stand there. Dumbfounded. What was I thinking? Why did I hand the keys to Lori when I needed the car. Now, kids, there are no cell phones in 1990. I can't just whip out my phone and text mom. Shit!!
I turn to Will and he is utterly amused. He's looking at me like he doesn't know whether to feel sorry for me or just leave. But he takes me to a phone booth and we call my mom. Again, we don't go to school close, so now we have to wait for my mom. We sit in his car and chat. I can't tell you what we talked about. I just know I laughed. A lot. Mom finally comes and gives me my keys without chucking them this time (and with a raised eyebrow because she sees Will) and I get home. Will and I date briefly, but we really make better friends. We lost touch for many years. We're in touch again now and he's truly one of those rare birds. A friend I'm thankful for. A unique human who makes the world a more interesting place. We laughed when we reconnected about how we met. Me and my damn keys. We check on each other now and then.
I guess maybe I should be thankful for my stupid key issues. I had a great serenade once. I got to use my gymnastics skills. I met the really sweet maintenance guy at my apartment, who nicely gave me a fatherly lecture about keeping my spare keys on my person instead of in my apartment. And I met a really cool friend.
Okay, maybe I should have keys. Who knows what will happen next? I'll let you know when I misplace them again. Which will likely be soon...
Monday, April 28, 2014
Hurt
This might be the hardest blog I'll ever write. The most painful. But some people meditate. Some jog. I write. I write the way some people cry (or the way I cry sometimes)... until I'm exhausted and spent and poured out. Because this is how I survive. This is me.
I am divorced. Those words jar me still. I am divorced.
Be gentle, dear reader... you will come to this with your own biases and viewpoints. You'll be colored by your religion or your parents' divorce or marriage or your own divorce or marriage. But understand that I am not writing this to solicit your opinion. But because this is how I survive. And because, what if, in my honesty, I touch just one person. Just one. One who feels alone. One who decides to stay in their marriage or leave. One who decides to forgive their own mom or dad. Or not.
This was the most painful decision I have ever made. I hurt a good man. I have two young children. I am now alone and scared and hoping to build a stronger, better, more open me... so I can be the mother I want to be. But I will not soft-sell it, readers. For those of you who have weighed or are weighing the same doubts, I will not lie. This is hell.
Why go through it then? You're shaking your heads. You're tsk-tsking my selfishness. You're cheering me on. You're utterly confused. You're proud of me. I am all of these with you readers. Given a different day, a different hour... I am all of these.
Today, as my son who is struggling mightily with anxiety cried and said he was thinking of giving up baseball, a wave far too large to surf hit me. Guilt consumed me. Sadness took over. I'm watching this little boy, always too old for his age, struggle with things even bigger. His anxiety has become so bad he stopped in practice today because I had to leave to take his sister to gymnastics. He refuses to get out of my car in the morning because he's scared to go to school. He wants me in the bathroom with him when he showers. And these are the moments I think, "I've destroyed him."
Never mind that two years ago we already went through this with him. I'm convinced it's all my fault. Never mind that it was the counselor two years ago that he saw who started the flurry of doubt that snowballed into the avalanche of my divorce. "He's very anxious mommy and so are you," she said pointedly, "what is going on IN YOUR HOME?". All the blood drained when she asked that and I felt dizzy. One year later, another counselor, this time my daughter's asked that SAME question. Verbatim. "What is going on IN YOUR HOME?".
The current counselor he's seeing, when I told her of these previous counselors said to us, "the home with an unnamed stress is often more damaging to a child than one where parents fight or yell... because now they are anxious and have no idea why".
Mike, my husband, and I were good friends. We are still, or are trying to be. And no, not just for the kids. Because we care. I love him. Very much. I had so wished, often in this process, to split myself in two. To give him a wife who could love him properly and stay. It was hard to admit to myself and him that we did not bring out the best in each other. We did not. We walked on eggshells. We retreated from one another and have from very early on in our 18 1/2 years together. We were very good at being separate. We had a stressed home. There was no fighting or ugliness between us, but it was not peaceful. We all yelled. All four of us. About getting ready, coming to the table, getting to school, even going to fun places. We yelled. We all had short fuses and fought one another. About spills or toys or time or... whatever. We fought one another. On everything. In a moment of horrifically painful honesty, Mike and I talked about how we both knew it and could feel it.. but we didn't face it. We didn't ask the hard questions. We didn't face the truth.
There will be those who console you and say it's not a failure or a death. Those, like me, who say they became thankful their parents divorced so that they weren't raised in a stressful home. But there will be the days like today, where it won't matter. I do feel like I failed. I am grieving and in my grief I feel like an even bigger failure because, how to you help broken kids when you are broken as well?
And those of you who disagree with my decision are now angry. You are saying, "You should not have left then!! You horrible mother for breaking your children." But what do I do about the breakages that existed before this? What excuse do I offer for children who both had to see therapists by the age of 5? I have to believe that, in the long run, the short term pain will be worth it. In our parenting class, in a video, a family court judge who had been a counselor and mediator said, "Divorce does not destroy children. How you handle it does. Children all have to learn how to handle change. Huge moves. Deaths. Divorce. It is all change. How will you handle it so they learn from it?"
This is where I am. How do I make sure it becomes their moment to learn to handle change? How do I show them that sometimes, the hard way is the way that leads to the best outcome? I was not the best me nor the best mother I could be. Anxiety about my marriage was weighing me down and grinding me into a shell of my former self. And, although he may not agree, it was not helping Mike become who he could be. He had lost himself too. And, in turn, our anxiety flowed down to our children. And they were stressed. Little anxiety balls of behavioral issues that came and went. I want our kids to find better. I want them to reach high, be brutally, openly, nakedly honest. I want them to have the courage to take the roads that lead to the best versions of themselves they can possibly be. I want to set that example.
Some of you will agree that this is the example I'm setting. Some of you will think what I'm telling them is "give up! walk away" and that I am not teaching them the importance of self-sacrifice.
Think what you will. I love my children. I have poured my heart and time into their feeding and growth and play and therapies and imaginations from day one. I have tried to let them be kids. Play without worrying about messes. Explore and ask questions. Dance (literally) in the rain. Hunt for worms. Do science experiments. Read, read, read. Make friends with others regardless of their "popularity" status. Enjoy how different everyone is rather than fearing it.
But now I have a new lesson to teach. And it hurts like hell. For there is no way, for tiny beings with such a short time on this earth, who haven't experienced how sometimes something that seems so painful in the beginning, can be right, to understand this now. And so I must be patient. I must love them. And I must hold it together while the guilt consumes, the sadness washes over me, the judgements pour in and the self-doubt paralyzes. I will lose friends... either because they are angry with me or just so uncomfortable they don't know what to do or say. And in all this, I must keep it together until my kids are asleep and then, as I did tonight, let myself grieve. In huge sobs. Alone in my kitchen. I have to let myself feel. And then I have to clean myself up. Clean up my house. And do it all again tomorrow.
Know... that if you are divorcing, separated, staying in a painful marriage or facing other huge changes... change hurts. I have friends facing certain death and lifelong illnesses. I have friends struggling with addiction and recovery. I have friends so buried in their lives and unhappiness they see no way out. So I know my own pain can seem small. Just another part of life. But your pain is always big to you. And tonight, it is huge for me. Tomorrow may feel different. It may not. I may come to regret my decision. But I think not.
I still wish to split myself in two for Mike's sake. We still interact and I find myself worried if he's cold or if he's eaten well. I made him a quick late lunch today I was so worried he wouldn't have time to eat. I still wish I could split myself in two for my kids' sake. Give them one home with two parents. But I can't give them the home we had. Not with that tension. I have to believe this short term pain will result in two calmer, better, more open and honest parents with two homes that are more secure than the one once was.
That is the goal at least. That is my hope.
I am divorced. Those words jar me still. I am divorced.
Be gentle, dear reader... you will come to this with your own biases and viewpoints. You'll be colored by your religion or your parents' divorce or marriage or your own divorce or marriage. But understand that I am not writing this to solicit your opinion. But because this is how I survive. And because, what if, in my honesty, I touch just one person. Just one. One who feels alone. One who decides to stay in their marriage or leave. One who decides to forgive their own mom or dad. Or not.
This was the most painful decision I have ever made. I hurt a good man. I have two young children. I am now alone and scared and hoping to build a stronger, better, more open me... so I can be the mother I want to be. But I will not soft-sell it, readers. For those of you who have weighed or are weighing the same doubts, I will not lie. This is hell.
Why go through it then? You're shaking your heads. You're tsk-tsking my selfishness. You're cheering me on. You're utterly confused. You're proud of me. I am all of these with you readers. Given a different day, a different hour... I am all of these.
Today, as my son who is struggling mightily with anxiety cried and said he was thinking of giving up baseball, a wave far too large to surf hit me. Guilt consumed me. Sadness took over. I'm watching this little boy, always too old for his age, struggle with things even bigger. His anxiety has become so bad he stopped in practice today because I had to leave to take his sister to gymnastics. He refuses to get out of my car in the morning because he's scared to go to school. He wants me in the bathroom with him when he showers. And these are the moments I think, "I've destroyed him."
Never mind that two years ago we already went through this with him. I'm convinced it's all my fault. Never mind that it was the counselor two years ago that he saw who started the flurry of doubt that snowballed into the avalanche of my divorce. "He's very anxious mommy and so are you," she said pointedly, "what is going on IN YOUR HOME?". All the blood drained when she asked that and I felt dizzy. One year later, another counselor, this time my daughter's asked that SAME question. Verbatim. "What is going on IN YOUR HOME?".
The current counselor he's seeing, when I told her of these previous counselors said to us, "the home with an unnamed stress is often more damaging to a child than one where parents fight or yell... because now they are anxious and have no idea why".
Mike, my husband, and I were good friends. We are still, or are trying to be. And no, not just for the kids. Because we care. I love him. Very much. I had so wished, often in this process, to split myself in two. To give him a wife who could love him properly and stay. It was hard to admit to myself and him that we did not bring out the best in each other. We did not. We walked on eggshells. We retreated from one another and have from very early on in our 18 1/2 years together. We were very good at being separate. We had a stressed home. There was no fighting or ugliness between us, but it was not peaceful. We all yelled. All four of us. About getting ready, coming to the table, getting to school, even going to fun places. We yelled. We all had short fuses and fought one another. About spills or toys or time or... whatever. We fought one another. On everything. In a moment of horrifically painful honesty, Mike and I talked about how we both knew it and could feel it.. but we didn't face it. We didn't ask the hard questions. We didn't face the truth.
There will be those who console you and say it's not a failure or a death. Those, like me, who say they became thankful their parents divorced so that they weren't raised in a stressful home. But there will be the days like today, where it won't matter. I do feel like I failed. I am grieving and in my grief I feel like an even bigger failure because, how to you help broken kids when you are broken as well?
And those of you who disagree with my decision are now angry. You are saying, "You should not have left then!! You horrible mother for breaking your children." But what do I do about the breakages that existed before this? What excuse do I offer for children who both had to see therapists by the age of 5? I have to believe that, in the long run, the short term pain will be worth it. In our parenting class, in a video, a family court judge who had been a counselor and mediator said, "Divorce does not destroy children. How you handle it does. Children all have to learn how to handle change. Huge moves. Deaths. Divorce. It is all change. How will you handle it so they learn from it?"
This is where I am. How do I make sure it becomes their moment to learn to handle change? How do I show them that sometimes, the hard way is the way that leads to the best outcome? I was not the best me nor the best mother I could be. Anxiety about my marriage was weighing me down and grinding me into a shell of my former self. And, although he may not agree, it was not helping Mike become who he could be. He had lost himself too. And, in turn, our anxiety flowed down to our children. And they were stressed. Little anxiety balls of behavioral issues that came and went. I want our kids to find better. I want them to reach high, be brutally, openly, nakedly honest. I want them to have the courage to take the roads that lead to the best versions of themselves they can possibly be. I want to set that example.
Some of you will agree that this is the example I'm setting. Some of you will think what I'm telling them is "give up! walk away" and that I am not teaching them the importance of self-sacrifice.
Think what you will. I love my children. I have poured my heart and time into their feeding and growth and play and therapies and imaginations from day one. I have tried to let them be kids. Play without worrying about messes. Explore and ask questions. Dance (literally) in the rain. Hunt for worms. Do science experiments. Read, read, read. Make friends with others regardless of their "popularity" status. Enjoy how different everyone is rather than fearing it.
But now I have a new lesson to teach. And it hurts like hell. For there is no way, for tiny beings with such a short time on this earth, who haven't experienced how sometimes something that seems so painful in the beginning, can be right, to understand this now. And so I must be patient. I must love them. And I must hold it together while the guilt consumes, the sadness washes over me, the judgements pour in and the self-doubt paralyzes. I will lose friends... either because they are angry with me or just so uncomfortable they don't know what to do or say. And in all this, I must keep it together until my kids are asleep and then, as I did tonight, let myself grieve. In huge sobs. Alone in my kitchen. I have to let myself feel. And then I have to clean myself up. Clean up my house. And do it all again tomorrow.
Know... that if you are divorcing, separated, staying in a painful marriage or facing other huge changes... change hurts. I have friends facing certain death and lifelong illnesses. I have friends struggling with addiction and recovery. I have friends so buried in their lives and unhappiness they see no way out. So I know my own pain can seem small. Just another part of life. But your pain is always big to you. And tonight, it is huge for me. Tomorrow may feel different. It may not. I may come to regret my decision. But I think not.
I still wish to split myself in two for Mike's sake. We still interact and I find myself worried if he's cold or if he's eaten well. I made him a quick late lunch today I was so worried he wouldn't have time to eat. I still wish I could split myself in two for my kids' sake. Give them one home with two parents. But I can't give them the home we had. Not with that tension. I have to believe this short term pain will result in two calmer, better, more open and honest parents with two homes that are more secure than the one once was.
That is the goal at least. That is my hope.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Letting Go
You often hear that the way to peace is "letting go"… but it used to sound so negative to me sometimes. Like giving up, giving in or saying goodbye. But as I was staring at this gorgeous tree outside my window this evening, watching it give up its pink blossoms each time even a gentle breeze blew by, I had a thought that I was looking at it all wrong.
Letting go can be a positive. It can be a "hello". Like when you let go of anger and you suddenly have room for more joy. When you let go of the past so that you can build a beautiful future.
I'm trying to teach my son the art of "re-framing" when he has anxiety… which he's struggling with right now and which I've struggled with often. My therapist asked me to look at the things in life that made me anxious and see if I could slowly "reframe" them. Could I stop thinking of a coffee shop as a place full of strangers who would stare at me and turn it into a peaceful nook to write my poetry full of people who are too engrossed in their own woes to stare or, better yet, who might be potential new friends?
So as I'm watching this tree outside shed its blossoms I realized that I am already succeeding in looking at the world more positively. I could have been sad that this tree is only pretty for such a short time. Instead… all I could think of was new life, new chances and how pretty the blossoms danced on the wind. Like little pink ballerinas reminding me that life is too short to be anything but joyful every moment I can be.
Perhaps it's just the hot whiskey and cold medicine talking, but I don't think so. I'm finding my joy. I'm enjoying writing again. I'm enjoying EVERYTHING again.
Letting Go
Letting go
blossoms float
little pink ballerinas
outside my window
A few slide into
a river of pink
each time the wind
reaches her hands
in
Letting go
they flow together
prettier than tears
slower than years
graceful
each one lifts me
I wonder
should I be sad
as my tree
sheds her skin
no
rejoice in growth
sometimes goodbye
is the only path
to
Hello
Letting go can be a positive. It can be a "hello". Like when you let go of anger and you suddenly have room for more joy. When you let go of the past so that you can build a beautiful future.
I'm trying to teach my son the art of "re-framing" when he has anxiety… which he's struggling with right now and which I've struggled with often. My therapist asked me to look at the things in life that made me anxious and see if I could slowly "reframe" them. Could I stop thinking of a coffee shop as a place full of strangers who would stare at me and turn it into a peaceful nook to write my poetry full of people who are too engrossed in their own woes to stare or, better yet, who might be potential new friends?
So as I'm watching this tree outside shed its blossoms I realized that I am already succeeding in looking at the world more positively. I could have been sad that this tree is only pretty for such a short time. Instead… all I could think of was new life, new chances and how pretty the blossoms danced on the wind. Like little pink ballerinas reminding me that life is too short to be anything but joyful every moment I can be.
Perhaps it's just the hot whiskey and cold medicine talking, but I don't think so. I'm finding my joy. I'm enjoying writing again. I'm enjoying EVERYTHING again.
Letting Go
Letting go
blossoms float
little pink ballerinas
outside my window
A few slide into
a river of pink
each time the wind
reaches her hands
in
Letting go
they flow together
prettier than tears
slower than years
graceful
each one lifts me
I wonder
should I be sad
as my tree
sheds her skin
no
rejoice in growth
sometimes goodbye
is the only path
to
Hello
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Insomnia Sucks
3:00 a.m.
This is the time I've been waking up lately. 3:00 a.m. Each night I tell myself I will sleep better. I go to be earlier, I go to bed later, I try tea and warm baths, warm milk... nothing helps.
Insomnia sucks. It's now 6:00 a.m. as I write this and I haven't slept AT ALL since 3:00 a.m. I have been sick nearly 5 days now with a stomach virus that landed me in the ER and just yesterday let me try solid foods. I should be exhausted. I should sleep. But I don't.
Insomnia sucks. It's like a little bedside demon. It makes your mind reel and makes you think, just a little, that you might ACTUALLY be crazy. After all, you think, if I were at peace, wouldn't I sleep? It makes you think you've perhaps taken a misstep on life's road. It makes you think of grocery lists. It makes you rehearse conversations you'll never have or write letters you will never send. It makes you plan bucket lists and play games with yourself to try to sleep. It's a dark little friend who keeps you company by reminding you that you are alone.
It also makes you a late night math genius. Because you begin that "sleep math"... and it's down to the second. I can get 1 hour, 23 minutes and 45 seconds of sleep if I fall asleep NOW. Okay Now. Okay... 1 hour, 15 minutes, 18 seconds.
You think of something boring. You think of something pleasant. You fantasize. You shut your eyes. You try deep breathing. My god... you even try counting. Not sheep. Just plain boring counting. Figuring THAT will put you to sleep. But it doesn't.
I had briefly thought I would just get up and work out. Until I remembered that I have not had more than 2 bananas, 1/3 of a piece of toast and about 10 bites of noodles and 1/8 of a cup of rice in 5 days. I'd faint. Did it once in college. Got so excited to be feeling better that I worked out after the flu. Fainted. In the U of O workout facility. Woke to strangers around me. Embarrassing. The doctor at the student health center asked me if I had an eating disorder. "no, I'm just dumb," was my reply.
So I'm writing. It's what I do. It's how I process. It's how I breathe. One pen stroke at a time, one key stroke at a time. This is my breathing. This is my peace.
Tonight I will pray for peace in the form of a good night of sleep. Tonight, after I close my eyes, I pray when they open that clock does not say 3:00 a.m.
Good morning world... I hope you slept well. I hope to again one day.
This is the time I've been waking up lately. 3:00 a.m. Each night I tell myself I will sleep better. I go to be earlier, I go to bed later, I try tea and warm baths, warm milk... nothing helps.
Insomnia sucks. It's now 6:00 a.m. as I write this and I haven't slept AT ALL since 3:00 a.m. I have been sick nearly 5 days now with a stomach virus that landed me in the ER and just yesterday let me try solid foods. I should be exhausted. I should sleep. But I don't.
Insomnia sucks. It's like a little bedside demon. It makes your mind reel and makes you think, just a little, that you might ACTUALLY be crazy. After all, you think, if I were at peace, wouldn't I sleep? It makes you think you've perhaps taken a misstep on life's road. It makes you think of grocery lists. It makes you rehearse conversations you'll never have or write letters you will never send. It makes you plan bucket lists and play games with yourself to try to sleep. It's a dark little friend who keeps you company by reminding you that you are alone.
It also makes you a late night math genius. Because you begin that "sleep math"... and it's down to the second. I can get 1 hour, 23 minutes and 45 seconds of sleep if I fall asleep NOW. Okay Now. Okay... 1 hour, 15 minutes, 18 seconds.
You think of something boring. You think of something pleasant. You fantasize. You shut your eyes. You try deep breathing. My god... you even try counting. Not sheep. Just plain boring counting. Figuring THAT will put you to sleep. But it doesn't.
I had briefly thought I would just get up and work out. Until I remembered that I have not had more than 2 bananas, 1/3 of a piece of toast and about 10 bites of noodles and 1/8 of a cup of rice in 5 days. I'd faint. Did it once in college. Got so excited to be feeling better that I worked out after the flu. Fainted. In the U of O workout facility. Woke to strangers around me. Embarrassing. The doctor at the student health center asked me if I had an eating disorder. "no, I'm just dumb," was my reply.
So I'm writing. It's what I do. It's how I process. It's how I breathe. One pen stroke at a time, one key stroke at a time. This is my breathing. This is my peace.
Tonight I will pray for peace in the form of a good night of sleep. Tonight, after I close my eyes, I pray when they open that clock does not say 3:00 a.m.
Good morning world... I hope you slept well. I hope to again one day.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Naked
So over the past few days I've been contacted by good friends, kinda friends and people I barely know about my words. One friend called me after midnight, completely touched by a 5 sentence message I had left him to encourage him in a very scary time of his life. He said he thought that perhaps I was a fairy and not quite of this world.
Two other friends and one woman whom I've met and would like to know better, contacted me about writings I've posted saying that I've encouraged them or touched them or said that I've somehow managed to put in words exactly what they needed to hear.
I've also been recently doubted as perhaps finally snapping, gone crazy. I've had others recently express bewilderment at my lack of propriety... that I just talk and love and live very big and open and nakedly. They think I'm weird or too open to getting hurt.
I sat down tonight to write, so pleased that anything I write could have touched anyone - either to inspire, make them think, make them disagree with me, take a step they hadn't thought of taking yet, etc. but then it turned into wondering in my journal.
What are we all so afraid of? Why the walls? Why is my way of loving my friends and reaching out to others so unusual? Why can't we tell our friends, male or female, "I love you" - openly, nakedly, honestly... without doing this damn propriety dance? Why can't we offer a hug? Why should it be considered unusual to call a friend late at night, remembering they are about to embark on a scary step and say, "I'm so glad you didn't answer, because it means you're sleeping. I'm thinking of you. I know you're scared, but you will be okay. Sleep peacefully. You can do this. I love you." (this is the simple message that touched my friend so and made him think he didn't deserve my friendship) Why can't you see a hurting co-worker and ask them if they need company for lunch?
I've been blessed recently to connect with some amazing souls. And I say souls because that's where I see the connection. I'm drawn to someone because of some light or music or originality or naked honesty to them that just makes me go "hmmmm... so curious about this one." My friend Will told me I was a collector of lost souls. I agree, but disagree. I just think if we stopped dancing around each other and playing games and engaging in small talk, we'd see that we're all a little lost. Yet, we're not because life is supposed to be a journey and how can we be lost if there are so many roads we can take? We all need a little light. We're all alone, together.
And shit, what is wrong with a little honesty? What is wrong with saying, "Yep, I hurt today, I could totally use a hug." What is wrong with being a bit messy or silly?
I've always felt a little different. A little out there. I've been told a few times in my life that I'm a fairy, not of this world, weird, magical, crazy, need to grow up, need to protect myself better, etc. I'm not going to concern myself with if those were insults or compliments. I'm 40 now. I'm making an attempt to find me. It's not too late. What the hell do I have to be afraid of anymore? Loneliness? Bring it on. No one walks in my shoes anyway.
Naked
They stare
I am naked
Oh what to do with me
My mouth pours forth
My pen
offends
and delights in turn
I am impropriety
I speak my heart
they hide in whispers
Tuck beneath
A Shadow
they call reality
But I say
what they won't
oh what to do
with me
They want to clothe
my blunt demeanor
Hush
my liquid mouth
Maybe
I am not of this place
never was
Wander on
I am the mermaid
Or water sprite
they fear
drowning
Little do they know
Here you cannot drown
My sea
is a tender hand
a warm blanket
If only
they did not fear
naked words
open truth
Say it
And float with me
Two other friends and one woman whom I've met and would like to know better, contacted me about writings I've posted saying that I've encouraged them or touched them or said that I've somehow managed to put in words exactly what they needed to hear.
I've also been recently doubted as perhaps finally snapping, gone crazy. I've had others recently express bewilderment at my lack of propriety... that I just talk and love and live very big and open and nakedly. They think I'm weird or too open to getting hurt.
I sat down tonight to write, so pleased that anything I write could have touched anyone - either to inspire, make them think, make them disagree with me, take a step they hadn't thought of taking yet, etc. but then it turned into wondering in my journal.
What are we all so afraid of? Why the walls? Why is my way of loving my friends and reaching out to others so unusual? Why can't we tell our friends, male or female, "I love you" - openly, nakedly, honestly... without doing this damn propriety dance? Why can't we offer a hug? Why should it be considered unusual to call a friend late at night, remembering they are about to embark on a scary step and say, "I'm so glad you didn't answer, because it means you're sleeping. I'm thinking of you. I know you're scared, but you will be okay. Sleep peacefully. You can do this. I love you." (this is the simple message that touched my friend so and made him think he didn't deserve my friendship) Why can't you see a hurting co-worker and ask them if they need company for lunch?
I've been blessed recently to connect with some amazing souls. And I say souls because that's where I see the connection. I'm drawn to someone because of some light or music or originality or naked honesty to them that just makes me go "hmmmm... so curious about this one." My friend Will told me I was a collector of lost souls. I agree, but disagree. I just think if we stopped dancing around each other and playing games and engaging in small talk, we'd see that we're all a little lost. Yet, we're not because life is supposed to be a journey and how can we be lost if there are so many roads we can take? We all need a little light. We're all alone, together.
And shit, what is wrong with a little honesty? What is wrong with saying, "Yep, I hurt today, I could totally use a hug." What is wrong with being a bit messy or silly?
I've always felt a little different. A little out there. I've been told a few times in my life that I'm a fairy, not of this world, weird, magical, crazy, need to grow up, need to protect myself better, etc. I'm not going to concern myself with if those were insults or compliments. I'm 40 now. I'm making an attempt to find me. It's not too late. What the hell do I have to be afraid of anymore? Loneliness? Bring it on. No one walks in my shoes anyway.
Naked
They stare
I am naked
Oh what to do with me
My mouth pours forth
My pen
offends
and delights in turn
I am impropriety
I speak my heart
they hide in whispers
Tuck beneath
A Shadow
they call reality
But I say
what they won't
oh what to do
with me
They want to clothe
my blunt demeanor
Hush
my liquid mouth
Maybe
I am not of this place
never was
Wander on
I am the mermaid
Or water sprite
they fear
drowning
Little do they know
Here you cannot drown
My sea
is a tender hand
a warm blanket
If only
they did not fear
naked words
open truth
Say it
And float with me
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Struggling With Patience
I'm writing a new chapter in my life these days... but I realize I forgot to pack the most important thing. Patience. I lack patience with myself. I've been told by some that I am infinitely patient with my kids because of the games/ideas/methods, etc. I continually employ to get the behavior I want and manage the day-to-day.
But for me? Ugh, I lack patience. I want to be THERE. Done. This journey I'm on to finally be who I think I can be... I'm forgetting the journey is the important part. The destination is there no matter what. But noooooo, I want to get from A to Z without the shit in the middle. Only the shit in the middle is what builds the soul. Builds character. It's the piece I need to find the Mariska that's been dead so long, I sometimes think there aren't enough
resuscitative measures out there to get her breathing.
I had planned on sitting down and reading some Tennyson and being asleep by 10:30 tonight. Instead I danced. And then I sat down, wanting to journal about patience and instead, this poured out of me. I know there are some who think I've gone crazy... maybe they're right. I'll find out as I walk this path.
Soul Rising
Soul rising
Impatient am I
with her
I pull and yank
Cry and cajole
But time,
her lover,
reminds me
Souls rising need patience
not pushing
Need love
not selfish desire
Soul rising
I want her done
Strong and luminous
Hands on hips
Feet on mountaintops
Sun shining
in her hair
Time, again time,
reminds me...
"wait," he whispers,
She is worth it
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
What of Icarus anyway?
Tonight I was reading a couple of my
favorite writers and doing some journaling and got to thinking of a
conversation with I had with a friend of mine, Will. He's fun to talk
to, mostly because his mind is a treasure-trove of random trivia,
amazing references that reflect a well-read human and because his quips
show an amazing knack for thinking on his feet.
My mind works slower. I like to mull things over, toss them around. Roll them around in my mouth like savoring a chocolate truffle rather than just smashing my teeth right through it.
Anyway, sometimes... I'm kinda happy with what my mulling mind comes up with after I'm done rolling the thought around. Will and I were having a text session not too long ago. Usually they are brief, random, silly and turn into a competition to make the other laugh or pull out some arcane reference. This time, I was attempting to encourage him in life's adventure. I told him to "fly". Not content to take my encouragement, he instead quipped of Icarus, flying too close to the sun.
For some reason, tonight's "rolling around in my mouth" thought was that of Icarus. I suddenly wondered, what would happen if I turned that story a bit on it's head. What if Icarus was not a lesson in hubris... but had an unknown tragic back story? What if Icarus was merely a dreamer, wanting to fly? What if he got sucked in to believing more than he should, by a goddess who lied? Tempted him to come close, just to burn him and then pretend the whole while, that she had his best interests at heart. Yes, in my new journey at 40, this is the crap that comes to me at 10-something p.m.
But I enjoyed what poured out of me.
My mind works slower. I like to mull things over, toss them around. Roll them around in my mouth like savoring a chocolate truffle rather than just smashing my teeth right through it.
Anyway, sometimes... I'm kinda happy with what my mulling mind comes up with after I'm done rolling the thought around. Will and I were having a text session not too long ago. Usually they are brief, random, silly and turn into a competition to make the other laugh or pull out some arcane reference. This time, I was attempting to encourage him in life's adventure. I told him to "fly". Not content to take my encouragement, he instead quipped of Icarus, flying too close to the sun.
For some reason, tonight's "rolling around in my mouth" thought was that of Icarus. I suddenly wondered, what would happen if I turned that story a bit on it's head. What if Icarus was not a lesson in hubris... but had an unknown tragic back story? What if Icarus was merely a dreamer, wanting to fly? What if he got sucked in to believing more than he should, by a goddess who lied? Tempted him to come close, just to burn him and then pretend the whole while, that she had his best interests at heart. Yes, in my new journey at 40, this is the crap that comes to me at 10-something p.m.
But I enjoyed what poured out of me.
Icarus Turned Upside Down
Better warm you
From afar
Careful Icarus
I burn
We are not meant to touch
My love
Is celestial
Save yours
For when your feet
Touch earth
Better light you
From afar
My sweet Icarus
You come too close
I do not wish to harm you
Let the shafts of my fingers
Drift into golden haze
To rest about your shoulders
Graze your head
From afar
My light is benevolent
When distance dims it
They blamed you
Called you arrogant
Stubborn one
With deafened ear
They do not know
I was a siren
I called to you with sweet whispers
You can come close
I will hold you
Sweet Icarus
I lied
You can no more fly
Than I can kiss the moon
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