I have mixed feelings about flying home...
Of course I am more than ready to be in my own bed, in my own house, with my own dogs. But I hate the emptiness that sets in after spending a week filling up with the familiarity of my sister and the joyful - if manic - energy of my nieces.
There is something about visiting family that pulls me in opposite directions - so far that it meets back again - some sort of circle of dysfunction.
I am amazed at how well my sister gets me - and how well I get her. It makes me almost cry because it is one of the deepest, least complicated, most fulfilling relationships I have ever had. I am grateful that I did not completely destroy it when I was out there destroying everything else.
On the other side of that is being with my mother and her mother (and comparing notes with my sister) often strengthens my frustration and resentment at how insane my family is.
Just when I really think I'm in some sort of acceptance of this insanity - even ready to embrace it, to own it, claim it as my own - I come face-to-face with it and am alarmed. Shocked. HOW DID I SURVIVE CHILDHOOD?
And yet, I did. I more than survived. I understand that my sisters and I are who we are - passionate, interesting, creative, strong, independent women - because of (in spite of?) the way we were raised.
I know that part of my discomfort lies in continuing to compare my version of childhood/youth/family with what is accepted as "normal." Which makes no sense because as much as I decry the insanity I grew up in, "normal" does not seem like an attractive alternative. It would have been soul-killing, at best.
So normal is not ti. Only that I wish there's been a little more of that boundary/limit thing, a little more of that modeling of adult behavior thing. Too many times, I still don't feel "old enough" to do things because I never saw an adult be an adult!
But again, from that came as many gifts as drawbacks, and it now about which I chose to lean on. I really want to focus on the gifts, but every once in a while, the part that's missing gets so big, it drowns everything else out, and I have to tread water for a little bit until I can swim back to the shore of acceptance.
I always come home from visiting family somewhat changed. I think it is in the knowing that there are people out there who share intimately all the worst and best parts of me, who know me, get me, don't get me but want to, and who definitely speak the same language.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Saturday, March 7, 2009
audition
This is hard. Sitting, Waiting. Watching. Judging. There are so many kids in there for this art audition. Kids who probably spent months - years - took a class to put together their portfolio.
And A - two days.
And here's the thing: I don't know what's supposed to happen or what the "best" outcome would be or how he's going to feel or how he compares to other kids. Even if I did, none of it is anything that I can make happen, make not happen, change, rearrange.
I'm projecting, really. There are so few things anymore that I regret about my own past. But that I did not pursue my art haunts me. That I stepped off the stage because of fear (as much of success as of failure), addiction and laziness still turns me into an abysmal well of shame, self-pity, regret.
That's what's going on here. I want A to do what I didn't. I want him to want to. Without really allowing him to decide for himself what it is that HE wants to do.
I told him this morning as he labeled his portfolio that I was earnestly going to try to back off and let him grow. That I know that I need to get off his back. That I will probably make mistakes while trying to do that. "It's ok. Everyone makes mistakes, mom," says this kid who's huge behind-the-dirty-glasses eyes are level with mine. (When did he get so big?)
I have to remember that he's taken care of. That I have to stop trying to be mother/father/god to this boy. That I need to let go lest I suffocate him and hinder his growth. I kid myself when I think he 'can't handle' it. He has shown wisdom, creativity, depth, humor that surprises me. Usually when I get out of the way.
How many times must I go through this before I finally get it, I wonder? As many times as it takes, I guess. Pretty sure we'll survive, regardless.
I am proud of my boy. Incredibly proud.
This is not my audition. I'm going to let go of his process. I am. Really. Right now. Whew. Breathing. Ok. There. Released. For now. I'm sure I'll have to release it again. And again.
And A - two days.
And here's the thing: I don't know what's supposed to happen or what the "best" outcome would be or how he's going to feel or how he compares to other kids. Even if I did, none of it is anything that I can make happen, make not happen, change, rearrange.
I'm projecting, really. There are so few things anymore that I regret about my own past. But that I did not pursue my art haunts me. That I stepped off the stage because of fear (as much of success as of failure), addiction and laziness still turns me into an abysmal well of shame, self-pity, regret.
That's what's going on here. I want A to do what I didn't. I want him to want to. Without really allowing him to decide for himself what it is that HE wants to do.
I told him this morning as he labeled his portfolio that I was earnestly going to try to back off and let him grow. That I know that I need to get off his back. That I will probably make mistakes while trying to do that. "It's ok. Everyone makes mistakes, mom," says this kid who's huge behind-the-dirty-glasses eyes are level with mine. (When did he get so big?)
I have to remember that he's taken care of. That I have to stop trying to be mother/father/god to this boy. That I need to let go lest I suffocate him and hinder his growth. I kid myself when I think he 'can't handle' it. He has shown wisdom, creativity, depth, humor that surprises me. Usually when I get out of the way.
How many times must I go through this before I finally get it, I wonder? As many times as it takes, I guess. Pretty sure we'll survive, regardless.
I am proud of my boy. Incredibly proud.
This is not my audition. I'm going to let go of his process. I am. Really. Right now. Whew. Breathing. Ok. There. Released. For now. I'm sure I'll have to release it again. And again.
Monday, February 23, 2009
chapped lips, etc.
It's starting to feel like the only time I log in to write anything is when I'm in a really shitty mood. Or maybe that's when people finally leave me alone long enough to do anything.
I need to start carrying a small notebook in my pocket because there have been a few times in the past couple of days when I've said, "Note to self: remember this so you can write about it in your blog." Ha. Ha. HaHaHa. There are too many post-its in my head and invariably, if I don't write something down, another note to self gets plopped on top. I may find the buried reminders someday... but by then I can't remember why I was supposed to remember. Ah.
One thing I do remember, because it made me laugh. A was somewhat recovered from the flu, but still had runny nose and gunk and just leftover misery... and really horribly chapped lips. At one point, I turn around to look at him, and his mousy brown hair is covering his face, and he is sort of slouched and mad-looking and his lips are so chapped that they look like clown lips... and I swear to you, it was like looking at me at around age 10 or so. It was almost surreal. And for some reason, really - really - funny. Sucks to inherit the whole chapped lip thing.
The other thing I remember because it's another one of those moments where I'm reminded how little I really know. How far out of proportion I can blow things. And how terrified I am of things not working out, of people's feelings being hurt, of *gasp* someone not liking me!!! A had a rough morning on Saturday. Woke up late ("It's not my FAULT!!!"), showed up to his Band solo competition without his saxophone ("I didn't know!!!"), was told by his coach not to shoot during the basketball game ("He's STUPID!"), didn't move on to regionals with his Nat'l History Day Project ("They cheated")...
I should pause here to say that we were able to reframe all of this - yes, it's your responsibility to wake up on time - if you don't know, ASK - a coach's responsibility it to ask his team to play in a way that makes sense THAT game against THAT team, it's not personal - be proud that your project got to regionals! Make an even better one next year....
So, bad day (plus, his father is moving back to town and A wants to go live with him again). And for some reason, I pick this day to talk to him about school. He was thinking about auditioning for the Arts Magnet - for music. (Yes, the kid who can;t wake up and doesn't bring his instrument... oh, and never practices.)
We agree to go to dinner and talk about HS, because we're running out of time. We talk about the Arts Magnet, I point out that he's very, very good at sax, but that he needs to decide if he loves it enough to do what it takes. That it's not about being good, it's about wanting it. He decides probably not. I mention to him that the one thing he does ALL the time, that he loves doing is drawing. He say, "I'm not very good." I say, "well. what do you think school is for???" He thinks maybe he'll audition for Art.
We talk about the neighborhood school. Not the best in the world, but consistently in Newsweek's top 100. (or 1000). Has a great fine arts dept, athletic dept, AP classes, etc. In fact, I can't think why he wouldn't want to go... except that his father has made the school out to be festering evil... based on... I don't know.... voices in his head???
Then he says what I knew he would - he utters the name of a school and says, "You know, when my dad moves back, he can move into that neighborhood."
And I open my mouth and shut it. And open and shut it. He looks at me and says, "What? Just say it." I tell him I don't know how to say what I need to say without it sounding mean. "Just say it."
So I scramble for neutral words and find a way to talk about his father's inconsistency in terms of staying in one place for any length of time (I do NOT talk about his inconsistency in everything, though I am tempted). I say, I don't want him to go to a school based on his Dad's address anf then have to transfer out when something comes up. And A says, "Mom, that's not mean. That's the truth."
And there it is. He KNOWS the TRUTH!!! I get so wrapped up in saying it right, so wrapped up in not badmouthing his father, ruining his relationship with his dad... and in some ways, I've known he knows the truth, but that was one of those "you're off the hook" moments. And it was beautiful.
Next post, I'll try to remember to write about the dog R keeps promising he'll get for A. A now has his heart set on a Husky that his father has apparently promised. I think he knows the truth anout that one, too. But he wants it to work so bad - the whole normal dad-son-dog thing. And the truth hurts.
I need to start carrying a small notebook in my pocket because there have been a few times in the past couple of days when I've said, "Note to self: remember this so you can write about it in your blog." Ha. Ha. HaHaHa. There are too many post-its in my head and invariably, if I don't write something down, another note to self gets plopped on top. I may find the buried reminders someday... but by then I can't remember why I was supposed to remember. Ah.
One thing I do remember, because it made me laugh. A was somewhat recovered from the flu, but still had runny nose and gunk and just leftover misery... and really horribly chapped lips. At one point, I turn around to look at him, and his mousy brown hair is covering his face, and he is sort of slouched and mad-looking and his lips are so chapped that they look like clown lips... and I swear to you, it was like looking at me at around age 10 or so. It was almost surreal. And for some reason, really - really - funny. Sucks to inherit the whole chapped lip thing.
The other thing I remember because it's another one of those moments where I'm reminded how little I really know. How far out of proportion I can blow things. And how terrified I am of things not working out, of people's feelings being hurt, of *gasp* someone not liking me!!! A had a rough morning on Saturday. Woke up late ("It's not my FAULT!!!"), showed up to his Band solo competition without his saxophone ("I didn't know!!!"), was told by his coach not to shoot during the basketball game ("He's STUPID!"), didn't move on to regionals with his Nat'l History Day Project ("They cheated")...
I should pause here to say that we were able to reframe all of this - yes, it's your responsibility to wake up on time - if you don't know, ASK - a coach's responsibility it to ask his team to play in a way that makes sense THAT game against THAT team, it's not personal - be proud that your project got to regionals! Make an even better one next year....
So, bad day (plus, his father is moving back to town and A wants to go live with him again). And for some reason, I pick this day to talk to him about school. He was thinking about auditioning for the Arts Magnet - for music. (Yes, the kid who can;t wake up and doesn't bring his instrument... oh, and never practices.)
We agree to go to dinner and talk about HS, because we're running out of time. We talk about the Arts Magnet, I point out that he's very, very good at sax, but that he needs to decide if he loves it enough to do what it takes. That it's not about being good, it's about wanting it. He decides probably not. I mention to him that the one thing he does ALL the time, that he loves doing is drawing. He say, "I'm not very good." I say, "well. what do you think school is for???" He thinks maybe he'll audition for Art.
We talk about the neighborhood school. Not the best in the world, but consistently in Newsweek's top 100. (or 1000). Has a great fine arts dept, athletic dept, AP classes, etc. In fact, I can't think why he wouldn't want to go... except that his father has made the school out to be festering evil... based on... I don't know.... voices in his head???
Then he says what I knew he would - he utters the name of a school and says, "You know, when my dad moves back, he can move into that neighborhood."
And I open my mouth and shut it. And open and shut it. He looks at me and says, "What? Just say it." I tell him I don't know how to say what I need to say without it sounding mean. "Just say it."
So I scramble for neutral words and find a way to talk about his father's inconsistency in terms of staying in one place for any length of time (I do NOT talk about his inconsistency in everything, though I am tempted). I say, I don't want him to go to a school based on his Dad's address anf then have to transfer out when something comes up. And A says, "Mom, that's not mean. That's the truth."
And there it is. He KNOWS the TRUTH!!! I get so wrapped up in saying it right, so wrapped up in not badmouthing his father, ruining his relationship with his dad... and in some ways, I've known he knows the truth, but that was one of those "you're off the hook" moments. And it was beautiful.
Next post, I'll try to remember to write about the dog R keeps promising he'll get for A. A now has his heart set on a Husky that his father has apparently promised. I think he knows the truth anout that one, too. But he wants it to work so bad - the whole normal dad-son-dog thing. And the truth hurts.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
bitch session
I am so spread thin right now, that I swear I must be invisible. I feel invisible. And a little too in demand. Maybe this should be flattering, this thing where everybody seems to want a little piece of you. But I am not flattered. I am done.
I so want to be available all the time. Present all the time. I spent so much of my life in a self-centered whirlwind. So consumed with my demons and angels that every body else's were trivial - if they even existed in my reality at all. But somehow, I've gone from being the queen of Kate's Island Where No One Else Matters to the servant of everyone else's little islands where no one else matters.
Ok That's a little dramatic. I do have a flare. A small one.
It's that it's my own doing that really slays me. It's that I made the bed I'm complaining about laying in. It's that I forget - dismiss as unimportant? - the need for self-care. This, I've been told, is just another form of ego.
I repeat to myself a soothing balance mantra, but there are monkeys in my head pointing and cackling and dancing about... 'Balance???!!!! You???!!! Ha HA HA!!!!" Stupid monkeys.
I keep thinking that if other people did their part, if other people would just COOPERATE, this would not be so difficult. And as much as I know that I do not have control over what other people think or do, that my job is to keep my side of the street clean, I do have a problem continually cleaning my side of the damn street when other people's messes and demands keep spilling over on it.
Clean your own damn streets, people.
And I will try to breathe.
I so want to be available all the time. Present all the time. I spent so much of my life in a self-centered whirlwind. So consumed with my demons and angels that every body else's were trivial - if they even existed in my reality at all. But somehow, I've gone from being the queen of Kate's Island Where No One Else Matters to the servant of everyone else's little islands where no one else matters.
Ok That's a little dramatic. I do have a flare. A small one.
It's that it's my own doing that really slays me. It's that I made the bed I'm complaining about laying in. It's that I forget - dismiss as unimportant? - the need for self-care. This, I've been told, is just another form of ego.
I repeat to myself a soothing balance mantra, but there are monkeys in my head pointing and cackling and dancing about... 'Balance???!!!! You???!!! Ha HA HA!!!!" Stupid monkeys.
I keep thinking that if other people did their part, if other people would just COOPERATE, this would not be so difficult. And as much as I know that I do not have control over what other people think or do, that my job is to keep my side of the street clean, I do have a problem continually cleaning my side of the damn street when other people's messes and demands keep spilling over on it.
Clean your own damn streets, people.
And I will try to breathe.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
the other woman
Every time I go to Beavers Bend - or really any place where there is more nature than not, more trees than buildings, more sky than telephone lines...where you can see the stars - i question my city-girlness. A couple years ago, I noticed the sanity-saving - no, lifesaving - transformation that happens when I step out of the all-too-hectic insanity of my life for even just a couple of days and walk around with trees and birds and deer and sky and sun.
Who in the hell told me that I'm a city girl? That I would only be happy in a high-rise in Manhattan? That I would be lost and bored and unchallenged out in the country? The moment I hit the open road, a woman I am just now getting to know rears up and fills up my skin, pushing out that schedule-driven, chaos addicted woman whose costume I normally wear.
I like this other woman, I think. She is calm and confident and serene... though the edge is still there - the urge to keep moving, the insatiable wanderlust. There is something about her I want to sink in to, give in to. She seems unafraid somehow.
The truth is that she's probably there all the time. And maybe if I spent every waking moment in the mountains, she would come out on my ventures to the city.
It's that "anywhere but here" mantra that has been with me for as long as I can remember... that I can't seem to shake. That I think has something to do with letting myself stay stuck. Doing all the things that make outside appearances acceptable and keep the wheels turning, but squashing, hindering, hiding, squelching the deep, deep urges to create, to act... to live like today really might be the last one.
I want to stop having an illicit affair with this other woman, I want to scream from the rooftops, "Hey, look! This is the one I want. This is the one I love! This is the one I want to be!"
If I could just get over the fear of the unknown, then maybe.
Who in the hell told me that I'm a city girl? That I would only be happy in a high-rise in Manhattan? That I would be lost and bored and unchallenged out in the country? The moment I hit the open road, a woman I am just now getting to know rears up and fills up my skin, pushing out that schedule-driven, chaos addicted woman whose costume I normally wear.
I like this other woman, I think. She is calm and confident and serene... though the edge is still there - the urge to keep moving, the insatiable wanderlust. There is something about her I want to sink in to, give in to. She seems unafraid somehow.
The truth is that she's probably there all the time. And maybe if I spent every waking moment in the mountains, she would come out on my ventures to the city.
It's that "anywhere but here" mantra that has been with me for as long as I can remember... that I can't seem to shake. That I think has something to do with letting myself stay stuck. Doing all the things that make outside appearances acceptable and keep the wheels turning, but squashing, hindering, hiding, squelching the deep, deep urges to create, to act... to live like today really might be the last one.
I want to stop having an illicit affair with this other woman, I want to scream from the rooftops, "Hey, look! This is the one I want. This is the one I love! This is the one I want to be!"
If I could just get over the fear of the unknown, then maybe.
Monday, February 9, 2009
stir crazy
I don't know if I could ever be a stay-at-home mom... and I don't know what that says about me. It's possible, of course, that this "get me out of here" feeling has more to do with Alex being sick in bed and less to do with any kind of stay-at-home-mom type thing. Or maybe that he's 13 and way past the need for me to stay home (except when knocked out by fever).
I really don't know what to do with myself. If I were a stay-at-home mom, we'd go to the park or something, right? Or bake cookies? Or do crafts? Seeing that I want more kids, it worries me that I get so antsy about being cooped up in the house for ONE FREAKING DAY!
Hmmm. I'm overanalyzing perhaps.
I get sad sometimes that I didn't get to stay home with him when he was young. I did take him with me everywhere I went - I won't say that he was somehow deprived of my attention. But I do wish I'd had some more one-on-one time with him. Time when my attention wasn't divided by work, school, whatever play I happened to be doing at the time.
I hope that I can do that for the next one.
Ok. So today. While he is sick and asleep. And I need to stay here. Maybe I'll finally get those pictures in albums.
Maybe I'll bake some cookies.
Maybe I'll do my taxes.
Maybe I'll just figure out how to be still for a little bit.
I really don't know what to do with myself. If I were a stay-at-home mom, we'd go to the park or something, right? Or bake cookies? Or do crafts? Seeing that I want more kids, it worries me that I get so antsy about being cooped up in the house for ONE FREAKING DAY!
Hmmm. I'm overanalyzing perhaps.
I get sad sometimes that I didn't get to stay home with him when he was young. I did take him with me everywhere I went - I won't say that he was somehow deprived of my attention. But I do wish I'd had some more one-on-one time with him. Time when my attention wasn't divided by work, school, whatever play I happened to be doing at the time.
I hope that I can do that for the next one.
Ok. So today. While he is sick and asleep. And I need to stay here. Maybe I'll finally get those pictures in albums.
Maybe I'll bake some cookies.
Maybe I'll do my taxes.
Maybe I'll just figure out how to be still for a little bit.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
sick
Ug. That is the only description fit for how I feel at the moment. The only one I have energy for, anyway.
I hate being sick. I do not do sick well. I don't do other people being sick well. (Especially when they are the "man sick" type, which J is.) I think this has to do with how my mother brought us up. We just didn't. get. sick. Period.
What? Runny nose and headache? Drink some orange juice. Throwing up? Get fluids and plenty of rest. Better yet - suck it up. If you ignore it, it will go away. Like it never even existed. I think we were generally suspicious of doctors and medicine. The only medicine I ever remember taking was those little red Sudafed pills... and those I popped by the handful, though never because I was sick.
So, now as an adult, I get sick and I go to work, I make dinner, I go shopping. And if I DO stay home, it pretty much has to be because I don't want to get anyone else sick, not because I should TAKE CARE OF MYSELF. Ah, fanning the flames of martyrdom.
I like to be left alone when I'm sick. Don't touch me, don't coddle me, don't make me chicken noodle soup. And I'm horrible with people who get sick and suddenly can't function, insist on going to the doctor, stay in bed, get medicine right away, let other people baby them. I mean, c'mon, get over it already.
But, today, I did go buy some medicine (after going to work and to the mall to buy A some new pants). Progress? Maybe. I think the fact that I actually picked something out and paid for it (and TOOK it) given that there are more cold/flu type medicines than there are colors, speaks for something.
If I ever become one of those people who gets "man sick," though, please shoot me and put everyone out of their misery.
Ug.
I hate being sick. I do not do sick well. I don't do other people being sick well. (Especially when they are the "man sick" type, which J is.) I think this has to do with how my mother brought us up. We just didn't. get. sick. Period.
What? Runny nose and headache? Drink some orange juice. Throwing up? Get fluids and plenty of rest. Better yet - suck it up. If you ignore it, it will go away. Like it never even existed. I think we were generally suspicious of doctors and medicine. The only medicine I ever remember taking was those little red Sudafed pills... and those I popped by the handful, though never because I was sick.
So, now as an adult, I get sick and I go to work, I make dinner, I go shopping. And if I DO stay home, it pretty much has to be because I don't want to get anyone else sick, not because I should TAKE CARE OF MYSELF. Ah, fanning the flames of martyrdom.
I like to be left alone when I'm sick. Don't touch me, don't coddle me, don't make me chicken noodle soup. And I'm horrible with people who get sick and suddenly can't function, insist on going to the doctor, stay in bed, get medicine right away, let other people baby them. I mean, c'mon, get over it already.
But, today, I did go buy some medicine (after going to work and to the mall to buy A some new pants). Progress? Maybe. I think the fact that I actually picked something out and paid for it (and TOOK it) given that there are more cold/flu type medicines than there are colors, speaks for something.
If I ever become one of those people who gets "man sick," though, please shoot me and put everyone out of their misery.
Ug.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
dichotomy
I wish I had a before and after picture of my life like those fad-diet ads... I don't know that a picture would capture it, but where I was and where I am are at such opposite extremes that the change really is as drastic as dropping 15 dress sizes.
As the 6th anniversary of my last drink draws near, I can't help but think back on what my life was like when the bottle was my everything. There was a time when what I remembered was peppered with swirly romanticism... when I remembered the fun, glamour, harmless insanity, relief, release, etc. of drinking.
I've done enough writing and talking and living to really accept - swallow - the reality of that time. Mostly the reality of the end of that period.
It is impossible to put into words the black hole that fills my chest when I think about how lost, how desperate, how frightened, angry, alone, full of shame, remorse, defiance, pain I was. How badly I did not want to quit drinking but how desperately I wanted to end my misery. How addicted I was to the chaos of my life, to the chase of the elusive high and how absolutely terrified of discovering who I'd be without it. Convinced that I would hate - abhor - what I uncovered.
Years into sobriety, even, I found other ways to cope. I starved myself, I disappeared, I shut down, put up walls, blamed my parents, son, lover. I still very much fancied that girl who started drinking tequila at 12, and was soon drinking almost everyday...quite the bad ass.
It wasn't until A turned 12 and I realized how fucking YOUNG 12 is, that I finally saw the tragedy in all of it. That I realized that I wasn't tough - I was scared. That I wasn't conquering the world - that I was escaping. And that I missed out on some pivotal emotion growth because I stunted it with whatever I could get my hands on.
The girl I was when I started on this journey was a small, curled up creature. I was thinking about how there was something about me that attracted predators. How that had been true all my life. I thought I had a sign that said "Previous abuse victim up for grabs." How I didn't know I could be any different, how I didn't know that some of the things that happened were not my fault. How I carried around a cloak of shame about the things that were done to me and the things I did to others. Shame for being the abused turned abuser.
Today it hit me that all those smarmy predatory people don't come near me anymore. They don't even look at me. I am stronger. My energy is deep and calm and aware. I am not a girl - I am a woman. There is deep, deep joy in my life to balance out the deep sorrow and hurt that is an inevitable part of life. I am present, available, trustworthy, unafraid. And remarkably, fallibly, wonderfully human.
I hope I never forget where I came from. It's the only way I get to stay where I am.
As the 6th anniversary of my last drink draws near, I can't help but think back on what my life was like when the bottle was my everything. There was a time when what I remembered was peppered with swirly romanticism... when I remembered the fun, glamour, harmless insanity, relief, release, etc. of drinking.
I've done enough writing and talking and living to really accept - swallow - the reality of that time. Mostly the reality of the end of that period.
It is impossible to put into words the black hole that fills my chest when I think about how lost, how desperate, how frightened, angry, alone, full of shame, remorse, defiance, pain I was. How badly I did not want to quit drinking but how desperately I wanted to end my misery. How addicted I was to the chaos of my life, to the chase of the elusive high and how absolutely terrified of discovering who I'd be without it. Convinced that I would hate - abhor - what I uncovered.
Years into sobriety, even, I found other ways to cope. I starved myself, I disappeared, I shut down, put up walls, blamed my parents, son, lover. I still very much fancied that girl who started drinking tequila at 12, and was soon drinking almost everyday...quite the bad ass.
It wasn't until A turned 12 and I realized how fucking YOUNG 12 is, that I finally saw the tragedy in all of it. That I realized that I wasn't tough - I was scared. That I wasn't conquering the world - that I was escaping. And that I missed out on some pivotal emotion growth because I stunted it with whatever I could get my hands on.
The girl I was when I started on this journey was a small, curled up creature. I was thinking about how there was something about me that attracted predators. How that had been true all my life. I thought I had a sign that said "Previous abuse victim up for grabs." How I didn't know I could be any different, how I didn't know that some of the things that happened were not my fault. How I carried around a cloak of shame about the things that were done to me and the things I did to others. Shame for being the abused turned abuser.
Today it hit me that all those smarmy predatory people don't come near me anymore. They don't even look at me. I am stronger. My energy is deep and calm and aware. I am not a girl - I am a woman. There is deep, deep joy in my life to balance out the deep sorrow and hurt that is an inevitable part of life. I am present, available, trustworthy, unafraid. And remarkably, fallibly, wonderfully human.
I hope I never forget where I came from. It's the only way I get to stay where I am.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
smell like dog
Every once in a while, I'll catch a whif of unmistakeable dog odor - not dog urine or shit - just dog. And it takes a second for the horror to kick in - it's ME! I smell like dog. It brings up all kinds of crazy flashbacks of what the house I grew up in smelled like. ANd it smelled of dog and cat and every single thing - liquid, solid, and the gamut in between - that could come out of said creatures.
I know the truth is that I smell like a dog OWNER, not a dog, but it still makes the hair on my neck stand up. It makes me want to wash everything I own with heavy duty extra smelly detergent and then dry it with three dryer sheets. It makes me want to sweep and mop every day. It makes me want to shave the animals and bath their stubly little bodies every day.
I keep envisioning people saying as I walk by "Ug... she smells like DOG." Chances are no one else smells it the way I do. (Of course, I also thought no one could smell the cigarette smoke that lingered on my clothes before I quit).
Guess I'll have to be ok with smelling like I'm a dog owner. I never even fathomed being a dog owner... but I guess if I have joined that one-of-a-kind group of beings who treat their dogs like children... I should get used to having their stink all over me.
I know the truth is that I smell like a dog OWNER, not a dog, but it still makes the hair on my neck stand up. It makes me want to wash everything I own with heavy duty extra smelly detergent and then dry it with three dryer sheets. It makes me want to sweep and mop every day. It makes me want to shave the animals and bath their stubly little bodies every day.
I keep envisioning people saying as I walk by "Ug... she smells like DOG." Chances are no one else smells it the way I do. (Of course, I also thought no one could smell the cigarette smoke that lingered on my clothes before I quit).
Guess I'll have to be ok with smelling like I'm a dog owner. I never even fathomed being a dog owner... but I guess if I have joined that one-of-a-kind group of beings who treat their dogs like children... I should get used to having their stink all over me.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
dog walking
As I was walking the dogs today, I realized how silly we must look. Two dogs with matching rainbow collars - yes rainbow. Luna with her Hannibal Lector mask and Xochi with her Halti, which she HATES. Every chance she gets, she throws herself on the ground like a 2-year-old throwing a tantrum, and tries to rub the thing of her face. Meanwhile, I'm yanking on her and saying "tsch, tsch, tsch" like Cesar Milan on speed.
If that weren't enough, I have a tendency to talk to myself while I'm walking the dogs. And usually, I am telling somebody in no uncertain terms EXACTLY what I think in a situation that happened two days ago or might happen in the future. This involves head-wagging like a really pissed off black woman, and I am almost always incredibly witty and brilliant ... and wishing that a) I had thought of all this when the situation was actually happening and/or b) that I had the wherewithal to say all those things in the potential future situation. So much for living in the present.
I any case, I'm usually pretty proud of how smart and well-spoken I am during these made up dog-walking conversations. What a sight - there goes the lady who talks to herself while wagging her head and walking her two crazy, gay dogs, smiling like a maniac.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
running, etc.
It seems unreal to me that I'm coaching new runners when I just started running myself. It's just what I need, though, as it turns out. I have a stubborn as hell mental block that I can't seem to tear down that tells me I can only go so far before I need to walk. When you are leading a group of people and you've determined how far you're going and how fast, you have to do it. There is no quitting, there is no "sorry, I'm tired." Ego, in this case, is a very good thing. And it is inspiring and awesome to see some of the people who, despite what their minds and bodies are telling them, have the heart and willingness to show up and run at 7 in the morning. Because they want to lose weight or feel good or get healthy. Who knows. But it certainly makes me show up when I don't want to, knowing there are a group of runners counting on me to lead them.
****
A is officially home. I pulled up to the house after work yesterday to find his father's Suburban in my driveway and boxes being hauled into the house. And J looking a little aggravated. This has all happened so quickly. R will be in San Antonio for the foreseeable future, and am dancing with my inner demons who have always wanted him to leave, while feeling tremendous sadness for A who wants his dad more than ever right now.
He walked his dad out and came back inside doing everything he could to hold back tears. He hugged J, hugged me. Then asked if I would please play basketball with him... that he really needed to play basketball.
I must say that I get really, really, REALLY tired of basketball. But this is a kid who's coping skills used to include swinging a baseball at me, punching and kicking walls, swearing, screaming, running away. The fact that now under stress and sadness he wants to play basketball is a miracle and I would've played all night if he needed to.
What hit me last night was that, even though I am ecstatic to have him home, I had just found my groove with him NOT being here, and it will be a rough transition to having the house filled with his not always easy-going energy. Wouldn't trade it for the world. I am convinced he is where he needs to be. (Not that I REALLY know where he's supposed to be or what path he is supposed to be on... or that i get to dictate that in any way.)
I hope that he continues to talk. I hope I continue to listen. He has been so blessed with having both parents - despite our difference and despite what an absolute idiot R is - near by. This will be a completely different experience for both of us. I shudder to think that this is what I always wanted.
I hope to hell that R stays close - calls, finds ways to see him. An odd thing to say since I despise the man. Maybe this is what happens when you mature - when you really allow yourself to fall fully, deeply into the absolutely selfless role of motherhood. I hate R, but I love A even more. And I will do what ever is best for him.
****
A is officially home. I pulled up to the house after work yesterday to find his father's Suburban in my driveway and boxes being hauled into the house. And J looking a little aggravated. This has all happened so quickly. R will be in San Antonio for the foreseeable future, and am dancing with my inner demons who have always wanted him to leave, while feeling tremendous sadness for A who wants his dad more than ever right now.
He walked his dad out and came back inside doing everything he could to hold back tears. He hugged J, hugged me. Then asked if I would please play basketball with him... that he really needed to play basketball.
I must say that I get really, really, REALLY tired of basketball. But this is a kid who's coping skills used to include swinging a baseball at me, punching and kicking walls, swearing, screaming, running away. The fact that now under stress and sadness he wants to play basketball is a miracle and I would've played all night if he needed to.
What hit me last night was that, even though I am ecstatic to have him home, I had just found my groove with him NOT being here, and it will be a rough transition to having the house filled with his not always easy-going energy. Wouldn't trade it for the world. I am convinced he is where he needs to be. (Not that I REALLY know where he's supposed to be or what path he is supposed to be on... or that i get to dictate that in any way.)
I hope that he continues to talk. I hope I continue to listen. He has been so blessed with having both parents - despite our difference and despite what an absolute idiot R is - near by. This will be a completely different experience for both of us. I shudder to think that this is what I always wanted.
I hope to hell that R stays close - calls, finds ways to see him. An odd thing to say since I despise the man. Maybe this is what happens when you mature - when you really allow yourself to fall fully, deeply into the absolutely selfless role of motherhood. I hate R, but I love A even more. And I will do what ever is best for him.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
thanks for your support
Just as I'm leaving the office today to pick up A for his counseling appointment and then our group run, I get an email from R that says 'the new landlord says i have to move out by monday, so we need to figure out how to get's a's stuff to your house.'
Instantly I am in that place where there are too many completely opposite thoughts and feelings to make any sense of. I am glad that after years (YEARS!) of this, I have learned not to reply until I've taken several deep breaths and talked through it.
I am elated that A is coming home. I am aggravated that I am not involved in the decision, that the whole thing is treated like moving a piece of furniture under some sort of joint custody agreement. I am worried about how this back and forth stuff is affecting A, I am not looking forward to J's reaction - she's had to ride this ridiculous roller-coaster, too.
And I try not to get too excited. Twice already (maybe more) I thought he was coming home, and he didn't. I want him to WANT to come home, not be resigned to coming home. It's selfish to think that way, I know - but it is the truth and I dare anyone to tell me that they have not thought that way. Ultimately, I want what is best for A. And I want what is best for me. And the kicker - I have NO IDEA what that is.
So we just keep moving. And deal with what is right in front of us, I guess.
A says he's not worried about moving back in with me, he's worried that he "won't have a father when he needs one." It is heart-breaking to hear him say that, and I resist pointing out that really, he doesn't have a father now. He has a guy who behaves like a 15 year old and calls himself a father. It's unfair to say that. I know R loves that boy - and that A loves his dad. And I don't know how to comfort him and help him go through this transition. I do know that I have to sweep aside all my resentments toward his father, no matter how justified.
So I tell him I'm sorry it's working out this way. That I know it's scary and frustrating and unfair. That the place his dad will probably end up is not too far away and that we will make it work.
He says, "Thanks for your support, Mom. I love you." And I know at that point to let it go (too many times I keep talking and trying to fix it).
We ran, we ate, we're home. WE'RE home. I love that he is back where he belongs. And I hope it sticks. And I hope I can continue to support (not push) him.
Instantly I am in that place where there are too many completely opposite thoughts and feelings to make any sense of. I am glad that after years (YEARS!) of this, I have learned not to reply until I've taken several deep breaths and talked through it.
I am elated that A is coming home. I am aggravated that I am not involved in the decision, that the whole thing is treated like moving a piece of furniture under some sort of joint custody agreement. I am worried about how this back and forth stuff is affecting A, I am not looking forward to J's reaction - she's had to ride this ridiculous roller-coaster, too.
And I try not to get too excited. Twice already (maybe more) I thought he was coming home, and he didn't. I want him to WANT to come home, not be resigned to coming home. It's selfish to think that way, I know - but it is the truth and I dare anyone to tell me that they have not thought that way. Ultimately, I want what is best for A. And I want what is best for me. And the kicker - I have NO IDEA what that is.
So we just keep moving. And deal with what is right in front of us, I guess.
A says he's not worried about moving back in with me, he's worried that he "won't have a father when he needs one." It is heart-breaking to hear him say that, and I resist pointing out that really, he doesn't have a father now. He has a guy who behaves like a 15 year old and calls himself a father. It's unfair to say that. I know R loves that boy - and that A loves his dad. And I don't know how to comfort him and help him go through this transition. I do know that I have to sweep aside all my resentments toward his father, no matter how justified.
So I tell him I'm sorry it's working out this way. That I know it's scary and frustrating and unfair. That the place his dad will probably end up is not too far away and that we will make it work.
He says, "Thanks for your support, Mom. I love you." And I know at that point to let it go (too many times I keep talking and trying to fix it).
We ran, we ate, we're home. WE'RE home. I love that he is back where he belongs. And I hope it sticks. And I hope I can continue to support (not push) him.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
hang ten, dude
I absolutely love this picture of me and A - except for the fact that it makes me think about how I'm not really living the life I think I wanna live. I'm not talking about a ridiculous fantasy life, I ... well, maybe I am. I see pictures like these... outside (mountains or beach) and I look happy and relaxed and it makes me wonder why (WHY!!!) I live in a city like Dallas. People don't live here, they work here. And it's certainly not relaxed. Or bright. Or full of spunky, funky, laid-back energy (that is NOT a contradictory statement).
I want to be in California or Mexico or Belize. I want to walk around barefoot. I want to be outdoors. I want to walk/bike/run/ride the bus to the store, the beach, the mountains, the coffee shop.
I long for a kind of simplicity that in my younger days I found boring and catastrophic. I always fancied myself an artsy urbanite, a slick city-girl, a Manhattan hipster- but I find that I am happiest near bodies of water. I am happiest surrounded by trees.
I know this. I've known it for a while. What is it that holds me back, I wonder? If I think hard enough, dig deep enough, I'm pretty sure I could find the answer.
I wish I had the courage to risk being truly happy.
Monday, January 12, 2009
the heart of the matter
I had an eco-cardio-thingy done this morning to make sure my post-patching-surgery heart looks like it is supposed to, and I'm in a minor state of panic (even though I am fully aware that there's nothing wrong).
First of all, walking into the place where four and a halfish years ago they ripped open my sternum, pulled my heart out, patched it up, and then put it back, is a little nerve-racking.
Second - the last time I did an eco, I had a very talkative, nice sonogram lady who kept telling me how BEAUTIFUL my heart was - how nice it looked, etc.
The lady I got today spent an awful long time getting images (longer than I thought necessary), and didn't talk at all... and didn't even smile. So, of course, I look at the image on the screen and decide it doesn't look right, I listen to my heart beat and decide that it doesn't sound right... mind you, I have no idea what it is supposed to look or sound like, but in my little over-imaginative head, I'm prepping for surgery.
I ask how everything looks and she won't tell me. "oh, i'm just taking the pictures, the doctor will look at them." When I leave, the woman at the front says, if you don't hear from us in two days, just call.
TWO frigging DAYS??? Seriously? I don't think I wanna wait that long.
First of all, walking into the place where four and a halfish years ago they ripped open my sternum, pulled my heart out, patched it up, and then put it back, is a little nerve-racking.
Second - the last time I did an eco, I had a very talkative, nice sonogram lady who kept telling me how BEAUTIFUL my heart was - how nice it looked, etc.
The lady I got today spent an awful long time getting images (longer than I thought necessary), and didn't talk at all... and didn't even smile. So, of course, I look at the image on the screen and decide it doesn't look right, I listen to my heart beat and decide that it doesn't sound right... mind you, I have no idea what it is supposed to look or sound like, but in my little over-imaginative head, I'm prepping for surgery.
I ask how everything looks and she won't tell me. "oh, i'm just taking the pictures, the doctor will look at them." When I leave, the woman at the front says, if you don't hear from us in two days, just call.
TWO frigging DAYS??? Seriously? I don't think I wanna wait that long.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
on another note
Spent this entire weekend with A and it was just what this mom needed. I had been missing that boy to a degree that was starting to feel like longing, which borders on the needy side. Thirteen is still young, he is still a child, and he is my child and I have absolutely HATED not seeing much of him over the past couple of months.
This weekend, we played basketball, went to the mall, saw a movie, went running, watched football, had dinner... and it was pleasant. I know that more important than anything else is that I remember these moments everytime he declares, like only defiant teenagers can, how much he hates me. Remember these moments everytime there is something way more important/interesting/cool than me.
It is aweing that this boy, who's voice has deepened, who's features have become chiseled, who's shoulders are broadening, who's feet are humongous, will still hug his mother and tell her that he loves her.
I am so proud of my young man.
This weekend, we played basketball, went to the mall, saw a movie, went running, watched football, had dinner... and it was pleasant. I know that more important than anything else is that I remember these moments everytime he declares, like only defiant teenagers can, how much he hates me. Remember these moments everytime there is something way more important/interesting/cool than me.
It is aweing that this boy, who's voice has deepened, who's features have become chiseled, who's shoulders are broadening, who's feet are humongous, will still hug his mother and tell her that he loves her.
I am so proud of my young man.
On (not) fitting in at the Fiesta
The other day, J and I went to the Fiesta (supermarket which caters to Texas' huge hispanic population that makes me so incredibly homesick) to get some TopoChico and I decided, right then and there "this is my new grocery store."
I went there today with grocery list in hand, and felt like an absolute alien - no a tourist. And if there is anything I can't stand, it's being judged as a tourist in a place that is engraved in my soul (yes, this is a grocery store we're talking about - but I refer to the mexanism of it). People were looking at me... well, no... not looking at me - wouldn't even make eye contact. As if I had infiltrated their hispanic haven. I wanted to look at them and say, 'hey, i have every right to be here. I probably speak better spanish than you!' Then i thought of a less obvious approach... maybe when people are complaining about the slow cashier in SPanish, I can chime in with my two cents with my flawless accent. Ha - that'll show 'em to judge a book by her blonde hair and white skin.
Then it occurs to me that this is may be how most of the shoppers in this store - primarily hispanic and black - feel when they go to, say, the Tom Thumb by my house. And then it just pisses me off. The whole thing. Segregation as reality despite being "illegal."
I will go the Fiesta again, because it has things in it that remind me of my childhood. And since I have never been one of those to make anyone feel like they look like they're are in the wrong place, I refuse to let a little discomfort keep me away.
Of course, it may not be that I'm white... it may be that I'm pretty obviously not hetero. I believe that's more insulting to both aforementioned communities than being a blonde girl shopping in the Fiesta. And there you go, I just perpetuated a stereotype.
bah.
I went there today with grocery list in hand, and felt like an absolute alien - no a tourist. And if there is anything I can't stand, it's being judged as a tourist in a place that is engraved in my soul (yes, this is a grocery store we're talking about - but I refer to the mexanism of it). People were looking at me... well, no... not looking at me - wouldn't even make eye contact. As if I had infiltrated their hispanic haven. I wanted to look at them and say, 'hey, i have every right to be here. I probably speak better spanish than you!' Then i thought of a less obvious approach... maybe when people are complaining about the slow cashier in SPanish, I can chime in with my two cents with my flawless accent. Ha - that'll show 'em to judge a book by her blonde hair and white skin.
Then it occurs to me that this is may be how most of the shoppers in this store - primarily hispanic and black - feel when they go to, say, the Tom Thumb by my house. And then it just pisses me off. The whole thing. Segregation as reality despite being "illegal."
I will go the Fiesta again, because it has things in it that remind me of my childhood. And since I have never been one of those to make anyone feel like they look like they're are in the wrong place, I refuse to let a little discomfort keep me away.
Of course, it may not be that I'm white... it may be that I'm pretty obviously not hetero. I believe that's more insulting to both aforementioned communities than being a blonde girl shopping in the Fiesta. And there you go, I just perpetuated a stereotype.
bah.
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