Revisiting writing

I was going to say that I can't believe it's been a year since I've written anything, but that would be an outright lie.

Here's the thing: since I quit drinking a little over 7 years ago (and then smoking three years ago), it's been close to impossible to write. There are a number of things, actually, that I find hard to do without either of those tools, but the absence of writing is one I come back to time and again. It's one of the things that kept me sane.

I considered taking a creative writing class. (I consider doing a lot of things I have neither time nor money to do.) Someone suggested I just start writing. So here I am.

There is not a lack of material, to be sure. Being the single (gay, recovering alcoholic) mother of an almost 15 year old son provides much fodder. I just can't seem to open the well to put it all down.

But I'm going to try.

thoughts jotted on the airplane

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.