The slowest train wreck in history finally happened, and she's back in a safe place for now. With the breathing space this time allows (easy for me to say, I know, having been separated from the trauma for weeks already), I look around with weary eyes, and struggle to contain my angry reactions at the correlating factors in our world.
Recently, I informally polled a subset of my peers. "Look at me - I'm 42. I exercise 5-6 days/week and eat healthfully whenever possible, but really focus on moderation more than anything. I'm relatively thin, but still find myself focusing on my 'flaws' when I get out of the shower. My belly, my arms. When is it OK - at what age - for women to stop obsessing about their bodies? When is it OK to just...relax?" Granted, I live in a circle of fairly well-off people, so these are women who have leisure time, and like me they all place a high value on physical fitness. It's almost like asking a chef 'when do you stop caring about food?'.
Still, I was saddened to hear advice on flax seed to combat belly fat, with it's plant version of hormones that trick the body out of reacting to decreased levels of estrogen. I was disheartened at the laughing eye rolls, and exclamations of 'never!'. But I wasn't terribly surprised. After all, look at the messages on TV and in magazines. This has all been said before, I know, but it's hard to break out of self-enforcing cultural messaging.
What was disturbing, to the point of shocking, was something that came after my poll. One of the two Flax-Seed Women went on to talk about her concerns about her daughter's weight. AFTER hearing about what is going on in my family. In the exact same conversation, no less. This woman talks about the girl's thighs being thick. She says that she's set the girl up with her own personal trainer once a week. She smiles at her own cleverness, swapping out healthy ingredients into her daughter's milkshakes at home. Her daughter is 14. I hadn't seen her daughter for several months around school, so wondered if she'd been overtaken by a period of early teen flab (I remember gaining and losing weight over my teens for no apparent reason). Obviously not much below morbid obesity would justify such a heavy-handed intervention by a parent - a mother - in my opinion. At the school's closing ceremonies a few days later, my jaw dropped when I saw her - stunningly beautiful, and from where I was sitting, not even 5 pounds 'overweight'. I was filled with fury on her behalf. There are not even words to describe all the things wrong in the situation, swirling through my mind.
But worse. During a phone conversation yesterday I hear about a mom just outside my immediate family setting up an app on her and her daughter's phones that monitors caloric intake each day. It has you input all you eat along with your exercise, and identify your target daily number of calories. If you eat something high calorie, it tells you how much additional exercise you should do to offset it. This sweet girl, who now is bonding with her mom by obsessing over daily calories, is 13. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
I really, truly understand that mental illness is not caused by messages or activities like these, but... what in the name of God do these mothers - some of the smartest women I know - think they are teaching their girls with them?
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Two months
Two months since my last post, and I am feeling terrible. There have been moments of panic, moments of encouragement. There has also been laughter, tears, fear and peace. Today is a low point in the continuum because I truly feel robbed of all hope. The direction of things is spiraling slowly downward and I have no control over the outcome. I've extricated myself to a certain degree, but every time I attempt to help, I fail and make things worse. I'm not even helping JBL, who has taken to sheltering me wherever possible.
Some look in from the outside and say, 'Things seem to be going well - she's still eating.' But they don't know that she's backing towards the cliff again, yelling at us to let her jump. No one seems to be doing what it takes to really help her (knowing our job is simply to administer the medicine, but that's less than 50% of the battle). I don't know how much more I can take.
Some look in from the outside and say, 'Things seem to be going well - she's still eating.' But they don't know that she's backing towards the cliff again, yelling at us to let her jump. No one seems to be doing what it takes to really help her (knowing our job is simply to administer the medicine, but that's less than 50% of the battle). I don't know how much more I can take.
Monday, May 7, 2012
At a loss
I am simultaneously a shell of jagged, bleeding edges and a bottomless well of calmness and determination. More of the former, but the latter when it's required. This is so unbelievably hard, I honestly don't know how we're going to get to The Other Side. But as I told her all weekend, there's no way around it. We just have to go through it, together, and there is no failure allowed. We can't bear to think of that option, even when she begs us to consider it. God, please, please help us.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Privacy
I just deleted several recent posts. Though it felt good to write them (necessary, in fact), it didn't feel good to leave them up. I may continue to do this over the coming months - exercise some demons through writing, save the privacy of my loved ones by deleting. I'll try to think of it as burning confessions over a camp fire rather than stifling emotions that need to be expressed. It's hard to have healthy boundaries with such extreme circumstances - for me anyway. But hopefully I will have some good things to write about soon.
Friday, March 9, 2012
The key
Well, we've come a long way since that last post. Life is fairly settled, and we're back to just worrying about the house and when we can rebuild. Then again, that's not entirely true. I've also been helping J deal with some crappy schoolmate drama. Girls are MEAN - this is something I learned with K way back when she was in second grade.
I am struggling, as you might imagine, with how to Fix It, knowing of course that I can't. The game now - heck, since the beginning of preschool - is indirect help. Planting seeds that grow. I want her to grow confidence and clarity and resilience. I want her to know sometimes a good cry can help short-run, but listening to that little voice inside usually helps in the long run. Oh, what do I know? There are countless blogs out there with all this drivel already well in-hand, and more succinctly put, I'm sure.
Really what I wanted to capture, though, was this little ray of sunshine: J had a sweet girl choose her as her 'special valentine' at school. I'm sure this is true world-round, that kids have to give valentines to every classmate lest anyone feel left out, but J's class also draws names to give a special valentine. They are told to write on it 3 traits that describe this class friend. 3 things that make their special valentine, well, special. Here is what J received, written on a piece of red construction paper festooned with candy hearts and stickers:
To: Juliet From: your special friend Jadyn R.
HELPFUL: You're a helpful girl because you make sure friends get along.
KIND TO OTHERS: You're a kind girl because you share things with others.
JOYFUL: You're a joyful girl because you're always happy.
This is, not surprisingly, how I see J every day - it's why JBL and I often refer to her as Joie de Vivre. But the timing of this message, read first by J independent of her parents' predictable praise, was like a hug from God. And as a completely non-religious person, I say this quite seriously. It reiterates everything I've been telling her. Be a good friend, and you'll make good friends. Be yourself and people will just naturally come to you. And a million other desperate and hopeful things. It's all true.
So fuck that snot-nosed brat who makes J (and others) feel like shit every day. J has the key to the door that opens so she can walk away from the pain of manipulation, and it is her own heart and character. And I'm glad it didn't take Mommy to fix it.
I am struggling, as you might imagine, with how to Fix It, knowing of course that I can't. The game now - heck, since the beginning of preschool - is indirect help. Planting seeds that grow. I want her to grow confidence and clarity and resilience. I want her to know sometimes a good cry can help short-run, but listening to that little voice inside usually helps in the long run. Oh, what do I know? There are countless blogs out there with all this drivel already well in-hand, and more succinctly put, I'm sure.
Really what I wanted to capture, though, was this little ray of sunshine: J had a sweet girl choose her as her 'special valentine' at school. I'm sure this is true world-round, that kids have to give valentines to every classmate lest anyone feel left out, but J's class also draws names to give a special valentine. They are told to write on it 3 traits that describe this class friend. 3 things that make their special valentine, well, special. Here is what J received, written on a piece of red construction paper festooned with candy hearts and stickers:
To: Juliet From: your special friend Jadyn R.
HELPFUL: You're a helpful girl because you make sure friends get along.
KIND TO OTHERS: You're a kind girl because you share things with others.
JOYFUL: You're a joyful girl because you're always happy.
This is, not surprisingly, how I see J every day - it's why JBL and I often refer to her as Joie de Vivre. But the timing of this message, read first by J independent of her parents' predictable praise, was like a hug from God. And as a completely non-religious person, I say this quite seriously. It reiterates everything I've been telling her. Be a good friend, and you'll make good friends. Be yourself and people will just naturally come to you. And a million other desperate and hopeful things. It's all true.
So fuck that snot-nosed brat who makes J (and others) feel like shit every day. J has the key to the door that opens so she can walk away from the pain of manipulation, and it is her own heart and character. And I'm glad it didn't take Mommy to fix it.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Technicolor
When Chris waxes poetic about Philadelphia, I cringe and roll my eyes and laugh (fondly). And I remember.
I remember how I felt when JBL and I first got together - like that night I walked into his apartment to find him playing the guitar in his boxers with candles lit all around, waiting for me. The afternoons we would sit and look out over the lawn into the trees, listening to music and sipping cocktails. The inner calm. This experience of being with him was more than realizing the miracle of finding the Big Love, but also as being apart from the pain in the rest of my life. It was an escape.
This was the time when the shit was really starting to hit the fan with my dad, and as much as I compartmentalized the trauma so I could continue to function day-to-day, I still needed a break. I needed a buffer from the constant onslaught of my mother's demons, and space to safely fall apart with despair. But mostly my time in that apartment, and then eventually in his townhouse, was a chance for me to feel like my true self for the first time in my life. My love for JBL was a fantastical finding that also filled me with the technicolor joy of being at home in my own skin. And I recall that feeling as being tied to the places he inhabited.
There was a mysterious pull to the paved paths around Tamar Drive. And later, I communed regularly with the wooded running trails in Clary's Forest. The may apples poking up in early spring on the forest floor, the vines that hung from the trees, the small lake over the hill. As I returned to the house and walked up the front steps, I would gaze for long minutes at the patch of dirt in front of the basement window, smelling its minerals warmed by the sun. I would think about planting daffodils.
And I know when Chris speaks of cobblestone streets and great local speakeasies with a sparkling effervescence, I know he is feeling all these same things. Putting aside my discomfort, I am warmed by the thought that he is feeling the weight of 'supposed to be' lifting from his strong shoulders, and that he is feeling joy for being who he is right now.
I remember how I felt when JBL and I first got together - like that night I walked into his apartment to find him playing the guitar in his boxers with candles lit all around, waiting for me. The afternoons we would sit and look out over the lawn into the trees, listening to music and sipping cocktails. The inner calm. This experience of being with him was more than realizing the miracle of finding the Big Love, but also as being apart from the pain in the rest of my life. It was an escape.
This was the time when the shit was really starting to hit the fan with my dad, and as much as I compartmentalized the trauma so I could continue to function day-to-day, I still needed a break. I needed a buffer from the constant onslaught of my mother's demons, and space to safely fall apart with despair. But mostly my time in that apartment, and then eventually in his townhouse, was a chance for me to feel like my true self for the first time in my life. My love for JBL was a fantastical finding that also filled me with the technicolor joy of being at home in my own skin. And I recall that feeling as being tied to the places he inhabited.
There was a mysterious pull to the paved paths around Tamar Drive. And later, I communed regularly with the wooded running trails in Clary's Forest. The may apples poking up in early spring on the forest floor, the vines that hung from the trees, the small lake over the hill. As I returned to the house and walked up the front steps, I would gaze for long minutes at the patch of dirt in front of the basement window, smelling its minerals warmed by the sun. I would think about planting daffodils.
And I know when Chris speaks of cobblestone streets and great local speakeasies with a sparkling effervescence, I know he is feeling all these same things. Putting aside my discomfort, I am warmed by the thought that he is feeling the weight of 'supposed to be' lifting from his strong shoulders, and that he is feeling joy for being who he is right now.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Impending
I used to be afraid of the dark. I insisted that the light in the bathroom at the end of the hall be left on all night, and I kept my door wide open. Did nightlights exist in 1976? I don't know, but I wish I'd had one to further protect myself from the unknown creatures that waited for me until everyone else slept. My brother, whose room was immediately adjacent to the bathroom, had no such demons, and was compelled to keep his door closed to block the bright light that would have otherwise shone directly onto his pillow, keeping him awake like a Guantanamo prisoner.
Meanwhile, my fear kept me awake for weeks at a time. I would walk down the hallway that seemed so long, down to the cheerily lit bathroom. Even now I can feel the soft flannel of my long nightgown brushing my ankles as I walked, exhausted but with a tingling inability to sleep. I would touch the cold white tile around the sink and stare out the black window facing the back yard of our wooded lot. I would turn and walk back down the long hallway to my room.
Entering was easy - the smell comforting, the light from the hallway illuminating familiar objects. I would crawl under the covers of my twin bed against the far wall, under the window. And I would stare back out at the doorway. From this vantage, everything in the room was dark and malevolent compared to the safely lit carpet lining the hall. Stuffed animals or discarded clothes took on dangerous shapes, and the air about me swirled with the potential for harm. I felt the weight of the air right above my face as though there was a hand ready to touch me, to rip my covers off without warning, at any moment. My heart would pound in the otherwise silent house, and a light sweat would break out on the skin of my body from head to toe. I would contemplate throwing back the sheets to step out into the safe light of the hall once again for what seemed like hours. The fear of something coming at me as soon as I closed my eyes was so strong that I often resorted to covering my head until I nearly suffocated.
But nothing, NOTHING was as frightening as the dark that hovered in the space above the stairs leading down to the living room below me. During that childhood time, my mother had a painting along the wall that lead downstairs, a painting of trees backlit by a fiery orange dusk sky. I would stare at the dark branches and at times they seemed to move. At times the orange and yellow would undulate under my unwavering gaze (heart pounding). And the dark from the unlit living room, in the quiet house where everyone slept soundly save me, seemed to move and undulate as well. Was it creeping up the stairs?
I would rise once again and move silently down the hall, but rather than enter the garish, formerly calming brashness of the bathroom, I would turn at the top of the stairs and look down. My left hand holding the knob of the banister would be clammy, and the spit on my tongue would take on a vinegar quality. The steps descended to a landing whose white carpet was barely gray in the dim light. I knew the living room just to the left of the landing was pitch black. Would something pop out of that blackness and rush up the stairs to pounce on me? Would a breath of angry whisper meet my ears if I listened hard enough? Oh, and how I listened.
This pattern of waiting and watching, testing and wondering, went on night after night. I never told my mother about it, though I wanted to. I remember opening my parents' bedroom door from time to time - very slowly. I walked up to my father's side of the bed (closest to the door), and listened to his deep rumbling breaths. The smell of sleep hung heavy around them both. I would creep back out and silently close the door without disturbing them.
Finally, one night I found myself, beyond exhausted, sitting at the top of the stairs with my chin resting in my palms, elbows on my knees, staring unblinkingly into the darkness at the landing. It was as though as long as I looked with my eyes wide open, nothing could get to me. Feeling desperate, I resolved to give myself up to the spirits that haunted me in the dark. I stood and grasped the handrail that ran along the wall with my right hand, and slowly descended.
When I reached the landing, I turned to the left and stared into the dark living room. It wasn't as black as I had imagined it would be, but it still filled me with terror. My hands were now icy and my breath came in gasps. I took in the shapes of the sofa and chairs and coffee table. But the most foreboding specter was the utterly black fireplace set atop the brick hearth. It seemed to be the core of the room, and I could almost hear breathing from within it.
I don't know what made me act then, but I took the two steps down into the living room, turned my back to the fireplace, and lay - stomach-down - on the steps with my head on the landing. I thought to myself, "Just come and get me. Get it over with, because I just can't take it anymore." I shut my eyes tightly and thought of what might come up, to strike. I even imagined I felt knives or claws tearing at my back, but the more I focused and held my breath in anticipation, the more those imaginings dissipated.
Gradually, all I was left with was utter silence and calm. I began to notice the wooly feel of the carpet under my chin, and how my arms - scrunched up with balled fists under my chest - we're beginning to fall asleep. I pushed myself to standing and took a deep breath. Without looking back, I walked up the steps, down the long hallway, and into my room. I crawled under the covers and promptly fell asleep. That may not have been the end of my fears, but something fundamental eased within me that night.
I know a couple of little girls who will have fear delivered to them unexpectedly tomorrow, and I wish I could help them skip to the end of the story and see there's nothing really to fear. I want them to magically pass over the pain and land at the place where they realize the people who love them are nearby, and the demons of devastation can't get past the bond of love that surrounds them - though it may appear their parents are asleep and unaware. I wish I could do all this, but I can't.
Meanwhile, my fear kept me awake for weeks at a time. I would walk down the hallway that seemed so long, down to the cheerily lit bathroom. Even now I can feel the soft flannel of my long nightgown brushing my ankles as I walked, exhausted but with a tingling inability to sleep. I would touch the cold white tile around the sink and stare out the black window facing the back yard of our wooded lot. I would turn and walk back down the long hallway to my room.
Entering was easy - the smell comforting, the light from the hallway illuminating familiar objects. I would crawl under the covers of my twin bed against the far wall, under the window. And I would stare back out at the doorway. From this vantage, everything in the room was dark and malevolent compared to the safely lit carpet lining the hall. Stuffed animals or discarded clothes took on dangerous shapes, and the air about me swirled with the potential for harm. I felt the weight of the air right above my face as though there was a hand ready to touch me, to rip my covers off without warning, at any moment. My heart would pound in the otherwise silent house, and a light sweat would break out on the skin of my body from head to toe. I would contemplate throwing back the sheets to step out into the safe light of the hall once again for what seemed like hours. The fear of something coming at me as soon as I closed my eyes was so strong that I often resorted to covering my head until I nearly suffocated.
But nothing, NOTHING was as frightening as the dark that hovered in the space above the stairs leading down to the living room below me. During that childhood time, my mother had a painting along the wall that lead downstairs, a painting of trees backlit by a fiery orange dusk sky. I would stare at the dark branches and at times they seemed to move. At times the orange and yellow would undulate under my unwavering gaze (heart pounding). And the dark from the unlit living room, in the quiet house where everyone slept soundly save me, seemed to move and undulate as well. Was it creeping up the stairs?
I would rise once again and move silently down the hall, but rather than enter the garish, formerly calming brashness of the bathroom, I would turn at the top of the stairs and look down. My left hand holding the knob of the banister would be clammy, and the spit on my tongue would take on a vinegar quality. The steps descended to a landing whose white carpet was barely gray in the dim light. I knew the living room just to the left of the landing was pitch black. Would something pop out of that blackness and rush up the stairs to pounce on me? Would a breath of angry whisper meet my ears if I listened hard enough? Oh, and how I listened.
This pattern of waiting and watching, testing and wondering, went on night after night. I never told my mother about it, though I wanted to. I remember opening my parents' bedroom door from time to time - very slowly. I walked up to my father's side of the bed (closest to the door), and listened to his deep rumbling breaths. The smell of sleep hung heavy around them both. I would creep back out and silently close the door without disturbing them.
Finally, one night I found myself, beyond exhausted, sitting at the top of the stairs with my chin resting in my palms, elbows on my knees, staring unblinkingly into the darkness at the landing. It was as though as long as I looked with my eyes wide open, nothing could get to me. Feeling desperate, I resolved to give myself up to the spirits that haunted me in the dark. I stood and grasped the handrail that ran along the wall with my right hand, and slowly descended.
When I reached the landing, I turned to the left and stared into the dark living room. It wasn't as black as I had imagined it would be, but it still filled me with terror. My hands were now icy and my breath came in gasps. I took in the shapes of the sofa and chairs and coffee table. But the most foreboding specter was the utterly black fireplace set atop the brick hearth. It seemed to be the core of the room, and I could almost hear breathing from within it.
I don't know what made me act then, but I took the two steps down into the living room, turned my back to the fireplace, and lay - stomach-down - on the steps with my head on the landing. I thought to myself, "Just come and get me. Get it over with, because I just can't take it anymore." I shut my eyes tightly and thought of what might come up, to strike. I even imagined I felt knives or claws tearing at my back, but the more I focused and held my breath in anticipation, the more those imaginings dissipated.
Gradually, all I was left with was utter silence and calm. I began to notice the wooly feel of the carpet under my chin, and how my arms - scrunched up with balled fists under my chest - we're beginning to fall asleep. I pushed myself to standing and took a deep breath. Without looking back, I walked up the steps, down the long hallway, and into my room. I crawled under the covers and promptly fell asleep. That may not have been the end of my fears, but something fundamental eased within me that night.
I know a couple of little girls who will have fear delivered to them unexpectedly tomorrow, and I wish I could help them skip to the end of the story and see there's nothing really to fear. I want them to magically pass over the pain and land at the place where they realize the people who love them are nearby, and the demons of devastation can't get past the bond of love that surrounds them - though it may appear their parents are asleep and unaware. I wish I could do all this, but I can't.
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