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.
Friday, March 9, 2012
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.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Don't say it out loud
I still work from home, part-time, so why am I so exhausted? Yes, it's the holiday season. Yes, I have kids. But I have 1.5 - my daughter, and my step-daughter, the latter of the two only here half-time. It's not like have 19 Kids and Counting. And I have a husband who often works from home, and is therefore around to help with This and That.
And yet, at the end of the day, I 'flop' on the sofa and watch TV and think, "Thank GOD that's over. Soon I'll be sleeping, but only after I lounge here and see if these idiots pick house #3." I feel like I made it through something, but.... Why will tomorrow be any different? And what really did I get through, except being alive?
KP posted on Facebook a cocktail conversation question - if you could take a pill that would allow you to live forever, would you? Some answered, 'If it was a gelcap,' or 'If I could keep my 29-year-old body.' I replied something goofy, like, 'Are you crazy? Who wants to be here the day the sun explodes? Not this gal.'
When we went out to dinner, I asked her what her answer would be, and she replied, 'No WAY. Death is the point. You only get one shot and you have to be able to say you either did something with your time or you didn't.' Good point. I just can't imagine being here forever, but didn't elaborate. She didn't ask.
I look forward to sleeping.
And yet, at the end of the day, I 'flop' on the sofa and watch TV and think, "Thank GOD that's over. Soon I'll be sleeping, but only after I lounge here and see if these idiots pick house #3." I feel like I made it through something, but.... Why will tomorrow be any different? And what really did I get through, except being alive?
KP posted on Facebook a cocktail conversation question - if you could take a pill that would allow you to live forever, would you? Some answered, 'If it was a gelcap,' or 'If I could keep my 29-year-old body.' I replied something goofy, like, 'Are you crazy? Who wants to be here the day the sun explodes? Not this gal.'
When we went out to dinner, I asked her what her answer would be, and she replied, 'No WAY. Death is the point. You only get one shot and you have to be able to say you either did something with your time or you didn't.' Good point. I just can't imagine being here forever, but didn't elaborate. She didn't ask.
I look forward to sleeping.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
An unenviable place
There are numerous rites of passage in life. When I was younger, I thought such rites were limited to the very small, but first steps and first words leap with lightening speed across time to the first lost tooth and first 2-wheel bike, and then even more dramatically to events like your first kiss and first car. The universe of common experiences is vast.
As my college career waned, I realized there were other milestones my peers were beginning to experience. Landing the first grown-up job. Getting one's own place. Having enough money to invest, or maybe go on vacation. But none were so inspiring and influential among the fairer sex than that of getting engaged. Now, as an awkward and introverted teenager, I had struggled to keep up with social norms. While some girls had new cars waiting for them on their 16th birthdays, I waited tables at Friendly's till I could scrape together enough money to buy my own car - a 1981 Toyota Celica. (My treat to myself: a wood bead seat-cover.) And while other girls had boyfriends throughout high school and college, my one high-school crush went nowhere, and my first boyfriend in college was a creep who alienated me from my family and pushed me around.
Once I left my polyester waitress uniform behind, I took up retail sales as I looked for my future direction (changing my major 4 times in under-grad). I sold bridal gowns. The girls who came in the store - from the overweight and pimple-covered to the pregnant and tattooed to the sorority sparklers - all seemed Together. Confident and Complete. Oh how I envied their places in life. After all, who else gets engaged but women who have a defined sense of style, know who they are enough to be loved by someone else, and have enough intelligence to take care of themselves?
No one was more surprised than me to find myself among their ranks a few years later, engaged to a very nice man who would have been happy to take care of me for the rest of my life. The trouble was, I realized you can get engaged without being confident or self-sufficient, and through a further series of missteps, I found myself at yet another milestone, and waaaaaay earlier than any of my so-called peers. At 26, I was divorced.
As I spent the rest of my twenties as something of a sad celebrity, my dating exploits gossiped about 'round many a corporate water cooler, I watched colleagues and friends move on to other happy places. While I went back for my graduate degree and found a one-bedroom apartment so I could finally be alone, the Married Ones were moving into great starter homes and getting pregnant. When I could finally afford my own townhouse, the Career Ones were finding their mates and buying big houses to match their big salaries. And when I realized I had finally found the Big Love with (appropriately for me) tragically poor timing, Those With Small Families were up-sizing their homes. At that point, my life became so rocky I mentally checked out of the Keeping Up game.
Fast-forward ten years, and I am now in an unusual place. While I think (hope, pray) that JBL and I have come safely through the worst part of our journey together, I am witnessing the fallout of unhappy marriages all around. I've seen the gamut, and it is far from pretty: the ones without kids who chose an open marriage to keep their Couple Identity, the ones who are Staying Together For The Kids, the ones who Muscled Through divorce to find peace after years of struggling while managing the mental health of their children, and those who Just Snapped. Each road taken has fundamentally changed all parties involved, and some are slowly killing the so-called survivors.
That last group is the most shocking because, in my world anyway, the ones who snapped are Those People you never thought would do such a thing. Queue the trite cliches: They seemed so happy. How could she walk away from her children? I never thought he'd do that to her. One of these Snappers is someone very, very close to me, and I've gotta tell you, it's taking a lot to quiet the cliches playing through my own mind and support this person. Me, of all people.
So here I am, vindicated. I've now been told, "I don't know how you did it," and, "that took a lot of strength." It does feel somewhat better to know I'm not the only one, and to be able to say I understand when someone needs to hear it most, but I wish it didn't happen so damned often. And to so many wonderful people. Is it the right decision sometimes? Absolutely. But. Divorce is a tragedy like death, causing a hush to fall over the room, and making strong couples to look at each other and wonder. Watching people I love reach this place? It's not where I ever wanted to be.
As my college career waned, I realized there were other milestones my peers were beginning to experience. Landing the first grown-up job. Getting one's own place. Having enough money to invest, or maybe go on vacation. But none were so inspiring and influential among the fairer sex than that of getting engaged. Now, as an awkward and introverted teenager, I had struggled to keep up with social norms. While some girls had new cars waiting for them on their 16th birthdays, I waited tables at Friendly's till I could scrape together enough money to buy my own car - a 1981 Toyota Celica. (My treat to myself: a wood bead seat-cover.) And while other girls had boyfriends throughout high school and college, my one high-school crush went nowhere, and my first boyfriend in college was a creep who alienated me from my family and pushed me around.
Once I left my polyester waitress uniform behind, I took up retail sales as I looked for my future direction (changing my major 4 times in under-grad). I sold bridal gowns. The girls who came in the store - from the overweight and pimple-covered to the pregnant and tattooed to the sorority sparklers - all seemed Together. Confident and Complete. Oh how I envied their places in life. After all, who else gets engaged but women who have a defined sense of style, know who they are enough to be loved by someone else, and have enough intelligence to take care of themselves?
No one was more surprised than me to find myself among their ranks a few years later, engaged to a very nice man who would have been happy to take care of me for the rest of my life. The trouble was, I realized you can get engaged without being confident or self-sufficient, and through a further series of missteps, I found myself at yet another milestone, and waaaaaay earlier than any of my so-called peers. At 26, I was divorced.
As I spent the rest of my twenties as something of a sad celebrity, my dating exploits gossiped about 'round many a corporate water cooler, I watched colleagues and friends move on to other happy places. While I went back for my graduate degree and found a one-bedroom apartment so I could finally be alone, the Married Ones were moving into great starter homes and getting pregnant. When I could finally afford my own townhouse, the Career Ones were finding their mates and buying big houses to match their big salaries. And when I realized I had finally found the Big Love with (appropriately for me) tragically poor timing, Those With Small Families were up-sizing their homes. At that point, my life became so rocky I mentally checked out of the Keeping Up game.
Fast-forward ten years, and I am now in an unusual place. While I think (hope, pray) that JBL and I have come safely through the worst part of our journey together, I am witnessing the fallout of unhappy marriages all around. I've seen the gamut, and it is far from pretty: the ones without kids who chose an open marriage to keep their Couple Identity, the ones who are Staying Together For The Kids, the ones who Muscled Through divorce to find peace after years of struggling while managing the mental health of their children, and those who Just Snapped. Each road taken has fundamentally changed all parties involved, and some are slowly killing the so-called survivors.
That last group is the most shocking because, in my world anyway, the ones who snapped are Those People you never thought would do such a thing. Queue the trite cliches: They seemed so happy. How could she walk away from her children? I never thought he'd do that to her. One of these Snappers is someone very, very close to me, and I've gotta tell you, it's taking a lot to quiet the cliches playing through my own mind and support this person. Me, of all people.
So here I am, vindicated. I've now been told, "I don't know how you did it," and, "that took a lot of strength." It does feel somewhat better to know I'm not the only one, and to be able to say I understand when someone needs to hear it most, but I wish it didn't happen so damned often. And to so many wonderful people. Is it the right decision sometimes? Absolutely. But. Divorce is a tragedy like death, causing a hush to fall over the room, and making strong couples to look at each other and wonder. Watching people I love reach this place? It's not where I ever wanted to be.
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