I have just finished Slamming Open The Door.
It is an incredibly thin book of staggering power. The thinnest blade to slice open your heart.
It touches on things that I only knew in my heart. Things that I could never properly verbalize. Things that I didn't always realize I felt. (I've written the poem titles in parentheses.)
The notion of violently getting you heart ripped out while everything around you goes on as normal (Tea Time). The paralyzing disgust at a defense attorney (Defense Attorney), the warmth toward an investigating police officer (Homicide Detective) , all the many things that people can say wrong (What Not To Say), or do right (William). It even touches on the fact that no amount of punishment will ever feel like enough (Life in Prison).
It's similar to visiting the Art of Recovery exhibit.
Without hyperbole, with the simplest of words, it encapsulates an emotion that few would feel comfortable saying and even fewer would be comfortable in hearing.
How can I explain that for eight months or so, I would go to bed at night and wish that I wouldn't wake up in the morning? I couldn't tell my friend that, they would have freaked out. They won't have understood that I wasn't saying that I was going to do anything about it. That would have actually entailed the mental ability to contemplate something other than putting one foot in front of the other. That would have taken up too much energy.
But I have found the words to wrap around the nakedness of that time.
I'll only quote the end of the poem "Kidney Stone".
After finding out her daughter was murdered, the author has a kidney stone attack and has to go in for surgery:
But first, afraid, on the litter,
I say to my sister,
What if I don't wake up
from the anesthesia?
and she presses my hand
and says, No, no,
don't even think that way-
you are not that lucky.
Showing posts with label sadness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sadness. Show all posts
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
It Isn't Easy Living With Four Deanna Trois
I don't like to cry around my kids. As a matter of fact, I don't like to cry around adults either.
Crying is a normal activity, best done in privacy, with no witnesses and no regrets. Kind of like murder, only with fewer repercussions.
(Who am I kidding, all the murders I've committed have been VERY public.)
Needless to say, I've been trying to figure out if I get weepy when I'm alone because I am alone or is it my brain and heart finally deciding "Ha! You've been storing it up too long and here is a golden opportunity. The house is empty so let the waterworks commence!"
This might not be the healthiest approach. There is something to be said for the parent that can gently show their children that it is ok to feel emotions and that the world won't end if you have a good cry. It's like dusting your brain and cleaning out the cobwebs.
But when you hide it and then it comes out on rare occasions, it can FREAK THE CHILDREN OUT.
I know this from personal experience. When my aunt was going through her second round of cancer when I was in college, she remained her usual pillar of strength. I always considered myself lucky because I was the youngest and hadn't married and started a family. I was in college but I was still able to come home (and finally came home for good when she died...note my lack of college degree...). We talked about things very matter-of-factly. We were very open about life and death in a way that I'm not sure she was comfortable talking with her biological daughters. I remember many conversations when we both planned out our funerals.
Sounds kind of like a strange conversation between a 58 year old cancer patient and a 22 year old college student but it was actually quite liberating. She had cancer and I was depressed as hell, we were both ruminating on death. She was coming from a perspective of dealing with the inevitable, whether she wanted to acknowledge it or not. I was coming from the perspective of losing yet another pillar in my life. Once the heart of your young home loses its father, brother, and aunt/mother, the walls get a little shaky. We talked about death a lot.
She didn't cry. She went through a lot of awful things in her life and I didn't see her cry. During these last ten months, when I didn't think I could bear to wake up the next day, I thought of her. I thought of her staring off into the distance for a moment, lost in thought, and then shaking herself out of it and saying "Well, what are you going to do?" And then, she would go on.
But there finally did come a time, the only time, I saw her cry about her situation. She was being treated for one kind of cancer and she had come home from radiation and was sitting in her lazy boy chair and she started to tell me how she was feeling worse. She told me that she had tried to explain to the doctors that something else was wrong and they blew her off. They told her that the radiation had side effects and that she was just going to have to realize that.
I was stunned when she started weeping. She said that she knew something else was wrong and no one was listening to her.
I got on the phone with the clinic and I have no idea how, as a naive 22 year old, but I bullied and cajoled my way into speaking with the doctor. I refused to let them call me back and I refused to let them put me on hold. When I got to the doctor, I let him have it.
I told him "She has been through this before. She knows what radiation is. She knows the side effects. How dare you blow her off! She thinks something is wrong and you need to figure this out. Don't you understand??? She's crying!"
Had she told me that she thought she was being blown off with her usual "pillar of strength" attitude, I would have never freaked out. I don't know if the doctor fully understood my urgency in conveying the idea that she was openly shedding tears and we were not at anyone's funeral. That was the ONLY time she cried.
Within a very short time, she had an abdominal scan and come to find out, her cancer had spread. It was all down hill from there.
Those tears have left a lasting impression on me. That's why I cry privately. There is nothing more helpless than seeing your protector brought to her knees.
And so I cry when I'm alone. Well, kind of alone. In this house, with two cats and two dogs, am I ever REALLY alone?
My pets do not understand therapeutic keening. My pets are empaths. My pets can sense a disturbance in the force from three rooms away and within fifteen seconds, I will have two cats sitting on my chest and two dogs at my feet, looking most concerned.
It sounds ridiculous, but they really are bumming my stone. How can I step off that ledge when I have four furry characters to pull me back?
My daughter drew this and when I saw it on her site, I burst into tears. I'm sure, of all the things that she has created, this is probably the one drawing that you wouldn't think would make a person cry but it made me lose it. For all the hours of therapy, there are only four creatures on this earth that see me lose it on a somewhat frequent basis.
And funny thing, they forgive me, every time.
Algorithm by *mshizuko on deviantART
Crying is a normal activity, best done in privacy, with no witnesses and no regrets. Kind of like murder, only with fewer repercussions.
(Who am I kidding, all the murders I've committed have been VERY public.)
Needless to say, I've been trying to figure out if I get weepy when I'm alone because I am alone or is it my brain and heart finally deciding "Ha! You've been storing it up too long and here is a golden opportunity. The house is empty so let the waterworks commence!"
This might not be the healthiest approach. There is something to be said for the parent that can gently show their children that it is ok to feel emotions and that the world won't end if you have a good cry. It's like dusting your brain and cleaning out the cobwebs.
But when you hide it and then it comes out on rare occasions, it can FREAK THE CHILDREN OUT.
I know this from personal experience. When my aunt was going through her second round of cancer when I was in college, she remained her usual pillar of strength. I always considered myself lucky because I was the youngest and hadn't married and started a family. I was in college but I was still able to come home (and finally came home for good when she died...note my lack of college degree...). We talked about things very matter-of-factly. We were very open about life and death in a way that I'm not sure she was comfortable talking with her biological daughters. I remember many conversations when we both planned out our funerals.
Sounds kind of like a strange conversation between a 58 year old cancer patient and a 22 year old college student but it was actually quite liberating. She had cancer and I was depressed as hell, we were both ruminating on death. She was coming from a perspective of dealing with the inevitable, whether she wanted to acknowledge it or not. I was coming from the perspective of losing yet another pillar in my life. Once the heart of your young home loses its father, brother, and aunt/mother, the walls get a little shaky. We talked about death a lot.
She didn't cry. She went through a lot of awful things in her life and I didn't see her cry. During these last ten months, when I didn't think I could bear to wake up the next day, I thought of her. I thought of her staring off into the distance for a moment, lost in thought, and then shaking herself out of it and saying "Well, what are you going to do?" And then, she would go on.
But there finally did come a time, the only time, I saw her cry about her situation. She was being treated for one kind of cancer and she had come home from radiation and was sitting in her lazy boy chair and she started to tell me how she was feeling worse. She told me that she had tried to explain to the doctors that something else was wrong and they blew her off. They told her that the radiation had side effects and that she was just going to have to realize that.
I was stunned when she started weeping. She said that she knew something else was wrong and no one was listening to her.
I got on the phone with the clinic and I have no idea how, as a naive 22 year old, but I bullied and cajoled my way into speaking with the doctor. I refused to let them call me back and I refused to let them put me on hold. When I got to the doctor, I let him have it.
I told him "She has been through this before. She knows what radiation is. She knows the side effects. How dare you blow her off! She thinks something is wrong and you need to figure this out. Don't you understand??? She's crying!"
Had she told me that she thought she was being blown off with her usual "pillar of strength" attitude, I would have never freaked out. I don't know if the doctor fully understood my urgency in conveying the idea that she was openly shedding tears and we were not at anyone's funeral. That was the ONLY time she cried.
Within a very short time, she had an abdominal scan and come to find out, her cancer had spread. It was all down hill from there.
Those tears have left a lasting impression on me. That's why I cry privately. There is nothing more helpless than seeing your protector brought to her knees.
And so I cry when I'm alone. Well, kind of alone. In this house, with two cats and two dogs, am I ever REALLY alone?
My pets do not understand therapeutic keening. My pets are empaths. My pets can sense a disturbance in the force from three rooms away and within fifteen seconds, I will have two cats sitting on my chest and two dogs at my feet, looking most concerned.
It sounds ridiculous, but they really are bumming my stone. How can I step off that ledge when I have four furry characters to pull me back?
My daughter drew this and when I saw it on her site, I burst into tears. I'm sure, of all the things that she has created, this is probably the one drawing that you wouldn't think would make a person cry but it made me lose it. For all the hours of therapy, there are only four creatures on this earth that see me lose it on a somewhat frequent basis.
And funny thing, they forgive me, every time.
Algorithm by *mshizuko on deviantART
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
I am the quiet old lady, whispering "hush"
Around here, there's always an option: vacuum the carpet or tear it up.
But after tearing it up there's always the realization that you have to actually sweep the floors occasionally or else the tumbleweeds of dog and cat hair will roll in your wake and you will be followed by an ethereal spaghetti western sound track.
It is best to keep the hands as busy as the mind.
Today was a day of niggling memories. The kind of memories that curl like cigarette smoke, in one ear, swirling through the canyons and ridges of your brain, reminding you that you have been watching waaaayy to much of the Ken Burns documentary lately and no, the Grand Canyon of Yosemite is not your brain and frankly, health care for all would be America's REAL best idea.
That's the thing about memories. One little thought. One marble released into the game and you're off. You bounce from one thought to the next, never stopping, never connecting A to B and never realizing that where you are right now is a direct product of "going there" an hour ago.
Memory begets thought. Thought begets thought. Thought begets another thought.
It is hard to connect the dots because by doing so, it leads back to the beginning. The memory. The initiation of this pinball game. This mind storm. This vortex.
The beginning is always the hardest place to go.
The center of it all is where the monsters live.
But after tearing it up there's always the realization that you have to actually sweep the floors occasionally or else the tumbleweeds of dog and cat hair will roll in your wake and you will be followed by an ethereal spaghetti western sound track.
It is best to keep the hands as busy as the mind.
Today was a day of niggling memories. The kind of memories that curl like cigarette smoke, in one ear, swirling through the canyons and ridges of your brain, reminding you that you have been watching waaaayy to much of the Ken Burns documentary lately and no, the Grand Canyon of Yosemite is not your brain and frankly, health care for all would be America's REAL best idea.
That's the thing about memories. One little thought. One marble released into the game and you're off. You bounce from one thought to the next, never stopping, never connecting A to B and never realizing that where you are right now is a direct product of "going there" an hour ago.
Memory begets thought. Thought begets thought. Thought begets another thought.
It is hard to connect the dots because by doing so, it leads back to the beginning. The memory. The initiation of this pinball game. This mind storm. This vortex.
The beginning is always the hardest place to go.
The center of it all is where the monsters live.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The Assumption of Grief
It's a good thing I'm not passive aggressive or even what is commonly known as a 'bitch" or else I might do something as tasteless as posing with a copy of my signed divorce papers all hot-like:
and then make some tasteless joke like:
See these bars? I don't HAVE to be behind them!
That's the difference between me and STBX.
But I would never do something like that because I am not a be-yotch!
Yes, today was the "great signing". There are still a couple typos to fix on the main body of the document but they are just that, typos. Nothing earth shattering. Things should hopefully be done by Halloween.
So, where does this lead me? What does this mean?
Needless to say, it has been one weird day. I have heard it many times, women get to this point and they feel an alternate elation with a soul crushing sadness.
The thing is, I haven't dwelt in the sadness since I first learned of the initial infidelity. I don't do sadness well. I'm really great at anger. I do righteous indignation to a "t". I can do murderous rage and overwhelmed angst. I can even do a little wilting "I can't take anymore" schlump.
I just have a sincere time with sadness because it feels so self indulgent. I can't stand pity parties and every time I find myself "going there" I have to do a complete analysis and make sure that I am not slipping into a dangerous depression. It always looms as a frightening possibility. My brother committed suicide in his early twenties and it always lurks as a ghost in the shadows.
I have spent more than one night in the last nine months chanting away the dark hours, waiting to go to work. Not because I needed to work, not because I needed the money, but because I needed to not put a gun to my head and hey, putting a gun to your head at work and pulling the trigger is rather tasteless, especially if you have a boss who is a stickler for stains on the carpet.
"Hey boss, think those coffee stains are a bitch?? Watch this!"
Yeah, leave the gun at home...
And it's a weird place to be, not knowing how to grieve or even what you are grieving. I can't grieve a rotten marriage. I can't grieve for 17 years of feeling like shit and wondering what is marital rape and what is passive aggressive bullshit and feeling like I had no where to turn and leaving my house to go to the grocery store and sitting in the parking lot when I was done and thinking that I never wanted to go back and wondering just how far a tank of gas would take me.
I can't grieve for the fact that his sister had the audacity to tell me how much he loved his kids and that my "perception" of him was not what she knew.
I can't grieve for other people's ignorance and stupidity.
I can't grieve for a life I never had.
But yet it comes. The tears that threaten to fall. The sadness that threatens to consume.
I grieve for the hope that I once had.
I grieve for the baby girl that I held in my arms.
I grieve for the children who never knew what it was to have a good father.
I grieve for the miracle of their strength and intelligence and their father's complete and utter lack of its recognition.
I grieve that my daughter knows the pain and abandonment of a childhood gone horribly wrong.
I grieve that I didn't leave earlier.
I grieve that I ever thought I deserved to be treated like shit.
I grieve that there are women in this world that would take him in an instant and think themselves most unworthy.
I grieve that nearly 18 years ago, I thought I could make it work, even though I had my doubts.
I grieve that I didn't trust myself.
As I sat in my lawyers office today, I said I would have liked to be a fly on the wall when he decided not to pursue his objections to the name change anymore. I wanted to know why. I said that he was totally fine with showing up in court and humiliating us but when the chance came that he would be humiliated, he decided not to go there.
My lawyer then told me that in a case like this, he would have probably had to pay extra to get himself transported to court. This was not a necessary court appearance, this was him, being an ass.
"It has nothing to do with any kind of epiphany and everything to do with the fact that he doesn't have anymore money to pay for it," she informed me.
I grieve for the fact that I still am looking for the slightest chance that he isn't the horrible asshole that I think he is.
My grief is manifold.
and then make some tasteless joke like:
See these bars? I don't HAVE to be behind them!
That's the difference between me and STBX.
But I would never do something like that because I am not a be-yotch!
Yes, today was the "great signing". There are still a couple typos to fix on the main body of the document but they are just that, typos. Nothing earth shattering. Things should hopefully be done by Halloween.
So, where does this lead me? What does this mean?
Needless to say, it has been one weird day. I have heard it many times, women get to this point and they feel an alternate elation with a soul crushing sadness.
The thing is, I haven't dwelt in the sadness since I first learned of the initial infidelity. I don't do sadness well. I'm really great at anger. I do righteous indignation to a "t". I can do murderous rage and overwhelmed angst. I can even do a little wilting "I can't take anymore" schlump.
I just have a sincere time with sadness because it feels so self indulgent. I can't stand pity parties and every time I find myself "going there" I have to do a complete analysis and make sure that I am not slipping into a dangerous depression. It always looms as a frightening possibility. My brother committed suicide in his early twenties and it always lurks as a ghost in the shadows.
I have spent more than one night in the last nine months chanting away the dark hours, waiting to go to work. Not because I needed to work, not because I needed the money, but because I needed to not put a gun to my head and hey, putting a gun to your head at work and pulling the trigger is rather tasteless, especially if you have a boss who is a stickler for stains on the carpet.
"Hey boss, think those coffee stains are a bitch?? Watch this!"
Yeah, leave the gun at home...
And it's a weird place to be, not knowing how to grieve or even what you are grieving. I can't grieve a rotten marriage. I can't grieve for 17 years of feeling like shit and wondering what is marital rape and what is passive aggressive bullshit and feeling like I had no where to turn and leaving my house to go to the grocery store and sitting in the parking lot when I was done and thinking that I never wanted to go back and wondering just how far a tank of gas would take me.
I can't grieve for the fact that his sister had the audacity to tell me how much he loved his kids and that my "perception" of him was not what she knew.
I can't grieve for other people's ignorance and stupidity.
I can't grieve for a life I never had.
But yet it comes. The tears that threaten to fall. The sadness that threatens to consume.
I grieve for the hope that I once had.
I grieve for the baby girl that I held in my arms.
I grieve for the children who never knew what it was to have a good father.
I grieve for the miracle of their strength and intelligence and their father's complete and utter lack of its recognition.
I grieve that my daughter knows the pain and abandonment of a childhood gone horribly wrong.
I grieve that I didn't leave earlier.
I grieve that I ever thought I deserved to be treated like shit.
I grieve that there are women in this world that would take him in an instant and think themselves most unworthy.
I grieve that nearly 18 years ago, I thought I could make it work, even though I had my doubts.
I grieve that I didn't trust myself.
As I sat in my lawyers office today, I said I would have liked to be a fly on the wall when he decided not to pursue his objections to the name change anymore. I wanted to know why. I said that he was totally fine with showing up in court and humiliating us but when the chance came that he would be humiliated, he decided not to go there.
My lawyer then told me that in a case like this, he would have probably had to pay extra to get himself transported to court. This was not a necessary court appearance, this was him, being an ass.
"It has nothing to do with any kind of epiphany and everything to do with the fact that he doesn't have anymore money to pay for it," she informed me.
I grieve for the fact that I still am looking for the slightest chance that he isn't the horrible asshole that I think he is.
My grief is manifold.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
The Sadness of Autumn
Welcome to autumn.
Yeah, there are trees changing and when I walked out of the house this morning, it was autumn. I don't need a meteorological demigod to tell me that autumn doesn't officially start until the day before my birthday, I have an autumn detector in my soul.
Autumn is my favorite season but it's also the time of the year when I seem to wear my heart on my sleeve. It's the time of the year when I feel able to commune with the dead relatives and trust me, if I say that in a group of people that don't know me very well, it is a definite conversation stopper.
For me, the world slowly comes to a halt as the trees lose their leaves and the sunlight becomes a precious commodity. I can walk in the woods and listen to my footsteps. I can feel the warmth of my blood in my veins. I can acknowledge that there are people that I have lost and no matter how much time passes, I will always miss them.
You can't stand at someones grave in the summer and lay a finger on the very center of your soul. The sun will be shining, the birds will be singing, there will be kids playing nearby to distract you. The same goes for spring. There will be a wiff of potential in the air. A feeling that things will bloom and be beautiful some day soon.
And winter in this part of the world means any lost relatives will be buried under six feet of dirt and four feet of snow.
But autumn is different. Nature is dying, the world is closing in on itself. If you listen, you can hear your loved ones speaking to you. If you listen, you can hear the story of your losses. You can hold them in your hands and lay them against your heart.
My brother committed suicide in autumn many years ago. I always imagine him in the woods, listening to those voices. I can see him with the colors of autumn around him, feeling the death of the world.
It can be dangerous to listen to those voices. To acknowledge how many ways the human heart can break.
It is a sadness that I take comfort in. It's how I know I'm alive.
Yeah, there are trees changing and when I walked out of the house this morning, it was autumn. I don't need a meteorological demigod to tell me that autumn doesn't officially start until the day before my birthday, I have an autumn detector in my soul.
Autumn is my favorite season but it's also the time of the year when I seem to wear my heart on my sleeve. It's the time of the year when I feel able to commune with the dead relatives and trust me, if I say that in a group of people that don't know me very well, it is a definite conversation stopper.
For me, the world slowly comes to a halt as the trees lose their leaves and the sunlight becomes a precious commodity. I can walk in the woods and listen to my footsteps. I can feel the warmth of my blood in my veins. I can acknowledge that there are people that I have lost and no matter how much time passes, I will always miss them.
You can't stand at someones grave in the summer and lay a finger on the very center of your soul. The sun will be shining, the birds will be singing, there will be kids playing nearby to distract you. The same goes for spring. There will be a wiff of potential in the air. A feeling that things will bloom and be beautiful some day soon.
And winter in this part of the world means any lost relatives will be buried under six feet of dirt and four feet of snow.
But autumn is different. Nature is dying, the world is closing in on itself. If you listen, you can hear your loved ones speaking to you. If you listen, you can hear the story of your losses. You can hold them in your hands and lay them against your heart.
My brother committed suicide in autumn many years ago. I always imagine him in the woods, listening to those voices. I can see him with the colors of autumn around him, feeling the death of the world.
It can be dangerous to listen to those voices. To acknowledge how many ways the human heart can break.
It is a sadness that I take comfort in. It's how I know I'm alive.
Monday, August 03, 2009
The Brave Little Poster
That blog title may be the highlight of my day. I'm just saying...
Hey, I experienced a break through today! I managed to collapse and sob my eyes out.
No, not over the divorce that will never end.
No, not over the name change that will never end.
No, not over the fact that my wonderful daughter is moving far away in less than two weeks.
No, not over the bank account, the doctor bills, the car repair, or nonexistent peace in the middle east.
It was because I couldn’t get my damn hold button on my phone unstuck.
See? That’s why I couldn’t figure out the slippery cheese on my crackers! I should have considered telecommunication issues!
Reality? There are times when boning up on a few realities can help.
For non-offending parents
Understanding the non-offending parent
Abuse and the non offending parent
Stages of grief
Hey, I experienced a break through today! I managed to collapse and sob my eyes out.
No, not over the divorce that will never end.
No, not over the name change that will never end.
No, not over the fact that my wonderful daughter is moving far away in less than two weeks.
No, not over the bank account, the doctor bills, the car repair, or nonexistent peace in the middle east.
It was because I couldn’t get my damn hold button on my phone unstuck.
See? That’s why I couldn’t figure out the slippery cheese on my crackers! I should have considered telecommunication issues!
Reality? There are times when boning up on a few realities can help.
For non-offending parents
Understanding the non-offending parent
Abuse and the non offending parent
Stages of grief
Sunday, August 02, 2009
The Exhumation of Sadness
I realized today that I haven't taken my own advice. My understanding that this journey takes a long time has collided with my realization that it has been seven months since disclosure. I thought it would be different right now.
The sentencing is done. He will legally be gone from our lives for fifteen years.
So why do I feel like my skin is molten glass? Everyone can see through it to the pain below and every incursion upon my life leaves a mark.
In the beginning, I could cry. I could wander the aisles of the grocery store and feel foolish as I burst into tears. Now, I can't even cry if I soak in the tub and listen to the most depressing music around.
I need to cry but I don't know why. A few months back I knew why I was sad. I knew why I needed to break down. I cried and felt cleansed.
Now, I just feel separated. Alone. I can sit in a group of laughing people and feel a million miles deep and completely empty.
I've tried to figure it out. I've talked to myself. I've visualized this sorrow and held it in my arms like a lost child. I've held its fragile body next to mine and breathed in the baby powder scent off the top of its head. I've asked it, unsuccessfully, to tell me what's wrong. It only looks at me with saddened eyes, filled with tears. It just shakes its head and buries its face against me.
All I can do is hold it and rock it gently back and forth. Maybe we'll start together, a keening wail that will come from the very bottom of our soul.
It's the only language we have in common.
"It's an awful truth that suffering can deepen us, give a greater luster to our colors, a richer resonance to our words. That is, if it doesn't destroy us, if it doesn't burn away the optimism and the spirit, the capacity for visions, and the respect for simple yet indispensable things." -Anne Rice
The sentencing is done. He will legally be gone from our lives for fifteen years.
So why do I feel like my skin is molten glass? Everyone can see through it to the pain below and every incursion upon my life leaves a mark.
In the beginning, I could cry. I could wander the aisles of the grocery store and feel foolish as I burst into tears. Now, I can't even cry if I soak in the tub and listen to the most depressing music around.
I need to cry but I don't know why. A few months back I knew why I was sad. I knew why I needed to break down. I cried and felt cleansed.
Now, I just feel separated. Alone. I can sit in a group of laughing people and feel a million miles deep and completely empty.
I've tried to figure it out. I've talked to myself. I've visualized this sorrow and held it in my arms like a lost child. I've held its fragile body next to mine and breathed in the baby powder scent off the top of its head. I've asked it, unsuccessfully, to tell me what's wrong. It only looks at me with saddened eyes, filled with tears. It just shakes its head and buries its face against me.
All I can do is hold it and rock it gently back and forth. Maybe we'll start together, a keening wail that will come from the very bottom of our soul.
It's the only language we have in common.
"It's an awful truth that suffering can deepen us, give a greater luster to our colors, a richer resonance to our words. That is, if it doesn't destroy us, if it doesn't burn away the optimism and the spirit, the capacity for visions, and the respect for simple yet indispensable things." -Anne Rice
Monday, June 15, 2009
This Trail Isn't Marked
Getting mad is a part of getting better.
It's right in there in the steps of grief...in the steps of healing from trauma...in the steps for healing from sexual abuse.
Getting angry.
It can be a terrifying road to travel because when you are walking it, you don't know where it will lead. There are side roads to take you to mind numbing alternatives...drugs, cutting, abusive relationships, suicide.
These are all sorts of pitfalls and potholes along the way.
And once you walk down that path, it's impossible to see the end and after a few short steps, you can no longer see where you came from. If you hold your hand out straight in front of your face, it disappears in the darkness that envelopes you.
No matter how many people want to walk with you, they can't. Anger is a personal journey. People can walk beside you. People can hold out their hands and try to catch you if you fall, but no one can crawl inside your skin and walk your journey for you.
When my daughter asked for people to support her at the hearing on June 26th, this was a huge step for her. When the two of us, along with her PAVSA advocate, had to meet with yet another legal person in the system to spill our guts yet again (one hour after STBX denied her the right to change her name), she got as heated as I've ever seen her.
But not for herself. For me.
To sit there, knowing what she has gone through and knowing how horrible her father treated her for so many years and listening to her tell this person that her father treated me like crap was soul wrenching.
Later, her advocate commented that her anger was positive. It was a sign that she was headed in the right direction. She was channeling it through positive things. She was doing the right thing.
I then asked the question that had haunted me since our meeting. "How can she get so worked up over what her father did to me? What her father did to me was nothing. What her father did to her was horrifying."
And that's when all these last few months came down on my head.
"How have you managed to get through these last few months?" She asked me. "What has been the force that has pulled you through when you didn't think you could survive another five minutes?"
"My kids," I told her. "If we didn't have kids and if he had been a pedophile toward some other child, I probably would have put a bullet in his head and then did the same to myself. As a matter of fact, that thought haunted me even though I did have kids. But it was the anger that I had at him for what he did to my daughter that kept me going. My need to protect her now even though I couldn't/didn't protect her then."
"And why," she then asked me. "Do you think that her journey is any different?"
I just stood there, probably with my mouth hanging open and flies coming in and out. The parent-child bond is also a child-parent bond. I survived for her. She made it through for me.
Neither one of us looked in the mirror and said "I need to do this for myself."
"Myself" is a harder concept. "Myself" means that you recognize that what occured to you was wrong. "Myself" can lead down a road of "oh poor me" and that whole victimization bullshit that STBX wallows in on a daily basis.
But just for a moment, it can be the startling realization that it's easier to stand up for the ones you love than it is to stand up for yourself.
It's the realization that this road is a million miles long and we have only taken the first three steps.
It's right in there in the steps of grief...in the steps of healing from trauma...in the steps for healing from sexual abuse.
Getting angry.
It can be a terrifying road to travel because when you are walking it, you don't know where it will lead. There are side roads to take you to mind numbing alternatives...drugs, cutting, abusive relationships, suicide.
These are all sorts of pitfalls and potholes along the way.
And once you walk down that path, it's impossible to see the end and after a few short steps, you can no longer see where you came from. If you hold your hand out straight in front of your face, it disappears in the darkness that envelopes you.
No matter how many people want to walk with you, they can't. Anger is a personal journey. People can walk beside you. People can hold out their hands and try to catch you if you fall, but no one can crawl inside your skin and walk your journey for you.
When my daughter asked for people to support her at the hearing on June 26th, this was a huge step for her. When the two of us, along with her PAVSA advocate, had to meet with yet another legal person in the system to spill our guts yet again (one hour after STBX denied her the right to change her name), she got as heated as I've ever seen her.
But not for herself. For me.
To sit there, knowing what she has gone through and knowing how horrible her father treated her for so many years and listening to her tell this person that her father treated me like crap was soul wrenching.
Later, her advocate commented that her anger was positive. It was a sign that she was headed in the right direction. She was channeling it through positive things. She was doing the right thing.
I then asked the question that had haunted me since our meeting. "How can she get so worked up over what her father did to me? What her father did to me was nothing. What her father did to her was horrifying."
And that's when all these last few months came down on my head.
"How have you managed to get through these last few months?" She asked me. "What has been the force that has pulled you through when you didn't think you could survive another five minutes?"
"My kids," I told her. "If we didn't have kids and if he had been a pedophile toward some other child, I probably would have put a bullet in his head and then did the same to myself. As a matter of fact, that thought haunted me even though I did have kids. But it was the anger that I had at him for what he did to my daughter that kept me going. My need to protect her now even though I couldn't/didn't protect her then."
"And why," she then asked me. "Do you think that her journey is any different?"
I just stood there, probably with my mouth hanging open and flies coming in and out. The parent-child bond is also a child-parent bond. I survived for her. She made it through for me.
Neither one of us looked in the mirror and said "I need to do this for myself."
"Myself" is a harder concept. "Myself" means that you recognize that what occured to you was wrong. "Myself" can lead down a road of "oh poor me" and that whole victimization bullshit that STBX wallows in on a daily basis.
But just for a moment, it can be the startling realization that it's easier to stand up for the ones you love than it is to stand up for yourself.
It's the realization that this road is a million miles long and we have only taken the first three steps.
Friday, June 05, 2009
And I Thought My Marriage Was Just A Pain In My Ass
The training session was even harder than I had assumed. With an hour to go, I started to get a migraine.
I used to get migraines ALL the time. After two thousand types of meds, I ended up going on atenolol everyday and for about seven years or so, I've only averaged two or three a year. Thankfully, they are merely uncomfortable and miserable as opposed to debilitating with a need for medical intervention.
But today, my body said "ummmmm. no." It was when I heard the presenter talking about abusive relationships and it was laid out in front of me that physical bruises are by no means a necessity of an abusive relationship that I started getting a little veklempt. Then, when I heard her say, word for word, a phrase that STBX said to me early in our marriage when I tried to explain to him how hurtful his behaviors were.
"I don't know what your problem is, I don't beat you."
It was at that exact moment that I looked down at all the behaviors listed for an emotionally abusive relationship and saw my entire marriage. Seventeen years. The early years being lived in isolation in Oklahoma, told that anytime I was unhappy about the way I was treated that I was in the wrong and being a bitch. As long as I didn't have bruises, I had no right to complain.
And all the years afterwards of putting up with it. Why didn't I leave? Why didn't I stand up for myself and say "You are a horrible horse's ass and I hate the way you treat me and I despise you."
Have you ever had the sudden realization that you are no different from a lab rat? That, like a lab rat exposed to an electric shock at their food bowl, you learned to go to the other corner of your cage, sit alone, and starve yourself. Even after the electric shock had been removed. Even after his level of overt hatefulness turned into sullenly ignoring us, with frequent spikes of making it obvious that we were the bane of his existence (after doing the math, this attitude started after he stopped molesting our daughter). Even after being called a bitch stopped. Instead, he physically and psychologically sat down one day in front of the computer and just never got up again.
Too many things for his selfish, childish personality to get involved with. Porn. Online games. Cheating wives with young daughters, willing to offer them up as jailbait.
His world was all about him. We were just the inconvenience. Oh yeah, and the cooked meals. And the only way he could keep this roof over his head. And his personal secretary...and an orifice to fuck until I got sick of the sight of him..
The overt knowledge that he was sexually abusing my daughter is the most devestating thing. The creeping knowledge that he was psychologically abusing us all is yet another crumbling piece in the foundation that was our life.
So, this is what I learned this afternoon. And then I had a migraine. And I puked my guts out. And I curled in the fetal position on the floor and cried until my dogs were howling downstairs.
Every day seems like a thousand little deaths. Thankfully, I have a fuzzy possee to take care of me.
I used to get migraines ALL the time. After two thousand types of meds, I ended up going on atenolol everyday and for about seven years or so, I've only averaged two or three a year. Thankfully, they are merely uncomfortable and miserable as opposed to debilitating with a need for medical intervention.
But today, my body said "ummmmm. no." It was when I heard the presenter talking about abusive relationships and it was laid out in front of me that physical bruises are by no means a necessity of an abusive relationship that I started getting a little veklempt. Then, when I heard her say, word for word, a phrase that STBX said to me early in our marriage when I tried to explain to him how hurtful his behaviors were.
"I don't know what your problem is, I don't beat you."
It was at that exact moment that I looked down at all the behaviors listed for an emotionally abusive relationship and saw my entire marriage. Seventeen years. The early years being lived in isolation in Oklahoma, told that anytime I was unhappy about the way I was treated that I was in the wrong and being a bitch. As long as I didn't have bruises, I had no right to complain.
And all the years afterwards of putting up with it. Why didn't I leave? Why didn't I stand up for myself and say "You are a horrible horse's ass and I hate the way you treat me and I despise you."
Have you ever had the sudden realization that you are no different from a lab rat? That, like a lab rat exposed to an electric shock at their food bowl, you learned to go to the other corner of your cage, sit alone, and starve yourself. Even after the electric shock had been removed. Even after his level of overt hatefulness turned into sullenly ignoring us, with frequent spikes of making it obvious that we were the bane of his existence (after doing the math, this attitude started after he stopped molesting our daughter). Even after being called a bitch stopped. Instead, he physically and psychologically sat down one day in front of the computer and just never got up again.
Too many things for his selfish, childish personality to get involved with. Porn. Online games. Cheating wives with young daughters, willing to offer them up as jailbait.
His world was all about him. We were just the inconvenience. Oh yeah, and the cooked meals. And the only way he could keep this roof over his head. And his personal secretary...and an orifice to fuck until I got sick of the sight of him..
The overt knowledge that he was sexually abusing my daughter is the most devestating thing. The creeping knowledge that he was psychologically abusing us all is yet another crumbling piece in the foundation that was our life.
So, this is what I learned this afternoon. And then I had a migraine. And I puked my guts out. And I curled in the fetal position on the floor and cried until my dogs were howling downstairs.
Every day seems like a thousand little deaths. Thankfully, I have a fuzzy possee to take care of me.
Monday, May 18, 2009
And So, It Finally Starts
This weekend was filled with sorting and cleaning.
My garage, my basement, my head, my life.
Clean for twenty minutes, cry for twenty minutes.
With The Decemberists on repeat on my Ipod
This week may just be the most difficult of my life with the contested omnibus on Friday. I had a very smart friend prepare me for the worst by telling me that I need to wrap my head around the possibility that he won't receive anything but a slap on the wrists. There are mothers and daughters out there that have been through this process and gotten nothing but fucked, one more time, by the judicial system. It's at times like that when you have to appreciate how much courage it takes to face down the demons and realize that even though they don't get what they deserve, the fact that they were charged with a sex crime means that it will be on their record forever. Even if they don't go to prison or jail, they will always be a marked individual and will probably never get a "real job" in the future. Unfortunately, that won't mean much for STBX as he never had a "real job" to begin with. Any job with any amount of aggravation was an unceasing diatribe against humanity (I know, I heard about it). I highly doubt that he's going to apply to work at a daycare center or a school.
In other words, a slap on the wrist will mean just that, a slap on the wrist.
My friend wasn't telling me to give up just yet, just like my divorce lawyer, she was preparing me so I won't go off the deep end, so I won't meet him out front of the court house with a moltov cocktail, shaken, not stirred.
"You have no control over any of this. You've done everything you were supposed to do. Now you just have to wait. You can't expend you mental energy on him. You have to focus on your daughter."
Great advice. I will try to remember it as I watch the bastard try to squirm his way out of this one.
My garage, my basement, my head, my life.
Clean for twenty minutes, cry for twenty minutes.
With The Decemberists on repeat on my Ipod
This week may just be the most difficult of my life with the contested omnibus on Friday. I had a very smart friend prepare me for the worst by telling me that I need to wrap my head around the possibility that he won't receive anything but a slap on the wrists. There are mothers and daughters out there that have been through this process and gotten nothing but fucked, one more time, by the judicial system. It's at times like that when you have to appreciate how much courage it takes to face down the demons and realize that even though they don't get what they deserve, the fact that they were charged with a sex crime means that it will be on their record forever. Even if they don't go to prison or jail, they will always be a marked individual and will probably never get a "real job" in the future. Unfortunately, that won't mean much for STBX as he never had a "real job" to begin with. Any job with any amount of aggravation was an unceasing diatribe against humanity (I know, I heard about it). I highly doubt that he's going to apply to work at a daycare center or a school.
In other words, a slap on the wrist will mean just that, a slap on the wrist.
My friend wasn't telling me to give up just yet, just like my divorce lawyer, she was preparing me so I won't go off the deep end, so I won't meet him out front of the court house with a moltov cocktail, shaken, not stirred.
"You have no control over any of this. You've done everything you were supposed to do. Now you just have to wait. You can't expend you mental energy on him. You have to focus on your daughter."
Great advice. I will try to remember it as I watch the bastard try to squirm his way out of this one.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Thomas Wolfe Was Right-Heavy Books Are Great Paper Weights
The Harkness Family will be taking a vacation this summer.
I got the time off yesterday and the last week of August will be us, piling in the car and driving back to my family in Michigan.
We haven't been back there for about twelve years.
And since I can't afford to board the dogs, we'll probably be taking them with us.
(They are currently running cyclonic circles around the living room until they are both so dizzy that they fall down).
Nothing like a grand entrance.
I sincerely don't want to take them because my sister has cats and I just don't want to be the cause of any consternation but unless someone has a better idea (all suggestions welcome but the ASPCA had better approve), I think we will have to suck it up.
I'll get to meet up with a couple of good friends from high school/college and I'll get to bore my progeny to tears with stories. (No, honest, the ONLY thing I ever did behind the ice cream store was to eat ice cream. That's why I was gone for three hours mom. And I don't know WHY my shirt is on backwards and inside out.)
But what I'm looking forward to the most is sitting up late with my sister and just shooting the breeze. Nothing fancy, nothing special.
I just feel so completely broken right now. Utterly shattered. I can put on a bullshit facade to get through the day but every time I move, I can hear the broken pieces rattling around inside of me. Lately, I've had to convince myself on a daily basis that it is worth starting over. That the modicum of energy I have at the end of the day should be spent looking toward the future.
But I've forgotten where all the pieces go. I've forgotten who I used to be and whether I want to save any of that for the future.
So, I'm going home. Just for a few days. Just to ask my family and friends the ultimate question.
Who am I?
I guess
I got the time off yesterday and the last week of August will be us, piling in the car and driving back to my family in Michigan.
We haven't been back there for about twelve years.
And since I can't afford to board the dogs, we'll probably be taking them with us.
(They are currently running cyclonic circles around the living room until they are both so dizzy that they fall down).
Nothing like a grand entrance.
I sincerely don't want to take them because my sister has cats and I just don't want to be the cause of any consternation but unless someone has a better idea (all suggestions welcome but the ASPCA had better approve), I think we will have to suck it up.
I'll get to meet up with a couple of good friends from high school/college and I'll get to bore my progeny to tears with stories. (No, honest, the ONLY thing I ever did behind the ice cream store was to eat ice cream. That's why I was gone for three hours mom. And I don't know WHY my shirt is on backwards and inside out.)
But what I'm looking forward to the most is sitting up late with my sister and just shooting the breeze. Nothing fancy, nothing special.
I just feel so completely broken right now. Utterly shattered. I can put on a bullshit facade to get through the day but every time I move, I can hear the broken pieces rattling around inside of me. Lately, I've had to convince myself on a daily basis that it is worth starting over. That the modicum of energy I have at the end of the day should be spent looking toward the future.
But I've forgotten where all the pieces go. I've forgotten who I used to be and whether I want to save any of that for the future.
So, I'm going home. Just for a few days. Just to ask my family and friends the ultimate question.
Who am I?
I guess
Friday, April 24, 2009
A Little Comfort
The most important job that I have on the face of this earth is to be a good mom to my kids.
I figure they at least deserve one parent that feels that way.
I think that's why I got so emotional yesterday when I found the quilts on my front porch.
Getting a gift that my friends made for my family feels like a hug, it feels like what a good parent would do.
"I can't fix everything, but I can let you know how much I care."
The hardest thing lately is admitting to my kids that even the little things that we would do are now out of the question. Video store? Why, that's four bucks and four bucks is a gallon of milk...Driving to the dog park? That's on the other end of town and gas might not be three bucks a gallon now, but it might as well be.
I find myself wandering down to our basement frequently. Not to ferret for food in the chest freezer, but to curl up next to it and cry as quietly as possible. I have amazing kids and they have been through so much and I try to bouy them up and be their safety net but then I turn to face the grim realities of our finances and I try to calmly explain to them that everything will be ok when I feel like I'm failing as a parent and a provider.
My job has a mandatory retirement plan which conveniently kicks in on my next paycheck. It decreases my pay by 5%. The skin of my teeth no longer exists.
I'm becoming fatalistic. I no longer fear bad credit. I make my kids dinner and then sit back to see what's left over so I can eat it. I don't let them see me flinch when they barrell through the food in the cupboard as only the parent of a teenager can imagine. I tell them that there are new realities in our life and then I go downstairs again.
Never let them see you cry.
I figure they at least deserve one parent that feels that way.
I think that's why I got so emotional yesterday when I found the quilts on my front porch.
Getting a gift that my friends made for my family feels like a hug, it feels like what a good parent would do.
"I can't fix everything, but I can let you know how much I care."
The hardest thing lately is admitting to my kids that even the little things that we would do are now out of the question. Video store? Why, that's four bucks and four bucks is a gallon of milk...Driving to the dog park? That's on the other end of town and gas might not be three bucks a gallon now, but it might as well be.
I find myself wandering down to our basement frequently. Not to ferret for food in the chest freezer, but to curl up next to it and cry as quietly as possible. I have amazing kids and they have been through so much and I try to bouy them up and be their safety net but then I turn to face the grim realities of our finances and I try to calmly explain to them that everything will be ok when I feel like I'm failing as a parent and a provider.
My job has a mandatory retirement plan which conveniently kicks in on my next paycheck. It decreases my pay by 5%. The skin of my teeth no longer exists.
I'm becoming fatalistic. I no longer fear bad credit. I make my kids dinner and then sit back to see what's left over so I can eat it. I don't let them see me flinch when they barrell through the food in the cupboard as only the parent of a teenager can imagine. I tell them that there are new realities in our life and then I go downstairs again.
Never let them see you cry.
Monday, April 20, 2009
All The Little Pieces
The next criminal court appearance will be May 22nd at 10:30.
Within six weeks we get to make an appearance at the St. Louis County Courthouse three times. All I really need to know is this:
Do we get frequent flyer miles?
Unfortunately, the date that I'm actually looking forward to the most happens last. Our name change.
A local pastor has offered to do a name ceremony for us which I think would be lovely but I'm not too sure about the overtly Jesus aspect of it. My thought would be to have a name changing ceremony at our house along with a Native American smudging ceremony to get out all the bad juju that he left in our lives.
I wonder how it feels to be considered the evil spirit that your family is trying to exercise? To have so totally fucked up three other human beings on the face of the earth and to have caused such emotional pain which goes to the very morrow of the bones, the soft curl at the center of the soul.
To have your kids stop you when you accidently refer to something before your world exploded. Something that referred to him. Something that seemed an innocuous comment. Something that caused your child to look at you and softly say "Mom, just...don't." Three words that are pregnant with pain and meaning.
There are days when these little phrases, scattered throughout the day, can cut your heart out. They end up as pieces; ugly, painful, and waiting like land mines. Don't go there again, you're told, it might be worse.
The pain might be dormant for years but someday, you will walk here again. You will forget for just one moment and you will step your foot down and your world will go up in a blinding flash of light.
I am going to be wandering through the next six weeks of my life, picking up the pieces. His pieces. The pieces of flesh and memory that he took and used and threw away.
How can I gather all the pieces? How can I repair this damage? How can I stop this horrible cycle of anger, sadness, and heartbreak?
How can I hold my children in my arms and tell them that it will be OK when I'm still trying to convince myself?
Within six weeks we get to make an appearance at the St. Louis County Courthouse three times. All I really need to know is this:
Do we get frequent flyer miles?
Unfortunately, the date that I'm actually looking forward to the most happens last. Our name change.
A local pastor has offered to do a name ceremony for us which I think would be lovely but I'm not too sure about the overtly Jesus aspect of it. My thought would be to have a name changing ceremony at our house along with a Native American smudging ceremony to get out all the bad juju that he left in our lives.
I wonder how it feels to be considered the evil spirit that your family is trying to exercise? To have so totally fucked up three other human beings on the face of the earth and to have caused such emotional pain which goes to the very morrow of the bones, the soft curl at the center of the soul.
To have your kids stop you when you accidently refer to something before your world exploded. Something that referred to him. Something that seemed an innocuous comment. Something that caused your child to look at you and softly say "Mom, just...don't." Three words that are pregnant with pain and meaning.
There are days when these little phrases, scattered throughout the day, can cut your heart out. They end up as pieces; ugly, painful, and waiting like land mines. Don't go there again, you're told, it might be worse.
The pain might be dormant for years but someday, you will walk here again. You will forget for just one moment and you will step your foot down and your world will go up in a blinding flash of light.
I am going to be wandering through the next six weeks of my life, picking up the pieces. His pieces. The pieces of flesh and memory that he took and used and threw away.
How can I gather all the pieces? How can I repair this damage? How can I stop this horrible cycle of anger, sadness, and heartbreak?
How can I hold my children in my arms and tell them that it will be OK when I'm still trying to convince myself?
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Mommie Dearest
It's always interesting to pop the top off your head and take a look at what makes you tick.
I remember a long time ago when my kids were toddlers, I went to a workshop on parenting and the presenter said that, when your kids are misbehaving and you are at your wits end, it sometimes helps to pretend that they are someone else's kids. You are less likely to throttle someone else's kids. You are more likely to step back from the situation and act responsibly.
I've found that advice to be very beneficial over the years when examining my own self. Having had the cheese slip off my crackers as a college student, I really don't want to go there again. Having had less than stellar therapy in the past, I'm less than trusting when it comes to laying all the power at someone else's feet.
Thus, I tinker.
During the years of my marriage, I would stand in the kitchen, stare out of the kitchen window, and psychoanalyze why I was so angry. I would delve into the reasons for my sadness. I would take comfort in the fact that I had reasons to feel the way I was feeling.
And then I wouldn't do a damn thing about it.
It's sort of like being the most enlightened person on a deserted island. In the long run, it doesn't really matter much.
Something I've been examining lately is motherhood.
So much of what is going on revolves around motherhood.
Mother-guilt for not knowing what was going on (yes, I know it's ridiculous to beat myself up for ignorance but SAYING it and FEELING it are two entirely different things.)
Abysmal choices by mothers-STBX's manhole choosing to carry on a relationship with a known pedophile when she has a young daughter. (Do you think he fantasizes about her daughter when they're having sex?).
Maternal abandonment issues-something that I've been working on in regards to myself and my first few months of life.
STBX's mother issues-He never moved past the psychological development of a ten year old and always acted like I was supposed to be his mother rather than his wife. I know a lot of women feel this way about their husbands but his is a deep seated psychological issue rather than an annoying immaturity.
There's also the culture of judgment of mother's, mine being right up there at the top. Mothers are judged far more than fathers. One side of the coin is that we're all trying to do the best we can with what we have. The other side of the coin is the reality that we often act out of selfish desires for our own safety, our own security, and our own desires.
See, prying the top off your head can get ugly.
You have to be willing to own what you have done. To admit that there were times when you should have made better choices and that there were times when you were just hanging on by a thread.
To realize that the decisions you make as a mother are made in somewhat of an echo chamber, they might seem transitory at the time but when you string them together, they make a conversation, the foundation of a life for your children.
That is the ultimate challenge and the heartbreaking joy of being a mother.
I remember a long time ago when my kids were toddlers, I went to a workshop on parenting and the presenter said that, when your kids are misbehaving and you are at your wits end, it sometimes helps to pretend that they are someone else's kids. You are less likely to throttle someone else's kids. You are more likely to step back from the situation and act responsibly.
I've found that advice to be very beneficial over the years when examining my own self. Having had the cheese slip off my crackers as a college student, I really don't want to go there again. Having had less than stellar therapy in the past, I'm less than trusting when it comes to laying all the power at someone else's feet.
Thus, I tinker.
During the years of my marriage, I would stand in the kitchen, stare out of the kitchen window, and psychoanalyze why I was so angry. I would delve into the reasons for my sadness. I would take comfort in the fact that I had reasons to feel the way I was feeling.
And then I wouldn't do a damn thing about it.
It's sort of like being the most enlightened person on a deserted island. In the long run, it doesn't really matter much.
Something I've been examining lately is motherhood.
So much of what is going on revolves around motherhood.
Mother-guilt for not knowing what was going on (yes, I know it's ridiculous to beat myself up for ignorance but SAYING it and FEELING it are two entirely different things.)
Abysmal choices by mothers-STBX's manhole choosing to carry on a relationship with a known pedophile when she has a young daughter. (Do you think he fantasizes about her daughter when they're having sex?).
Maternal abandonment issues-something that I've been working on in regards to myself and my first few months of life.
STBX's mother issues-He never moved past the psychological development of a ten year old and always acted like I was supposed to be his mother rather than his wife. I know a lot of women feel this way about their husbands but his is a deep seated psychological issue rather than an annoying immaturity.
There's also the culture of judgment of mother's, mine being right up there at the top. Mothers are judged far more than fathers. One side of the coin is that we're all trying to do the best we can with what we have. The other side of the coin is the reality that we often act out of selfish desires for our own safety, our own security, and our own desires.
See, prying the top off your head can get ugly.
You have to be willing to own what you have done. To admit that there were times when you should have made better choices and that there were times when you were just hanging on by a thread.
To realize that the decisions you make as a mother are made in somewhat of an echo chamber, they might seem transitory at the time but when you string them together, they make a conversation, the foundation of a life for your children.
That is the ultimate challenge and the heartbreaking joy of being a mother.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Take Two
Reboot.
That's what today has been.
I talked to my therapist (individual, not group), on Friday morning and she headed me in the right direction. I have some meds from when I saw my family doc back in January for anxiety and I've been using them a little more than previously. I'm sincerely not interested in anti-depressants at this point because I'm not interested in being a zombie. That's what they do for me and I hate it.
So today was spent in the gym, exercising the demons a little more holistically. A nice long sauna after wards was really relaxing as well.
I then went to Home Depot for a gardening presentation that didn't really tell me anything that I didn't already know but when I entered my name into a drawing, I ended up winning a gigantic peace lily. I'm going to believe that I won because I entered in my "new" name. Had I entered in my stbx's last name, not only would I not have won, I probably would have been hit by a truck in the parking lot.
Yeah, I know...but we all gotta tell ourselves stories to get through the day, right?
I also crawled out of the hole I obviously exist in and went to Earth Exchange over in Superior. Every time I've been by there they have been closed so today was my first time to actually go inside. HOLY COW! It's about damn time this area got a shop like this! Since I'm having a real problem finding food very interesting lately, I sort of keep losing weight even though I'm not trying anymore so I was totally pumped to find two pairs of jeans for a buck a piece.
I then tried to bulk up on Starbucks Coffee Cake and met Mary for a quick book sale. Currently, my son is making manicotti from scratch to go along with some sourdough bread I made this afternoon.
After the criminal case is over, I'll have to share some of the reasons why I took this tentative step off the deep end. Thankfully, I'm treading water for now.
That's what today has been.
I talked to my therapist (individual, not group), on Friday morning and she headed me in the right direction. I have some meds from when I saw my family doc back in January for anxiety and I've been using them a little more than previously. I'm sincerely not interested in anti-depressants at this point because I'm not interested in being a zombie. That's what they do for me and I hate it.
So today was spent in the gym, exercising the demons a little more holistically. A nice long sauna after wards was really relaxing as well.
I then went to Home Depot for a gardening presentation that didn't really tell me anything that I didn't already know but when I entered my name into a drawing, I ended up winning a gigantic peace lily. I'm going to believe that I won because I entered in my "new" name. Had I entered in my stbx's last name, not only would I not have won, I probably would have been hit by a truck in the parking lot.
Yeah, I know...but we all gotta tell ourselves stories to get through the day, right?
I also crawled out of the hole I obviously exist in and went to Earth Exchange over in Superior. Every time I've been by there they have been closed so today was my first time to actually go inside. HOLY COW! It's about damn time this area got a shop like this! Since I'm having a real problem finding food very interesting lately, I sort of keep losing weight even though I'm not trying anymore so I was totally pumped to find two pairs of jeans for a buck a piece.
I then tried to bulk up on Starbucks Coffee Cake and met Mary for a quick book sale. Currently, my son is making manicotti from scratch to go along with some sourdough bread I made this afternoon.
After the criminal case is over, I'll have to share some of the reasons why I took this tentative step off the deep end. Thankfully, I'm treading water for now.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Emergency Plans Are Not Always A Good Idea
When all this shit happened, I thought it would be a good thing to have a plan for my kids. What to do if I get hit by a bus, who to call, all that jazz.
I managed to get them set up with cell phones, and I set myself up too. We programmed in emergency numbers.
I don't know, is that the modern equivalent of an emergency plan?
I wanted to write it down for them. Maybe it's because I've worked as a paramedic before and I've seen the horrible things that take people by surprise but I wanted the piece of mind that comes with the knowledge that my kids would know what to do in an emergency. Call this person, call that person. This is where this piece of paper is, this is where that piece of paper is.
I'm glad I don't have a plan right now.
A plan gives a person piece of mind, but right now it also gives permission.
To have your stbx cheat on you and molest your child and demand money from you when you are holding yourself together with bubblegum, your family together with silly putty, and your life together with those little tiny bandaids that always come off and are absolutely ridiculous, is a little too much to take. When you used all your money to pay off bills and fix the house and you're being treated like you took a Carribean vacation is maddening.
Going into the bathroom at work once to fall apart and curl into a ball and completly lose your shit may be understandable. Doing it three times is a little frightening. Heading home and being forced to pull off the road because you couldn't see any longer due to crying and coming to the realization that all you want to do is disappear and too bad you didn't have that plan in writing and...and...and...
Up to now, I've been able to latch onto things that I know will keep me going. The very basics. My kids. My pets. My friends.
Dear God, all I want to do is disappear.
I managed to get them set up with cell phones, and I set myself up too. We programmed in emergency numbers.
I don't know, is that the modern equivalent of an emergency plan?
I wanted to write it down for them. Maybe it's because I've worked as a paramedic before and I've seen the horrible things that take people by surprise but I wanted the piece of mind that comes with the knowledge that my kids would know what to do in an emergency. Call this person, call that person. This is where this piece of paper is, this is where that piece of paper is.
I'm glad I don't have a plan right now.
A plan gives a person piece of mind, but right now it also gives permission.
To have your stbx cheat on you and molest your child and demand money from you when you are holding yourself together with bubblegum, your family together with silly putty, and your life together with those little tiny bandaids that always come off and are absolutely ridiculous, is a little too much to take. When you used all your money to pay off bills and fix the house and you're being treated like you took a Carribean vacation is maddening.
Going into the bathroom at work once to fall apart and curl into a ball and completly lose your shit may be understandable. Doing it three times is a little frightening. Heading home and being forced to pull off the road because you couldn't see any longer due to crying and coming to the realization that all you want to do is disappear and too bad you didn't have that plan in writing and...and...and...
Up to now, I've been able to latch onto things that I know will keep me going. The very basics. My kids. My pets. My friends.
Dear God, all I want to do is disappear.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
This Is My Brain On Thursday
There are many “behind the scenes” issues burbling right now. Things that came to the surface while standing in the courthouse and seeing stbx.
There are places in this universe that are like mental fault lines, tears in the fabric of life. When I stand on these faults, I can feel all the misery of every single soul that came before me. It seeps out of the ground like toxic sludge. It flows down the walls like tears. If I listen hard enough, I can hear weeping.
The unbearable sadness of this situation is clawing at me. I’m the single stationary point in a time lapse movie. The world is spinning around me and I can’t comprehend any of it. The only thing I can do is warm my hands on my coffee cup, close my door, and cry. This is The Grieving. This is beyond anger. This is when the situation implodes.
To see someone that I thought I used to care about and know, in my heart of hearts, that I could put a gun to his head and pull the trigger, all the while staring him straight in the eye, is unsettling. Most human beings, I would hope, have never stared into that black pit in their soul.
It’s like death. It’s the full revelation of how twisted we can all be as human beings. It’s a constant struggle to hold onto that line by Abraham Lincoln and be guided by the better angels of my nature.
It’s the realization that I don’t believe in angels.
The universe is whole and entire and I am completely outside of it. I’m standing in the street after the bombs have gone off, surrounded by what used to be my life, my family, my everything. I am surrounded by ruin and covered in blood.
The pieces are so many and they are scattered so very far.
There are places in this universe that are like mental fault lines, tears in the fabric of life. When I stand on these faults, I can feel all the misery of every single soul that came before me. It seeps out of the ground like toxic sludge. It flows down the walls like tears. If I listen hard enough, I can hear weeping.
The unbearable sadness of this situation is clawing at me. I’m the single stationary point in a time lapse movie. The world is spinning around me and I can’t comprehend any of it. The only thing I can do is warm my hands on my coffee cup, close my door, and cry. This is The Grieving. This is beyond anger. This is when the situation implodes.
To see someone that I thought I used to care about and know, in my heart of hearts, that I could put a gun to his head and pull the trigger, all the while staring him straight in the eye, is unsettling. Most human beings, I would hope, have never stared into that black pit in their soul.
It’s like death. It’s the full revelation of how twisted we can all be as human beings. It’s a constant struggle to hold onto that line by Abraham Lincoln and be guided by the better angels of my nature.
It’s the realization that I don’t believe in angels.
The universe is whole and entire and I am completely outside of it. I’m standing in the street after the bombs have gone off, surrounded by what used to be my life, my family, my everything. I am surrounded by ruin and covered in blood.
The pieces are so many and they are scattered so very far.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
"Stand Back", Said The Elephant, "I'm Going To Sneeze"
Having two people traveling this nightmare journey at the same time, in the same house, can be like some sort of demented tv show. Kind of like Facts Of Life meets One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. Or perhaps Family Ties meets The Shinning. Whatever it is, it has to have Jack Nicholson in it, crazy as hell, and perhaps wielding an ax. (That part would be played by me.)
It means that we can find ourselves in the most mundane surroundings, having the most heart wrenching conversations.
The hardest lesson to learn for me is that we all take this journey at different speeds. Also, a lot is dependant upon our age and experience.
At first, it was so hard to talk about it. The shock of the situation was overwhelming. When you find yourself in a house that is crumbling, you really don't want to stand inside and discuss the viability of supporting beams. You just want to run like hell. (Can't imagine WHY I thought if phrasing it like that...)
I'm in a position of wanting my daughter to talk. I'm in a position of not wanting to hear the facts. I'm in a position of wanting to do what's best for my daughter. I'm in a position where what's best for my daughter gives me nightmares. I'm in a position where I have to be strong enough to stomach the nightmares because I love my kids more than anything.
She has a counselor and will start with a therapist next week. I will always be there to listen to whatever, whenever, but I also want her to talk to professionals. I want her to open up to people that can guide her, ask the right questions, give her the right coping tools, and support her with their eleventy million years of experience.
But that's not how a teenager works. Nothing is straight forward. Nothing is easy and this? This is beyond belief. Teenagers rarely go into their therapists office, kick back and talk talk talk. It's not how they are wired.
But my daughter does art. It has been her therapy for years. It is her safe place. Her way of soothing herself.
So when her art teacher presses her for her artistic statement, they have a tendency to come off rather flat and snarky. When her art teacher presses her to discuss the inspiration behind her art in class, her answers are glib and evasive.
Until yesterday. Apparantly the teacher gave her a less than satisfactory grade on something and was less than impressed by her answers in class.
That's when the elephant sneezed.
My daughter proceeded to write her a three page letter explaining what is going on in her life. She finally let her know what her artistic motivation was.
She told me that she wasn't being rude or snarky, just informative. Hopefully the teacher takes it that way too.
I told her that I was so proud of her. It takes an amazing amount of courage to do what she did.
It's a start.
It means that we can find ourselves in the most mundane surroundings, having the most heart wrenching conversations.
The hardest lesson to learn for me is that we all take this journey at different speeds. Also, a lot is dependant upon our age and experience.
At first, it was so hard to talk about it. The shock of the situation was overwhelming. When you find yourself in a house that is crumbling, you really don't want to stand inside and discuss the viability of supporting beams. You just want to run like hell. (Can't imagine WHY I thought if phrasing it like that...)
I'm in a position of wanting my daughter to talk. I'm in a position of not wanting to hear the facts. I'm in a position of wanting to do what's best for my daughter. I'm in a position where what's best for my daughter gives me nightmares. I'm in a position where I have to be strong enough to stomach the nightmares because I love my kids more than anything.
She has a counselor and will start with a therapist next week. I will always be there to listen to whatever, whenever, but I also want her to talk to professionals. I want her to open up to people that can guide her, ask the right questions, give her the right coping tools, and support her with their eleventy million years of experience.
But that's not how a teenager works. Nothing is straight forward. Nothing is easy and this? This is beyond belief. Teenagers rarely go into their therapists office, kick back and talk talk talk. It's not how they are wired.
But my daughter does art. It has been her therapy for years. It is her safe place. Her way of soothing herself.
So when her art teacher presses her for her artistic statement, they have a tendency to come off rather flat and snarky. When her art teacher presses her to discuss the inspiration behind her art in class, her answers are glib and evasive.
Until yesterday. Apparantly the teacher gave her a less than satisfactory grade on something and was less than impressed by her answers in class.
That's when the elephant sneezed.
My daughter proceeded to write her a three page letter explaining what is going on in her life. She finally let her know what her artistic motivation was.
She told me that she wasn't being rude or snarky, just informative. Hopefully the teacher takes it that way too.
I told her that I was so proud of her. It takes an amazing amount of courage to do what she did.
It's a start.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Bear Went Over The Mountain
Today was another day of group therapy.
Before I started group, I was told that it might make things worse. It might make the flashbacks more frequent. It might make me relive it all again.
I was at the precipice when I started group. I was all hatred and homicide. My past and my present were ganging up on me.
That was a few weeks ago. I've been choosing to laugh instead of cry. Often I pause and feel every molecule in my being. I am heavy with the weight of it all.
It's a struggle against hate. It's a struggle against unbearable sadness. It's a struggle against curling in the fetal position and sobbing.
I have flashbacks to things I only remember with my skin. I am grounded in the present yet I am a child, hiding in a closet. I can stand in my kitchen and feel the fingers grasping my throat thirty years ago. Ten minutes later, I am a ghost in the recent past, reliving what I read on the police report. I am watching in horror as it all unfolds in front of me, powerless to prevent it.
It's like a burn. People are telling me I have to scrub the scabs off in order to heal. I am so very tired and this journey is so very long.
After a day that included not only group but a pap and a mammogram, I remember what it is like to have no ownership over my body. I remember opening the door to madness when I was nineteen and stepping through. I have so much more to lose this time. I have to hold on.
On days like this, when every moment seems like a chant against self destruction, I have to tell myself what would happen if I take the easy way out. If I commit an act of violence, I would be giving this horrible loser more years of my life. If I choose not to wake up tomorrow, he wins.
There are times when you have to look at the world in a grain of sand. Nothing else matters right now except for the fact that I can't let this bastard win.
But I am so tired and this mountain is so steep.
Before I started group, I was told that it might make things worse. It might make the flashbacks more frequent. It might make me relive it all again.
I was at the precipice when I started group. I was all hatred and homicide. My past and my present were ganging up on me.
That was a few weeks ago. I've been choosing to laugh instead of cry. Often I pause and feel every molecule in my being. I am heavy with the weight of it all.
It's a struggle against hate. It's a struggle against unbearable sadness. It's a struggle against curling in the fetal position and sobbing.
I have flashbacks to things I only remember with my skin. I am grounded in the present yet I am a child, hiding in a closet. I can stand in my kitchen and feel the fingers grasping my throat thirty years ago. Ten minutes later, I am a ghost in the recent past, reliving what I read on the police report. I am watching in horror as it all unfolds in front of me, powerless to prevent it.
It's like a burn. People are telling me I have to scrub the scabs off in order to heal. I am so very tired and this journey is so very long.
After a day that included not only group but a pap and a mammogram, I remember what it is like to have no ownership over my body. I remember opening the door to madness when I was nineteen and stepping through. I have so much more to lose this time. I have to hold on.
On days like this, when every moment seems like a chant against self destruction, I have to tell myself what would happen if I take the easy way out. If I commit an act of violence, I would be giving this horrible loser more years of my life. If I choose not to wake up tomorrow, he wins.
There are times when you have to look at the world in a grain of sand. Nothing else matters right now except for the fact that I can't let this bastard win.
But I am so tired and this mountain is so steep.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Tickle Me Emo
School events can be a lot like a National Geographic nature show.
Go to your next one with that image in mind. It might be the only thing that saves you from losing your mind. Or pulling the fire alarm. Or asking the students where the best place to score some weed is.
Yesterday was measured out in minutes. Working at my desk, trying to distract my mind from losing my shit, getting really involved in what I was doing, and then wiping away the tears as they fell onto my keyboard.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
So it wasn't necessarily a welcome idea when I picked the kids up and my daughter reminded me of the art exhibit and band concert at 6:30.
I face each day with a finite amount of energy. By the time we reached the school, I was well beyond empty.
So that's where my 'observational status' came in. I sat down in the corner on the floor with my daughter and watched the herd go by. The pack leaders made sure to weave their way through the crowd, standing tall and trying to look important. There were the mothers guiding their calves, wary of trouble; the fathers walking around the perimeter, wondering why they were there, and the skulking students like hyenas, deciding who they would tear apart next.
Then there was me, making my mental notes, keeping my mind busy and my mouth shut. I knew that at any moment the herd might scatter and run me into the ground.
Go to your next one with that image in mind. It might be the only thing that saves you from losing your mind. Or pulling the fire alarm. Or asking the students where the best place to score some weed is.
Yesterday was measured out in minutes. Working at my desk, trying to distract my mind from losing my shit, getting really involved in what I was doing, and then wiping away the tears as they fell onto my keyboard.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
So it wasn't necessarily a welcome idea when I picked the kids up and my daughter reminded me of the art exhibit and band concert at 6:30.
I face each day with a finite amount of energy. By the time we reached the school, I was well beyond empty.
So that's where my 'observational status' came in. I sat down in the corner on the floor with my daughter and watched the herd go by. The pack leaders made sure to weave their way through the crowd, standing tall and trying to look important. There were the mothers guiding their calves, wary of trouble; the fathers walking around the perimeter, wondering why they were there, and the skulking students like hyenas, deciding who they would tear apart next.
Then there was me, making my mental notes, keeping my mind busy and my mouth shut. I knew that at any moment the herd might scatter and run me into the ground.
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