Wow.
Wow.
I can't believe how I have fallen off here.
Fallen off of reading.
Fallen off of writing.
I recently heard myself saying to myself that there simply just isn't enough time.
But myself said back to myself that this is simply an excuse.
That if I really wanted to, I would find a way.
I don't want this to end.
But I don't have anything right now.
So I think a hiatus is in order.
Next week is my last class and the holidays are approaching (who would have noticed? like you need me to point that out!) and I will be on vaca from my little munchkins at the preschool.
Big things have been brewing with me on a spiritual level.
It is something so big I need time to reflect upon it.
This silence of mine has been purely mindful, somewhat meditative, and mostly reflective.
I've been thinking of you all and sending thoughts to you all out into the cosmos and hope that they make their way to you.
I think I may take this time to silence this here space and read what you all have to say.
As I have missed so much.
I may post a song or two.
Maybe a quote or a quick little story.
Otherwise I am silent and will let it flow when it is ready to flow again.
'Til then.
I'll see you.
Showing posts with label revelations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label revelations. Show all posts
12/3/07
10/30/07
My Nature From My Nurture
I wanted to thank all of you for your kind words and your supportive comments.
And the general tone that my post conveyed was that of an existential crisis.
I thought I would take the time to clear up my vague-ness.
The existential crisis hit me in the earlier part of my 20's - shortly after giving birth to Connor.
Giving birth allowed me to look at death with a whole new set of eyes.
It allowed me to further look into legacies and what this whole thing called life is really about.
It left me sleepless and frantic many a night as I looked over in the bassinet at my new baby boy and asked the heavens to keep me alive as long as possible so I wouldn't miss out on anything.
But that is not what I am fighting today. Oh no. In fact, I would take the whole existential bit over what is floating up to the surface right now.
The forgotten feeling I was speaking of is a feeling of emotional isolation and abandonment.
A feeling so ingrained that it has become part of my self-concept.
This was not something that was taught systematically, like teaching a child to tie his or her shoes.
This was something that was learned by non-verbals, observations, and certain choices made over a my childhood lifetime by the adults in my life.
Unfortunately, it is still there.
The thing that is of great discomfort to me right now is that I have been facing the fact that it is happening again to me with other people in my life.
I'm left feeling like the little girl asking herself What is wrong with me? Why am I not worthy?
Over the years, I have learned to shake that.
And for quite awhile I have felt my new, true self take root.
However, the ghost of my youth is back.
And her heart aches.
She's working it out.
I know she is.
It's an icky, messy, painful process.
My adult mind and body has to act as the vehicle for all of these childhood pains to pass through.
Some of you, who have been reading long enough, know the back story. I've shared as much as I can out here. There is more to the story that I simply cannot find the words for tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. I'm just not sure yet.
Joker, I want to thank you for your comment. If you had not said what you said on yesterday's post, I probably would not be doing this one. You read through exactly to what I was trying to say and I found such great comfort in it. Thank you, love. I know that I am not alone.
And the general tone that my post conveyed was that of an existential crisis.
I thought I would take the time to clear up my vague-ness.
The existential crisis hit me in the earlier part of my 20's - shortly after giving birth to Connor.
Giving birth allowed me to look at death with a whole new set of eyes.
It allowed me to further look into legacies and what this whole thing called life is really about.
It left me sleepless and frantic many a night as I looked over in the bassinet at my new baby boy and asked the heavens to keep me alive as long as possible so I wouldn't miss out on anything.
But that is not what I am fighting today. Oh no. In fact, I would take the whole existential bit over what is floating up to the surface right now.
The forgotten feeling I was speaking of is a feeling of emotional isolation and abandonment.
A feeling so ingrained that it has become part of my self-concept.
This was not something that was taught systematically, like teaching a child to tie his or her shoes.
This was something that was learned by non-verbals, observations, and certain choices made over a my childhood lifetime by the adults in my life.
Unfortunately, it is still there.
The thing that is of great discomfort to me right now is that I have been facing the fact that it is happening again to me with other people in my life.
I'm left feeling like the little girl asking herself What is wrong with me? Why am I not worthy?
Over the years, I have learned to shake that.
And for quite awhile I have felt my new, true self take root.
However, the ghost of my youth is back.
And her heart aches.
She's working it out.
I know she is.
It's an icky, messy, painful process.
My adult mind and body has to act as the vehicle for all of these childhood pains to pass through.
Some of you, who have been reading long enough, know the back story. I've shared as much as I can out here. There is more to the story that I simply cannot find the words for tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. I'm just not sure yet.
Joker, I want to thank you for your comment. If you had not said what you said on yesterday's post, I probably would not be doing this one. You read through exactly to what I was trying to say and I found such great comfort in it. Thank you, love. I know that I am not alone.
10/29/07
Cellophane. Shoulda Been My Name.
I'm almost afraid to post this.
No. Scratch that.
I am afraid to post this.
I've put myself out there before in this here spot before with pretty messy consequences.
But I've got to get some of this out in an attempt to clear my mind, in an attempt to work it through and let it go.
I'm hoping that when it's all said and done, I will watch it float away.
A red balloon of my irrational thoughts that I will send out in the void.
I will let them go and watch them float of into oblivion until they are the size of a pinhead and then disappear.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I had a feeling that, after a few quiet days and some physical labor, in the form of intense cleaning and heavy lifting of household furniture, that there would be an internal break.
A flood.
The dams and leveys that have been holding me back were bound to break.
Last night, in bed, it happened.
I broke.
My head ached like I've never had my head ache before.
The pain so intense.
Usually, crying is a bittersweet release.
It only hurt more to cry. Physically hurt.
At one point, I said to Rav
I feel like I am on the brink of madness.
It took me about a half an hour of crying to get out one word.
A half an hour.
To speak but a few words.
To speak the words that I so fought against.
And when I finally had the ability to speak this is what I said ( in a nutshell):
I feel like I am completely forgettable.
Being the nice guy he is and the ever-devoted husband, he of course, argued this.
And it is a nice sentiment. Really. That he says that I am not.
But it doesn't change the fact that someone feels that way.
After an entire lifetime of feeling it.
Some of it may be self-inflicted and as a result/circumstances of an ever-changing life.
Some of it may be my inability to properly cultivate relationships - in real life and out here.
Some of it may simply be residual hauntings of a past life.
Which, despite all of my personal growth and status as a "big-girl", leaves me still feeling it from time to time.
Now don't get me wrong.
I'm airing.
I'm not trying to throw myself a pity party.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
After a few more dull thuds of pain behind my eyeballs and forehead, I managed to get out that I believe this emotional upheaval I've been facing is a direct result of my reiki treatment.
Rav was not pleased to hear me say this. Not in the least bit.
I don't think she did this to me. Quite the opposite. It was there already. But the treatment was like a hot compress to a pimple. It just drew out what was already there.
I began discussing how I feel disconnected from my BFF, from my other close girl-friend, this here blog and the people I've been trying to cultivate relationships with, even Three Dog Night Dad.
I told him how someone once told me the reason people "forget about me" is because I am often too laid back and not demanding enough - I'm not the squeaky wheel.
I'm the one people turn to, IRL, but when it comes time for me to need someone, everyone else has vacated.
And I just hold it all in.
Until the damn breaks.
Which it always does.
And what a mess it makes.
Rav's response to my blubbering purging was that I am fiercely loyal. I am strong, independent - a giver. I give so much of myself and expect so much from myself, so I in-turn, expect a lot from others.
The problem with this, he indicates, is that most people are not willing to give back, equally.
And I see his point.
To a certain extent.
I don't give of myself simply for what I will gain in return.
I don't offer up my loyalties and my friendship hoping to gain any "extras".
I do it because it is me and it is in my heart to do so.
And for no other reasons.
Right now, it is just a lonely place to be.
And I hope that it is just my irrational feelings
that are leaving me with the impressions
of being forgettable.
No. Scratch that.
I am afraid to post this.
I've put myself out there before in this here spot before with pretty messy consequences.
But I've got to get some of this out in an attempt to clear my mind, in an attempt to work it through and let it go.
I'm hoping that when it's all said and done, I will watch it float away.
A red balloon of my irrational thoughts that I will send out in the void.
I will let them go and watch them float of into oblivion until they are the size of a pinhead and then disappear.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I had a feeling that, after a few quiet days and some physical labor, in the form of intense cleaning and heavy lifting of household furniture, that there would be an internal break.
A flood.
The dams and leveys that have been holding me back were bound to break.
Last night, in bed, it happened.
I broke.
My head ached like I've never had my head ache before.
The pain so intense.
Usually, crying is a bittersweet release.
It only hurt more to cry. Physically hurt.
At one point, I said to Rav
I feel like I am on the brink of madness.
It took me about a half an hour of crying to get out one word.
A half an hour.
To speak but a few words.
To speak the words that I so fought against.
And when I finally had the ability to speak this is what I said ( in a nutshell):
I feel like I am completely forgettable.
Being the nice guy he is and the ever-devoted husband, he of course, argued this.
And it is a nice sentiment. Really. That he says that I am not.
But it doesn't change the fact that someone feels that way.
After an entire lifetime of feeling it.
Some of it may be self-inflicted and as a result/circumstances of an ever-changing life.
Some of it may be my inability to properly cultivate relationships - in real life and out here.
Some of it may simply be residual hauntings of a past life.
Which, despite all of my personal growth and status as a "big-girl", leaves me still feeling it from time to time.
Now don't get me wrong.
I'm airing.
I'm not trying to throw myself a pity party.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
After a few more dull thuds of pain behind my eyeballs and forehead, I managed to get out that I believe this emotional upheaval I've been facing is a direct result of my reiki treatment.
Rav was not pleased to hear me say this. Not in the least bit.
I don't think she did this to me. Quite the opposite. It was there already. But the treatment was like a hot compress to a pimple. It just drew out what was already there.
I began discussing how I feel disconnected from my BFF, from my other close girl-friend, this here blog and the people I've been trying to cultivate relationships with, even Three Dog Night Dad.
I told him how someone once told me the reason people "forget about me" is because I am often too laid back and not demanding enough - I'm not the squeaky wheel.
I'm the one people turn to, IRL, but when it comes time for me to need someone, everyone else has vacated.
And I just hold it all in.
Until the damn breaks.
Which it always does.
And what a mess it makes.
Rav's response to my blubbering purging was that I am fiercely loyal. I am strong, independent - a giver. I give so much of myself and expect so much from myself, so I in-turn, expect a lot from others.
The problem with this, he indicates, is that most people are not willing to give back, equally.
And I see his point.
To a certain extent.
I don't give of myself simply for what I will gain in return.
I don't offer up my loyalties and my friendship hoping to gain any "extras".
I do it because it is me and it is in my heart to do so.
And for no other reasons.
Right now, it is just a lonely place to be.
And I hope that it is just my irrational feelings
that are leaving me with the impressions
of being forgettable.
8/13/07
Knowing When To Walk Away & Knowing When To Run
The three weeks or so leading up to the start of this new job were really disheartening for me.
The people I shared the news with IRL seemed less than pleased about the prospects of me taking this job. For many, many reasons. Reasons like my safety & well-being, how I will tackle my classes while working a crappy shift, getting Connor to and from school, etc.
And let me explain something about where I was going to be working. I would be working at a facility that has been operating at double-occupancy for pre-adjudicated juveniles. There are kids sitting in that facility right now who have been sitting in there for over a year awaiting their Superior Court trial for murder.
For many kids, in that section of the detention facility where I would be working, there is a revolving door.
There is a heightened sense of tension in there. Kids that come in don't know when their leaving, what their outcome will be. Many times, there families are done with them, so they don't get visits.
And often, the ones that have been in the detention facility for awhile see their friends leave or have visits from family.
It's just a really tense place.
Anyway....
You all know I have stressed out about this for far too long. I've chronicled that pity-fest for so very long
I would come home from training & tell Rav stories about staff members who were assaulted and are still out on leave because of their injuries.
And Rav, trying to be supportive of my decision, told me I would be fine.
But then.....
Then he started hearing first-hand accounts from coworkers (who used to work in that facility) just how off the hook it is.
And he didn't say anything. He was trying to be supportive.
Last week, I sat talking to my BFF on the phone. And she noted how awful I sounded. I told her that the transition has been hard, I was not getting any straight answers from anyone regarding my shift, if I would be alone on a locked unit, etc. That I was just not feeling this. It just wasn't feeling right. Whatever that is. And rather than feel better as time went on & making peace with the changes, it has been feeling increasingly worse.
I got off the phone with her and turned to Rav and said, I so want to ask her if she would hire me back to work at the preschool.
And then I cried, no scratch that, I sobbed for about 40 minutes.
I explained to Rav that I feel guilty because I feel like I am not doing a great job as a mom because I'm working and yet I feel like I'm letting my family down financially because I want to walk away from this job. That everything about this feels so wrong.
Rav was supportive and great -as he always is.
I wiped away the snot and the tears and I called my BFF back and asked her if she would consider hiring me as a teacher at the preschool she owns and operates (the preschool I have worked at for years before leaving to stay home with the kids). And she was surprised.
See. Way back when I was nursing Gracie and Connor was just barely 2, I opened my big mouth and said I would never work at the preschool again. I just didn't think I had it in me.
So, you understand her surprise. We talked and I explained why I had said that.
And it has come to pass that I will be working at the preschool.
I have handed in my resignation at the detention facility and gladly take on this new/old position.
And it feels right.
Getting Connor to and from school? Not an issue.
Taking my classes to finally finish my degree? No sweat. In fact, I'm carrying 5 classes this semester and feeling damned good about it.
Taking care of my family? No biggie.
Working almost full-time? Maybe still not financially setting the world on fire. BUT. It's an income and is a much better fit for all of us.
I have felt a 10 ton weight lift from my back.
We have partied this weekend with some old friends and made some new ones.
I feel a love and admiration for my man grow by leaps with every new hurdle.
And my daughter curled up on my lap and lay like a baby - she wrapped herself in a blanket - and just stayed there, looking up at me as I rubbed her cheeks and whispered to her. She even followed me into the shower, the actual shower.
Connor has been happy to be home and have me home.
And I know that I've done the right thing.
The right thing for me and my family.
And I once again have learned that I should listen to my gut.
Not only that, walking away and/or running away, sometimes aren't bad things.
I do have guilt about the possible irresponsibility of this.
As well as, guilt towards 120+ kids I've never met. 120+ kids who will not have me work in the facility. Someone who would show them kindness and compassion and empathy. My bleeding heart can't reconcile that part. That I can't put my money where my mouth is. I talk about wanting to help and feeling so much for so many. And I walked away.
And maybe in time I will be able to reconcile it without rationalizing too much.
My time will come to do it. I know that.
I think right now though, my place is still right here.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I want to thank you all for your support of me during this time. Listening to my constant whining when so many other bloggers out there are facing really frightening health scares and real issues.
I have climbed out of my self-pity pit.
I'm back, baby.
The people I shared the news with IRL seemed less than pleased about the prospects of me taking this job. For many, many reasons. Reasons like my safety & well-being, how I will tackle my classes while working a crappy shift, getting Connor to and from school, etc.
And let me explain something about where I was going to be working. I would be working at a facility that has been operating at double-occupancy for pre-adjudicated juveniles. There are kids sitting in that facility right now who have been sitting in there for over a year awaiting their Superior Court trial for murder.
For many kids, in that section of the detention facility where I would be working, there is a revolving door.
There is a heightened sense of tension in there. Kids that come in don't know when their leaving, what their outcome will be. Many times, there families are done with them, so they don't get visits.
And often, the ones that have been in the detention facility for awhile see their friends leave or have visits from family.
It's just a really tense place.
Anyway....
You all know I have stressed out about this for far too long. I've chronicled that pity-fest for so very long
I would come home from training & tell Rav stories about staff members who were assaulted and are still out on leave because of their injuries.
And Rav, trying to be supportive of my decision, told me I would be fine.
But then.....
Then he started hearing first-hand accounts from coworkers (who used to work in that facility) just how off the hook it is.
And he didn't say anything. He was trying to be supportive.
Last week, I sat talking to my BFF on the phone. And she noted how awful I sounded. I told her that the transition has been hard, I was not getting any straight answers from anyone regarding my shift, if I would be alone on a locked unit, etc. That I was just not feeling this. It just wasn't feeling right. Whatever that is. And rather than feel better as time went on & making peace with the changes, it has been feeling increasingly worse.
I got off the phone with her and turned to Rav and said, I so want to ask her if she would hire me back to work at the preschool.
And then I cried, no scratch that, I sobbed for about 40 minutes.
I explained to Rav that I feel guilty because I feel like I am not doing a great job as a mom because I'm working and yet I feel like I'm letting my family down financially because I want to walk away from this job. That everything about this feels so wrong.
Rav was supportive and great -as he always is.
I wiped away the snot and the tears and I called my BFF back and asked her if she would consider hiring me as a teacher at the preschool she owns and operates (the preschool I have worked at for years before leaving to stay home with the kids). And she was surprised.
See. Way back when I was nursing Gracie and Connor was just barely 2, I opened my big mouth and said I would never work at the preschool again. I just didn't think I had it in me.
So, you understand her surprise. We talked and I explained why I had said that.
And it has come to pass that I will be working at the preschool.
I have handed in my resignation at the detention facility and gladly take on this new/old position.
And it feels right.
Getting Connor to and from school? Not an issue.
Taking my classes to finally finish my degree? No sweat. In fact, I'm carrying 5 classes this semester and feeling damned good about it.
Taking care of my family? No biggie.
Working almost full-time? Maybe still not financially setting the world on fire. BUT. It's an income and is a much better fit for all of us.
I have felt a 10 ton weight lift from my back.
We have partied this weekend with some old friends and made some new ones.
I feel a love and admiration for my man grow by leaps with every new hurdle.
And my daughter curled up on my lap and lay like a baby - she wrapped herself in a blanket - and just stayed there, looking up at me as I rubbed her cheeks and whispered to her. She even followed me into the shower, the actual shower.
Connor has been happy to be home and have me home.
And I know that I've done the right thing.
The right thing for me and my family.
And I once again have learned that I should listen to my gut.
Not only that, walking away and/or running away, sometimes aren't bad things.
I do have guilt about the possible irresponsibility of this.
As well as, guilt towards 120+ kids I've never met. 120+ kids who will not have me work in the facility. Someone who would show them kindness and compassion and empathy. My bleeding heart can't reconcile that part. That I can't put my money where my mouth is. I talk about wanting to help and feeling so much for so many. And I walked away.
And maybe in time I will be able to reconcile it without rationalizing too much.
My time will come to do it. I know that.
I think right now though, my place is still right here.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I want to thank you all for your support of me during this time. Listening to my constant whining when so many other bloggers out there are facing really frightening health scares and real issues.
I have climbed out of my self-pity pit.
I'm back, baby.
5/6/07
Sunday Afternoon Song of the Moment
I'm a little late pulling this one together. As I have been out of the loop, with finding new music lately, I'm pulling an old one out and dusting it off.
I've talked in-depth of my love for Bob Marley & the affectionate, warm memories that the music conjures up - the fact that these songs were my lullabies, basically. My dad played Bob non-stop. And I believe I am all the better for it. We watched documentary videos about Bob that my dad had in his library. I haven't seen those videos in years.
I still listen to these songs frequently. On a daily to weekly basis. I never tire of them. They balm my soul, they make me happy, they make me think, they make me feel. These songs course through me, like my blood through my veins. That is how much they are apart of me.
When I decided to search for this song on Youtube (thinking it would not be difficult to find), I almost felt as if I were cracking open a sacred time capsule of sorts. These videos are so sacred - the fond, happy memories that are wound up and tied to them. And when I played this video, which I haven't seen in an excess of twenty years, I was all chills, on the verge of tears, and smiling like I haven't smiled before. I remember this video/song vividly. I remember thinking how serene, happy, and genuine Bob looked. I remember thinking that if I could go anywhere at that moment, I would love to be transported to that video. To be near him, to feel his smile upon me like sunshine, to giggle and laugh like I never have before. To feel the peaceful, joyful childlike, blinded love and concern that was synonymous (in my mind) to Bob. In a safe, little place where we could all feel happy and beautiful for our likes and differences. Because, well, we all are. To feel childhood. If only for three to four minutes . The childhood that I had to leave behind when my family fell apart. The childhood I had only when I was with my Dad.
These songs, these videos will always hold the nearest and dearest part of me. And the endless hours listening and enjoying with my Dad.
Oh, and besides the shots of his beautiful smile. My favorite part is the end. Where he's dancing his signature dance...and leading the children. Like the pied piper. To a better place.
I hope you enjoy today's song. Is This Love by: Bob Marley and the Wailers
I've talked in-depth of my love for Bob Marley & the affectionate, warm memories that the music conjures up - the fact that these songs were my lullabies, basically. My dad played Bob non-stop. And I believe I am all the better for it. We watched documentary videos about Bob that my dad had in his library. I haven't seen those videos in years.
I still listen to these songs frequently. On a daily to weekly basis. I never tire of them. They balm my soul, they make me happy, they make me think, they make me feel. These songs course through me, like my blood through my veins. That is how much they are apart of me.
When I decided to search for this song on Youtube (thinking it would not be difficult to find), I almost felt as if I were cracking open a sacred time capsule of sorts. These videos are so sacred - the fond, happy memories that are wound up and tied to them. And when I played this video, which I haven't seen in an excess of twenty years, I was all chills, on the verge of tears, and smiling like I haven't smiled before. I remember this video/song vividly. I remember thinking how serene, happy, and genuine Bob looked. I remember thinking that if I could go anywhere at that moment, I would love to be transported to that video. To be near him, to feel his smile upon me like sunshine, to giggle and laugh like I never have before. To feel the peaceful, joyful childlike, blinded love and concern that was synonymous (in my mind) to Bob. In a safe, little place where we could all feel happy and beautiful for our likes and differences. Because, well, we all are. To feel childhood. If only for three to four minutes . The childhood that I had to leave behind when my family fell apart. The childhood I had only when I was with my Dad.
These songs, these videos will always hold the nearest and dearest part of me. And the endless hours listening and enjoying with my Dad.
Oh, and besides the shots of his beautiful smile. My favorite part is the end. Where he's dancing his signature dance...and leading the children. Like the pied piper. To a better place.
I hope you enjoy today's song. Is This Love by: Bob Marley and the Wailers
3/20/07
Strange And Beautiful
Not to sound narcissistic, but I've reread yesterday's post quite a few times. I don't really know why.
I think I've never really felt this stuff. Until I wrote it yesterday.
I've always known it was there. I've talked about it with a select few, but I always regurgitated it as if I were telling someone else's story. I had somehow detached myself from it.
After I wrote this post yesterday, I felt like I was standing naked (post 2 children - UGH) for all the world to see. Even as Rav was reading it, I was dreading having to look him in the eye.
However, I said to him: What is interesting to me is that, from what I gather, mom wanted out. And yet she was a mess. Dad wanted this family, he wanted to make things work. And I know he was devastated. You would think my Dad would be the one who sort of went off the deep end. But he didn't. He remained strong. And I think he found solace and comfort in me. He held it together for me. And yet, the one that wanted it to be over, fell apart.
I think I've decided to end the narrative here and begin with the strong male role stuff, which is the reason I had been writing all of this in the first place.
To get there - to get to where I can explain how I held onto every bit of what my Dad said - the goofy/crazy things my Grandpop Donovan did, to pick my dad's brain incessantly about my grandfather (his dad). As much as the men that were in my life during my days with my mom were pure chaos, I had this other end of the spectrum that I held onto for dear life.
And perhaps this is where the answer was for me. If all I knew were the men that had paraded in and out of my life during these years, things would have been different.
However, I knew better. I knew that I had a strong, dependable, good man who was my dad. Thank god I learned early enough that not all men were bad.
I also would like to state here (and though any of you who are reading because you want to, will probably know this) I am not reliving this as a means to gain sympathy. Nor am I doing this to proclaim I am a victim.
That is the farthest thing from the truth.
In my mind-set, speaking from my context, these things helped shape who I have become. I don't sit here and say Because such and such happened, I haven't been able to do _______, or I have not had this happen because ________, everything bad that has ever happened is because ________.
That's no my bag.
I could have most certainly take many a different path.
And the paths I've taken haven't always been the best. But that was because of choices I have made.
However, by saying this is where I came from, this is what happened, I can say that I will choose a different path but those things have no doubt left their mark.
The only way I can make healthy decisions are to give some things their due and proper.
And then move on.
Sometimes learning things about one's past can also give you a better understanding of why they are the way they are.
If you look long enough into the window of my soul, you begin to understand why I am the way I am.
You begin to understand why being cruel, or mistreating children makes the claws come out. My children - or anybody else's.
You may even begin to understand why I have a hard time with conflict. Inside I'm yelling things aren't right, but the words just can't come out.
To this day.
OK, now that the disclaimer is over with. I could go on a bit about the ridiculous situations my mom & I were in. But that is just gluttonous at this point. I've set the stage - I believe you have an understanding of what was going on.
Something else I need to acknowledge here is that while in my mom's custody during most of the week and on her weekends, I was in my grandmother's care a lot (my mom's mom). As were my 3 younger cousins. We got on & off the school bus from my grandmothers house, we ate dinner there every night. During days off, or school vacations we were all there. We were more like siblings than cousins.
However, what set me apart is that I was the only one who either a)Knew her father or b)Had a regular, on-going relationship with her father.
The other 3 didn't.
I can't imagine what that must have been like when I would get picked up or dropped off. Every-other Friday & Sunday.
How that must have hurt them. Though it wasn't my fault.
I know it was an issue because things were said about it.
I've often felt bad that I had that support system or that I always had that upon which I could count on.
And all of that became fodder for which to cast stones.
But I didn't care.
I hung on for dear life for the weekends with my dad. This was my hope.
I'm not sure if my Dad knew what he was doing when he was doing it, but he created a place where I could really be myself. He fostered trust and discipline. He was firm and loving. I was always part of whatever process was going on. Things that ranged from first growing his beard, to his new relationship, to his marriage. I wasn't "seen and not heard". I was respected as a human being, yet I knew he was in charge. This wasn't a relationship of excess. And when I say that, I mean I'm not talking about me being the likes of Veruca Salt. I just mean that he treated me like a little girl. I was never asked to handle more than I should.
I always knew that if I needed to talk, I could go to my Dad. I knew that he would listen in a nonjudgmental way. And he would give me his honest opinion. Not just an opinion in my favor. If I did something he didn't agree with, he would tell me.
He didn't force my hand in a positive relationship with him. He held me close, yet loosely and let the rest happen organically. This is something that my mom didn't understand. She didn't understand why I "chose" my dad and not her (those are her words, not mine).
The other thing my Dad did, possibly unknowingly, was foster the feminist inside. I feel that by taking me fishing, being outdoors, going everywhere with him on our weekends (ranging from car shows, or to his side jobs fixing up old cars to riding the motorcycle with him, teaching me how to fire a shotgun and handgun (and do it well), to hunting, and other things I can't recall as I sit here typing) he set me up to believe - to know - that I can do anything. And that anything I wanted to try - if it made me happy - he was willing to let me try.
My dad taught me to appreciate the simple pleasures of our environment and wildlife. My dad talked issues with me, as well as, history. Dad introduced me to the beautiful things the world had to offer, to seek it out, to explore, to think critically, and to question. He taught me how to be insightful, thoughtful, compassionate, and fair. He did this all by example.
As time went on and I got older, my stepmother, Eileen, is the one who modeled and taught me about charity.
Of course, you know....music.
Everything my dad (and eventually stepmother) did was about enriching me, about guiding me, and modeling for me. Though they probably didn't realize it. While my weeks were filled with survival, my weekends were where I was thriving.
Those weekends spent at The Farm were (now that I look back) constant learning experiences. Grandpop Donovan who was so knowledgeable about tending his garden and gaining something from hard, physical work. Even in your 80's and 90's. You have too keep moving, be active, feel the fresh air.
Grandpop's groceries were interesting to me growing up. He ate modestly, but he wanted his fruits and vegetables to be of good quality. He was very picky. And he loved his wheat bread. He never touched sweets (god love him, I wish I could stay away from them).
What is probably going to sound funny is that Grandpop Donovan never once said my name. And that might sound harsh. But he was hard of hearing - he (being a very old man) had lost his teeth and never got dentures - so he couldn't speak well. He was afraid to try to say my name because he didn't want to mispronounce it. So he just always called me The Little Girl.
I have always been so thankful for the times dad & I were together.
And I catch myself doing things he did, without even realizing it.
Like pointing out which fields are soy beans, corn, or winter wheat to the kids.
Squealing like a nut whenever I see deer and pointing them out to the kids.
My crazy obsession with music and sharing it with the kids.
I'm certainly not a perfect parent.
My dad isn't either.
But he did pretty good by me. When we were together.
Being a dad was so important to him. Is still so important to him.
I see the way he looks at Gracie when we get to visit with him. And I know where his mind is drifting to. I've even heard him call her Jess once.
If I can be half the parent my dad was/is, I know I'll be doing OK.
I don't think this post does my dad any justice at all. And I don't know that I'm adequately describing the strong men I had in my life. I'm wrapping up this post thinking I haven't even really touched on it.
I think I've never really felt this stuff. Until I wrote it yesterday.
I've always known it was there. I've talked about it with a select few, but I always regurgitated it as if I were telling someone else's story. I had somehow detached myself from it.
After I wrote this post yesterday, I felt like I was standing naked (post 2 children - UGH) for all the world to see. Even as Rav was reading it, I was dreading having to look him in the eye.
However, I said to him: What is interesting to me is that, from what I gather, mom wanted out. And yet she was a mess. Dad wanted this family, he wanted to make things work. And I know he was devastated. You would think my Dad would be the one who sort of went off the deep end. But he didn't. He remained strong. And I think he found solace and comfort in me. He held it together for me. And yet, the one that wanted it to be over, fell apart.
I think I've decided to end the narrative here and begin with the strong male role stuff, which is the reason I had been writing all of this in the first place.
To get there - to get to where I can explain how I held onto every bit of what my Dad said - the goofy/crazy things my Grandpop Donovan did, to pick my dad's brain incessantly about my grandfather (his dad). As much as the men that were in my life during my days with my mom were pure chaos, I had this other end of the spectrum that I held onto for dear life.
And perhaps this is where the answer was for me. If all I knew were the men that had paraded in and out of my life during these years, things would have been different.
However, I knew better. I knew that I had a strong, dependable, good man who was my dad. Thank god I learned early enough that not all men were bad.
I also would like to state here (and though any of you who are reading because you want to, will probably know this) I am not reliving this as a means to gain sympathy. Nor am I doing this to proclaim I am a victim.
That is the farthest thing from the truth.
In my mind-set, speaking from my context, these things helped shape who I have become. I don't sit here and say Because such and such happened, I haven't been able to do _______, or I have not had this happen because ________, everything bad that has ever happened is because ________.
That's no my bag.
I could have most certainly take many a different path.
And the paths I've taken haven't always been the best. But that was because of choices I have made.
However, by saying this is where I came from, this is what happened, I can say that I will choose a different path but those things have no doubt left their mark.
The only way I can make healthy decisions are to give some things their due and proper.
And then move on.
Sometimes learning things about one's past can also give you a better understanding of why they are the way they are.
If you look long enough into the window of my soul, you begin to understand why I am the way I am.
You begin to understand why being cruel, or mistreating children makes the claws come out. My children - or anybody else's.
You may even begin to understand why I have a hard time with conflict. Inside I'm yelling things aren't right, but the words just can't come out.
To this day.
OK, now that the disclaimer is over with. I could go on a bit about the ridiculous situations my mom & I were in. But that is just gluttonous at this point. I've set the stage - I believe you have an understanding of what was going on.
Something else I need to acknowledge here is that while in my mom's custody during most of the week and on her weekends, I was in my grandmother's care a lot (my mom's mom). As were my 3 younger cousins. We got on & off the school bus from my grandmothers house, we ate dinner there every night. During days off, or school vacations we were all there. We were more like siblings than cousins.
However, what set me apart is that I was the only one who either a)Knew her father or b)Had a regular, on-going relationship with her father.
The other 3 didn't.
I can't imagine what that must have been like when I would get picked up or dropped off. Every-other Friday & Sunday.
How that must have hurt them. Though it wasn't my fault.
I know it was an issue because things were said about it.
I've often felt bad that I had that support system or that I always had that upon which I could count on.
And all of that became fodder for which to cast stones.
But I didn't care.
I hung on for dear life for the weekends with my dad. This was my hope.
I'm not sure if my Dad knew what he was doing when he was doing it, but he created a place where I could really be myself. He fostered trust and discipline. He was firm and loving. I was always part of whatever process was going on. Things that ranged from first growing his beard, to his new relationship, to his marriage. I wasn't "seen and not heard". I was respected as a human being, yet I knew he was in charge. This wasn't a relationship of excess. And when I say that, I mean I'm not talking about me being the likes of Veruca Salt. I just mean that he treated me like a little girl. I was never asked to handle more than I should.
I always knew that if I needed to talk, I could go to my Dad. I knew that he would listen in a nonjudgmental way. And he would give me his honest opinion. Not just an opinion in my favor. If I did something he didn't agree with, he would tell me.
He didn't force my hand in a positive relationship with him. He held me close, yet loosely and let the rest happen organically. This is something that my mom didn't understand. She didn't understand why I "chose" my dad and not her (those are her words, not mine).
The other thing my Dad did, possibly unknowingly, was foster the feminist inside. I feel that by taking me fishing, being outdoors, going everywhere with him on our weekends (ranging from car shows, or to his side jobs fixing up old cars to riding the motorcycle with him, teaching me how to fire a shotgun and handgun (and do it well), to hunting, and other things I can't recall as I sit here typing) he set me up to believe - to know - that I can do anything. And that anything I wanted to try - if it made me happy - he was willing to let me try.
My dad taught me to appreciate the simple pleasures of our environment and wildlife. My dad talked issues with me, as well as, history. Dad introduced me to the beautiful things the world had to offer, to seek it out, to explore, to think critically, and to question. He taught me how to be insightful, thoughtful, compassionate, and fair. He did this all by example.
As time went on and I got older, my stepmother, Eileen, is the one who modeled and taught me about charity.
Of course, you know....music.
Everything my dad (and eventually stepmother) did was about enriching me, about guiding me, and modeling for me. Though they probably didn't realize it. While my weeks were filled with survival, my weekends were where I was thriving.
Those weekends spent at The Farm were (now that I look back) constant learning experiences. Grandpop Donovan who was so knowledgeable about tending his garden and gaining something from hard, physical work. Even in your 80's and 90's. You have too keep moving, be active, feel the fresh air.
Grandpop's groceries were interesting to me growing up. He ate modestly, but he wanted his fruits and vegetables to be of good quality. He was very picky. And he loved his wheat bread. He never touched sweets (god love him, I wish I could stay away from them).
What is probably going to sound funny is that Grandpop Donovan never once said my name. And that might sound harsh. But he was hard of hearing - he (being a very old man) had lost his teeth and never got dentures - so he couldn't speak well. He was afraid to try to say my name because he didn't want to mispronounce it. So he just always called me The Little Girl.
I have always been so thankful for the times dad & I were together.
And I catch myself doing things he did, without even realizing it.
Like pointing out which fields are soy beans, corn, or winter wheat to the kids.
Squealing like a nut whenever I see deer and pointing them out to the kids.
My crazy obsession with music and sharing it with the kids.
I'm certainly not a perfect parent.
My dad isn't either.
But he did pretty good by me. When we were together.
Being a dad was so important to him. Is still so important to him.
I see the way he looks at Gracie when we get to visit with him. And I know where his mind is drifting to. I've even heard him call her Jess once.
If I can be half the parent my dad was/is, I know I'll be doing OK.
I don't think this post does my dad any justice at all. And I don't know that I'm adequately describing the strong men I had in my life. I'm wrapping up this post thinking I haven't even really touched on it.
3/19/07
Overexposed and Other Worlds
Continuing from here, here and here..........
I don't remember much about the 7-11 incident. I remember the look of panic and despair on my dad's face. I think, I remember being placed in my mother's arms in the parking lot. And I do remember that feeling of failing and betraying my dad was intensified by this whole scene. I once again, was screaming on the inside to let me stay with my dad, but absolutely no words came out.
The thing that I find so interesting when I reflect back on this is that up to that point, I had no real "reason" for wanting my dad over my mom. The worst was yet to come, though I couldn't know that. But nothing had happened yet to make a 4-5 year-old want to stay with one parent over the other. It wasn't something that had evidence behind it. I guess you could just call it a premonition.
I don't really know where to go from here. I don't really remember finishing kindergarten, though I know I did. I don't even really know what time of year it was when all of this was going on. I suppose it must have been Spring/Summer when I was actually 5. Some time had passed, but the memories, for me are compressed into one big lump.
The only thing I know for sure is that 1st grade was crazy. And where I'm about to go is a little disturbing. You'll know it when you read it.
When my mom & I moved into our one-bedroom efficiency apartment, she had a boyfriend, B. (I later figured it out & pieced together that B. was what happened to my family. Or I should say, B & my mom were what happened to my family).
B. would spend the night a lot. And when he did, mom & B. would sleep in the bedroom & I would sleep on the fold-out couch. One night, B. was over & it was bed time. I don't know why I had to go in my mom's room (I'm assuming to ask a question). When I walked in, B. looked me dead in the eye, he pulled back the blankets and exposed himself to me. I remember thinking This is weird. But I made no reaction. I completely ignored him. I walked over to my mom & asked her my question - or whatever I was in there doing. And left. It didn't come out until a couple of days later, that this had happened.
I know that they broke up & I'm assuming that by a smart-a** comment he made to me when my mom was giving him the boot that it was because of this incident.
Whatever, good riddance a**hole.
The next guy to join us a short-time later (still during 1st grade) was D. D was a raging alcoholic and drug addict. I really, really didn't like D. D lived just down the road a bit from mom & I. And he had a niece that was in my 1st grade class. I remember being at D's apartment - with a bunch of adults around (including my mom). There were 3 kids there - including me. They shuffled us kids into a bedroom, where we were supposed to stay and play. But me, ever aware that situations were screwy & wanting to do something about them, but not really having an understanding of what was going on, walked in on a circle of drug use.
I believe a large fight began, because I remember being under the apartment stairs, hiding while my mom & him raged on.
Another flash of memory and a short-time after that, we had to go pick up a wasted D somewhere. As I'm sure he was too wasted to drive (if he even had a license). He got in the car and about as soon as he sat down on the passenger seat, a fight started. I know I was retreating into myself - I don't remember what I was hearing. All I knew is what I saw. His face all red and crazy. Fists flying quickly back and forth....then bloody. From a scuffle with the dashboard of my mom's car.
And the next thing I know, we deposited him in a random parking lot.
That's the last I really remember of him, though I think he was around for a little while longer.
Though I remember it being a school night, rather late in the evening. And driving to this bar with my mom. We pulled in the parking lot & I remember thinking that I knew I wasn't allowed inside. And even if I was, I wasn't going in there. And surely I didn't.
Mom walked in before I even knew what was happening. And all I knew was I was inside our car, by myself in the parking lot of this scary place. She's taking a long time. When are we going home? What are we doing here?
Being ever resourceful and knowing that things aren't right, I began to honk the horn like it was my job. After a few minutes, she came out. I'm sure she had some words for me, but by then I had already retreated again. I had shut down. And when I did that, I heard nothing. I only saw.
During this time, my dad had moved in with my grandmother at The Farm.
This is where I spent every-other-weekend feeling normal and safe. This is where Dad & I would explore the farm. This is where Dad & I would drive around the country looking for ducks in the marshes, we would talk about the abundant life going on in the marshes and estuaries - even though you couldn't necessarily see it. Dad & I would fish together. We would talk about anything and everything. We would take motorcycle rides down to the beach or downstate to my Uncle & Aunt's house.
The Farm became my island. My dad became my strength. I felt that as long as I were there or with him, that I was OK.
When he would pick me up, and I would sit in the cab of his old pick-up truck, I felt like I was in a whole other world. A world where I was loved, safe, and treasured. I knew that being in the truck meant that I was being carried away to somewhere better. Even if it was only for 2 days. It meant that the only thing I had to worry about was how to get a slimy fish off of a hook, if I was going to find any arrowheads or cool pieces of broken pottery in the fields of The Farm, what songs my dad was going to play on the radio, what cool dessert my grandmother had made, what Saturday morning cartoons I was going to watch.
I never had to worry about being shut-up in a room while a bunch of grown-ups got high. I never had to worry about feeling scared.
And yet as wonderful as the two weekends a month felt, I couldn't reconcile in my now 5-6 year-old brain, why I felt so conflicted and confused all of the time. I couldn't reconcile why I wanted things to be different during the week and the other two weekends. I couldn't reconcile why I was so angry when I would come home. I couldn't reconcile the dread.
I don't remember much about the 7-11 incident. I remember the look of panic and despair on my dad's face. I think, I remember being placed in my mother's arms in the parking lot. And I do remember that feeling of failing and betraying my dad was intensified by this whole scene. I once again, was screaming on the inside to let me stay with my dad, but absolutely no words came out.
The thing that I find so interesting when I reflect back on this is that up to that point, I had no real "reason" for wanting my dad over my mom. The worst was yet to come, though I couldn't know that. But nothing had happened yet to make a 4-5 year-old want to stay with one parent over the other. It wasn't something that had evidence behind it. I guess you could just call it a premonition.
I don't really know where to go from here. I don't really remember finishing kindergarten, though I know I did. I don't even really know what time of year it was when all of this was going on. I suppose it must have been Spring/Summer when I was actually 5. Some time had passed, but the memories, for me are compressed into one big lump.
The only thing I know for sure is that 1st grade was crazy. And where I'm about to go is a little disturbing. You'll know it when you read it.
When my mom & I moved into our one-bedroom efficiency apartment, she had a boyfriend, B. (I later figured it out & pieced together that B. was what happened to my family. Or I should say, B & my mom were what happened to my family).
B. would spend the night a lot. And when he did, mom & B. would sleep in the bedroom & I would sleep on the fold-out couch. One night, B. was over & it was bed time. I don't know why I had to go in my mom's room (I'm assuming to ask a question). When I walked in, B. looked me dead in the eye, he pulled back the blankets and exposed himself to me. I remember thinking This is weird. But I made no reaction. I completely ignored him. I walked over to my mom & asked her my question - or whatever I was in there doing. And left. It didn't come out until a couple of days later, that this had happened.
I know that they broke up & I'm assuming that by a smart-a** comment he made to me when my mom was giving him the boot that it was because of this incident.
Whatever, good riddance a**hole.
The next guy to join us a short-time later (still during 1st grade) was D. D was a raging alcoholic and drug addict. I really, really didn't like D. D lived just down the road a bit from mom & I. And he had a niece that was in my 1st grade class. I remember being at D's apartment - with a bunch of adults around (including my mom). There were 3 kids there - including me. They shuffled us kids into a bedroom, where we were supposed to stay and play. But me, ever aware that situations were screwy & wanting to do something about them, but not really having an understanding of what was going on, walked in on a circle of drug use.
I believe a large fight began, because I remember being under the apartment stairs, hiding while my mom & him raged on.
Another flash of memory and a short-time after that, we had to go pick up a wasted D somewhere. As I'm sure he was too wasted to drive (if he even had a license). He got in the car and about as soon as he sat down on the passenger seat, a fight started. I know I was retreating into myself - I don't remember what I was hearing. All I knew is what I saw. His face all red and crazy. Fists flying quickly back and forth....then bloody. From a scuffle with the dashboard of my mom's car.
And the next thing I know, we deposited him in a random parking lot.
That's the last I really remember of him, though I think he was around for a little while longer.
Though I remember it being a school night, rather late in the evening. And driving to this bar with my mom. We pulled in the parking lot & I remember thinking that I knew I wasn't allowed inside. And even if I was, I wasn't going in there. And surely I didn't.
Mom walked in before I even knew what was happening. And all I knew was I was inside our car, by myself in the parking lot of this scary place. She's taking a long time. When are we going home? What are we doing here?
Being ever resourceful and knowing that things aren't right, I began to honk the horn like it was my job. After a few minutes, she came out. I'm sure she had some words for me, but by then I had already retreated again. I had shut down. And when I did that, I heard nothing. I only saw.
During this time, my dad had moved in with my grandmother at The Farm.
This is where I spent every-other-weekend feeling normal and safe. This is where Dad & I would explore the farm. This is where Dad & I would drive around the country looking for ducks in the marshes, we would talk about the abundant life going on in the marshes and estuaries - even though you couldn't necessarily see it. Dad & I would fish together. We would talk about anything and everything. We would take motorcycle rides down to the beach or downstate to my Uncle & Aunt's house.
The Farm became my island. My dad became my strength. I felt that as long as I were there or with him, that I was OK.
When he would pick me up, and I would sit in the cab of his old pick-up truck, I felt like I was in a whole other world. A world where I was loved, safe, and treasured. I knew that being in the truck meant that I was being carried away to somewhere better. Even if it was only for 2 days. It meant that the only thing I had to worry about was how to get a slimy fish off of a hook, if I was going to find any arrowheads or cool pieces of broken pottery in the fields of The Farm, what songs my dad was going to play on the radio, what cool dessert my grandmother had made, what Saturday morning cartoons I was going to watch.
I never had to worry about being shut-up in a room while a bunch of grown-ups got high. I never had to worry about feeling scared.
And yet as wonderful as the two weekends a month felt, I couldn't reconcile in my now 5-6 year-old brain, why I felt so conflicted and confused all of the time. I couldn't reconcile why I wanted things to be different during the week and the other two weekends. I couldn't reconcile why I was so angry when I would come home. I couldn't reconcile the dread.
3/15/07
Flashes Of Memory
Before I start getting into the meat of this next post, I want to say that what is to follow is my heart and soul. It is seriously like ripping open my brain and exposing my beating heart to the harsh, refreshing open air. These are things I've shared with my old therapist and my husband. Possibly with my BFF. But not many beyond that. They are things that flow right below the surface. You can't always see them, but if I were to be scratched they would spill out all over the place.
When we moved to our house there are memories that go from seemingly good, straight to bad in a matter of milliseconds - to my 4 year-old memory, anyway. These images, these memories flash through my mind almost as if in a montage. They appear as if in a tunnel where the background is pitch black, but the image itself is in a bright spotlight.
When we moved to our house there are memories that go from seemingly good, straight to bad in a matter of milliseconds - to my 4 year-old memory, anyway. These images, these memories flash through my mind almost as if in a montage. They appear as if in a tunnel where the background is pitch black, but the image itself is in a bright spotlight.
Our House
The times spent in that house were my only recollection of being a "family". My dad continued to work days, my mom nights. This is where I fell in love with music. These are my earliest memories of music. This house - in the living room - is where I first heard Carly Simon on the radio singing "Jessie". Whereupon I said to my parents, "Jess. I like that name Jess. Just call me Jess." And they did.
And still do.
The three loves of my dad's life in '82I remember sitting in the front seat of our Volare (or however you spell it), with the windows down, singing to the songs on the radio.
I remember swinging on the tire swing in our backyard.
I remember having a Christmas party at our house. My mom and I baked cookies. My dad had the wood stove going in the little addition/porch off the front of our house. Our house became full of people.
My dad & I in our front yard during our first winter at the new house.
(and the yellow is not in the snow, but a spot on the picture from age)
Like smoke that wafts up from an extinguished match, this was soon all gone.
I remember one day being home with my dad and I don't know what the precursor was, but he punched a hole in the wall. In front of me. I wasn't scared. I was sad that something made my dad that angry. Still to this day I don't know what it was all about. Probably just a stupid fight that escalated into something more.
I do know that at that very moment I realized that something was horribly wrong.
And I know I retreated.
I distinctly recall sitting on my bed, in my little girl room and looking around. I remember thinking to myself What if all of this isn't happening right now? What if all of this is just a memory? And really, I'm 16 sitting on this bed, in this room and this is just all a memory?
I also remember retreating to the spare room in our house while an argument raged on and someone was sitting with me. But no one else was there. Mom & Dad were in the other room raging, I was in the spare room....but there was a figure sitting next to me. It has always been one of the scariest, comforting memories that I have.
The memory that, to this day haunts me above all others though, is when it was all over. I don't remember what happened leading up to it. I don't remember anything after. All I remember is being loaded up in the car with my mom. Driving away from our house.
I turned around and looked out the rear window. And there standing in the driveway, all alone
was my dad.
The fear, the dread, the shame, the guilt washed over me in ways I still feel as I type this right now. I remember thinking inside This is wrong. I need to go back.
I couldn't say a damned thing. My voice may as well have been laying like a lump of glistening saliva on the driveway next to my dad's feet. I was limp. I had no words, no sounds. I had become momentarily mute.
I'm pretty sure that's the day I stopped being a little girl. That's the day the carefree attitude of a happy, well-adjusted little girl were lost and gone forever. That's the day I became so heavy.
I know that with that, there were battles in court to be lost or won.
Mom won.
I knew that was a mistake. But I had no way to say that. No one asked. And there was no one to listen.
After that, the two parties convened at my grandmother's house (my mom's mom). Another flash of memory and my dad is walking briskly - with me in his arms. We end up at the 7-11 near my grandmother's house. I think we get a soda or something. I look to my left, out the huge glass doors and there are more police cars in that one small parking lot than I had ever seen in my life.
And they were there for me.
The Beginning of the End
So here they were, high school graduates with an 8-month-old baby. And the following month, in July, they were married at the Justice of the Peace. Not only that, their last year of high school they were living on their own in a tiny apartment - while they both went to school and worked.
My earliest memories were when I was 2, living in a different apartment. My dad worked during the day and my mom worked at night. So, my dad & I spent a lot of time, just the two of us. For whatever reason, dinner-time is a vivid memory at that time.
As you can imagine, money was tight and my dad, at the ripe old age of 19, was taking care of his 2-year-old little girl. That entails making dinner. I don't remember the "main courses" that he would prepare, but I remember quite clearly we must have had 5 million cans of these mixed vegetables. Because he made them every night.
And I hated them.
I refused to eat them.
And every night it was the same.
He would send me to my room if I didn't eat my vegetables.
I still refused.
And he still sent me to my room.
I know this went on for some time.
One of us eventually gave up. I'm assuming we must have run out of those horrible, nasty vegetables. Because the other thing I vividly remember is sitting on my dad's lap, in the evenings before I went to bed, watching M*A*S*H.
Klinger fascinated me. I remember having a lengthy discussion with my dad over why Klinger dressed like a woman. My dad told me that where they were in Korea, there was a war going on and Klinger wanted to go home. And the only way Klinger thought he would get to go home was if he dressed like a girl. I believe he (my dad) chuckled when I said, "It didn't work!" His explanation was simple and sweet, but I still didn't understand - being only 2 years old & all. But I do know that's when I fell in love with Hawkeye & Pierce.
They kept my 2 year old curiosity peaked.
At some point around when I was 3 or 4, we moved into a house. And this is where it gets messy, ugly and scary. There are things I remember, memories I recall that I have been trying to work through for years. This is where at 4 and 1/2 I knew things would never be the same. I knew that my future as a young girl, living with her mom, was bleak. This is where I felt I betrayed my dad. Even though I was only 4 and had no say, no control. This is where I became acutely aware of wanting to save everyone, feeling responsible for everyone and feeling the weight of the world on my 4 year old back. That weight (to this day) has never been lifted. It has just grown to feeling everything for everyone.
And lastly this is where in the course of a month, I would lead two distinctly different lives, with two distinctly different parents. The life I would lead during the week was drastically different than the life I would lead every-other-weekend.
When I got to see my dad....
3/14/07
Beginnings
I've been thinking a lot lately about legacies. This has been punctuated by the fact that my dad's birthday was a few weeks ago & I've been thinking of him. I haven't seen him since the beginning of December. We still haven't all seen each other for Christmas.
Jen got the ball rolling for me about the strong men in my life - this is something I've been wanting to write about but have not been mentally up to the challenge.
If you've read my blog for any length of time, you know that my Dad is it. He is referred to in certain circles as Three Dog Night Dad.
Let me just say here, before I begin that this may be an ongoing writing project on here. I don't think I can aptly say what I'd like in just one post.
To get started about the strong men, I need to go back as far as I possibly can - to where I think this began.
My grandfather (my dad's dad) was one of eight children. And their mother, Orna, died when my grandfather was very young of a massive infection. I believe that was the catalyst for this example - this strong male role - in my family.
My grandfather had an older brother Jacob - they were the 2 youngest children. And they were very close. It turns out my grandfather, Herbert married my grandmother Jeannette and Jacob married my grandmother's sister, Marie. The two couples were very close and growing up, my dad & uncle were very close to their double-first cousins (who were Jake & Marie's children).
Jen got the ball rolling for me about the strong men in my life - this is something I've been wanting to write about but have not been mentally up to the challenge.
If you've read my blog for any length of time, you know that my Dad is it. He is referred to in certain circles as Three Dog Night Dad.
Let me just say here, before I begin that this may be an ongoing writing project on here. I don't think I can aptly say what I'd like in just one post.
To get started about the strong men, I need to go back as far as I possibly can - to where I think this began.
My grandfather (my dad's dad) was one of eight children. And their mother, Orna, died when my grandfather was very young of a massive infection. I believe that was the catalyst for this example - this strong male role - in my family.
My grandfather had an older brother Jacob - they were the 2 youngest children. And they were very close. It turns out my grandfather, Herbert married my grandmother Jeannette and Jacob married my grandmother's sister, Marie. The two couples were very close and growing up, my dad & uncle were very close to their double-first cousins (who were Jake & Marie's children).
I have always loved this picture of my grandparents.
When my grandfather & grandmother were first married, they were living abroad in Korea, Japan and then the Philippines, as my grandfather was in the military. My grandmother, I know, looks at these years as the happiest of her life. If I'm not mistaken, my uncle was born in the Philippines and then the young family moved back to the States shortly thereafter.
My grandparents entertaining. He is at the head and my
grandmother is opposite at the far-end.
My grandfather was very involved with his boys. Teaching them to fish, spending time outdoors, raising cattle on the farm, hunting, Boy Scouts, etc. He was very hands-on, from what I understand. I know that my Dad and Uncle still light up when reminiscing of the short time they spent with their father and the mark he left upon them forever.Health issues are abundant in that family line - diabetes, heart problems, high blood pressure, etc. My grandfather died in his early forties of a heart attack on or right before Thanksgiving, as I've said before on here, when my dad was 9.
I believe at that point, Uncle Jake was a point of contact as a male figure, as well as my Grandpop Donovan.
My mom says that she doesn't remember very much about Uncle Jake, but when I was an infant, my dad and mom took me down to Uncle Jake & Aunt Marie's. Uncle Jake held me right away, and in his Southern accent said, "Bless her little bones". My mom says that has stuck with her to this day. I think back to what it must have been like for my dad, to momentarily have the closest thing to his father holding his newborn baby girl. Uncle Jake died just a few short months after that and I believe he had to have a leg amputated at some point before his passing.
My grandmother, who was left to take care of The Farm that her & my grandfather bought, had rented out the marsh area to hunters. My grandmother was always very good at finding the right people for whatever need she faced in her personal and business life. She became friends with a Mr. Robinson (who got my dad into hunting and Young Waterfowlers). I know that my dad looks at that time spent with Mr. Robinson as a very positive experience. I know that Mr. Robinson died some years back, but I'm not sure about his wife.
Although there was a great support system in place and my grandmother did all she could to make sure there were great men family friends around for her boys, I know my dad was broken. He wanted something of his own. He always felt overshadowed by his round-peg, everything goes as planned, older brother. My dad always had long hair and a rebellious spirit that went against my grandmother's grain. But he always knew who he was and he was never going to change.
In high school, he met my mom and they had me in their Junior year. My dad was ecstatic about having a baby - and having a daughter. Though the road was rough, having a kid while you're still in high school, I think my dad felt like he finally had his family.
And that is where this story begins....
1/23/07
The Thing I Think I Love Most About Rav
Ravioli is many, many things. He comes from a family who are somewhat tall (tall when you're a hobbit) and thin.
He's short and stocky (yummy).
Ravioli is cool as a cucumber. He's all perspective and reason. He's cool-headed and even-tempered.
(This is fascinating to me because I'm so not that way. I guess that's why we work.)
He is humble and a little cocky. He's silly, funny. He has a great laugh. A smile that makes me feel funny in my tummy and eyes that I want to curl up in and stay awhile. Stay forever.
He stands with me, wraps me in his arms and then sets me free. And as I look back over my shoulder, there he is smiling. He likes watching as I float along and find my way.
He is childlike, but all man.
He makes me laugh, he heals my wounds, he lifts me up and sails choppy seas with me.
He has a hard time finding the broad-side of a bull. It drives me crazy sometimes, but it is endearing. His serenity, his 'sit-back and wait' attitude makes me want to throw a temper tantrum. But most of the time he's 100% correct. He's not afraid to speak his mind or call someone on their stuff. It may not happen at that exact moment. But he will. He's just biding his time. There's something to be said for waiting for the right moment.
I often admire how calm he can be. I've asked him repeatedly what it would take to get him fired up. Then I saw him coaching his kids at a wrestling match.
I heard this man yelling at his team, at one of his wrestlers. I was curious who it was. They sounded so loud, so passionate. I looked in the direction of this booming voice.
It was Rav.
And not only was he yelling, he was pacing, his hand was clenched in a fist and moving across his body in an upward motion. His face was red, his eyebrows furrowed, and I believe he may have let a little spit fly out of his mouth.
My jaw dropped down to the ground.
And I got hot.
Wrestling is somewhat interesting to me. I admire what the kids have to go through physically. The athleticism. It's a sport you do have to be totally devoted to. I attend the matches when I can, try to learn what I can so I can follow Rav through the nuances of the language. I am there to support the team, sure. But the main reason I go, the thing that gets me in the door & sitting on hard-ass bleachers is
Rav.
Because seeing this super-amped up version of my calm crab is (one of)the thing(s) I think I love most about my serene, cool man.
He's short and stocky (yummy).
Ravioli is cool as a cucumber. He's all perspective and reason. He's cool-headed and even-tempered.
(This is fascinating to me because I'm so not that way. I guess that's why we work.)
He is humble and a little cocky. He's silly, funny. He has a great laugh. A smile that makes me feel funny in my tummy and eyes that I want to curl up in and stay awhile. Stay forever.
He stands with me, wraps me in his arms and then sets me free. And as I look back over my shoulder, there he is smiling. He likes watching as I float along and find my way.
He is childlike, but all man.
He makes me laugh, he heals my wounds, he lifts me up and sails choppy seas with me.
He has a hard time finding the broad-side of a bull. It drives me crazy sometimes, but it is endearing. His serenity, his 'sit-back and wait' attitude makes me want to throw a temper tantrum. But most of the time he's 100% correct. He's not afraid to speak his mind or call someone on their stuff. It may not happen at that exact moment. But he will. He's just biding his time. There's something to be said for waiting for the right moment.
I often admire how calm he can be. I've asked him repeatedly what it would take to get him fired up. Then I saw him coaching his kids at a wrestling match.
I heard this man yelling at his team, at one of his wrestlers. I was curious who it was. They sounded so loud, so passionate. I looked in the direction of this booming voice.
It was Rav.
And not only was he yelling, he was pacing, his hand was clenched in a fist and moving across his body in an upward motion. His face was red, his eyebrows furrowed, and I believe he may have let a little spit fly out of his mouth.
My jaw dropped down to the ground.
And I got hot.
Wrestling is somewhat interesting to me. I admire what the kids have to go through physically. The athleticism. It's a sport you do have to be totally devoted to. I attend the matches when I can, try to learn what I can so I can follow Rav through the nuances of the language. I am there to support the team, sure. But the main reason I go, the thing that gets me in the door & sitting on hard-ass bleachers is
Rav.
Because seeing this super-amped up version of my calm crab is (one of)the thing(s) I think I love most about my serene, cool man.
12/19/06
I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends
Last year, I ran into my former best friend. We were best friends all through middle-school & partly through high school. However, she went her way & I went mine. There were no hard feelings. We just became two different people.
So, like I was saying, I ran into her last year & we had a catch-up session. She told me what everyone from high school was up to now. And as she was talking, it occured to me that she was still friends with her popular crowd from our high school. A whopping ten years later. They all married each other or are still dating. They are all still friends.
This completely freaked me out. I mean, it's like she progressed not at all. She went to our local University with the rest of the 'group'. They all partied together, married each other & are all still friends. I guess on one hand that seems kind of nice. But the majority of that just really freaks me out.
And I've seen other people around me that are only friends with a set group. And no matter what you do, you can't inch your way in because you don't 'do what they do' or 'talk how they talk' or 'act like they act'. Am I just miserable & antisocial? Or am I snooty? Or do I just prefer to be around people who embrace all people? I'd like to think I am the latter. But I'm wondering......I mean, you know when you click with someone & when you don't. And that's ok. That's just chemistry. But why do grown adults still find themselves in high school cliques? And refuse to let anyone enter? It really just freaks me out & grosses me out. I guess it goes against my whole 'conformity' thing. Having to be this way or that way, so that I can be accepted. Not gonna happen. So, am I doing the same thing? Like reverse discrimination. They discriminate against me because I'm not like them & in turn I discriminate against them because they are 'cliquey'. Jeez, I guess the sad truth is that I must not have progressed either. Man, that hurts to say that out loud. But I did. And my fault is noted.
So, like I was saying, I ran into her last year & we had a catch-up session. She told me what everyone from high school was up to now. And as she was talking, it occured to me that she was still friends with her popular crowd from our high school. A whopping ten years later. They all married each other or are still dating. They are all still friends.
This completely freaked me out. I mean, it's like she progressed not at all. She went to our local University with the rest of the 'group'. They all partied together, married each other & are all still friends. I guess on one hand that seems kind of nice. But the majority of that just really freaks me out.
And I've seen other people around me that are only friends with a set group. And no matter what you do, you can't inch your way in because you don't 'do what they do' or 'talk how they talk' or 'act like they act'. Am I just miserable & antisocial? Or am I snooty? Or do I just prefer to be around people who embrace all people? I'd like to think I am the latter. But I'm wondering......I mean, you know when you click with someone & when you don't. And that's ok. That's just chemistry. But why do grown adults still find themselves in high school cliques? And refuse to let anyone enter? It really just freaks me out & grosses me out. I guess it goes against my whole 'conformity' thing. Having to be this way or that way, so that I can be accepted. Not gonna happen. So, am I doing the same thing? Like reverse discrimination. They discriminate against me because I'm not like them & in turn I discriminate against them because they are 'cliquey'. Jeez, I guess the sad truth is that I must not have progressed either. Man, that hurts to say that out loud. But I did. And my fault is noted.
11/28/06
Head Full of Lightning and A Hat Full of Rain
Lately I've been on a journey. As I've said before, I don't really know where I'm going. I don't know where the road is leading me. But I have this scary, awesome feeling that it's taking me somewhere thrilling. This blog, relaying some of my stories, returning to school - all of these things are part of this bigger picture that is being pieced together for the evolution - the metamorphosis, if you will. It's exciting and scary.
Today I got to thinking about how cowardly I had been for so long. About how strong I felt on the inside, but was too worried about others to really be myself. I still feel scared at times. Most people, I think, can't handle me or what I have to say. They see me, often times, as argumentative, intimidating (this one shocks me, but apparently, I am), negative, bitter, uptight, etc. But really all that it is, is that I feel strongly about things that mean something to me & I am animated. I enjoy a good debate. But what I don't enjoy is when you have to take a low-blow just so you can leave the debate feeling like you've accomplished something. If you can't stand on the merit of your own thoughts, leave the cheap shots out of it.
Anyway, I get passionate and feel passionately about women and women's issues. I feel passionate about being kind, human-to-human. I am not wired to feel passion in a quiet, demure way that is pleasing to everyone. I wish that I were wired that way. Instead, I'm wired to be loud and firm and steadfast.
It has taken me quite awhile to come to grips with this. Because I think people that are afraid to face their own ideas on norms and aren't willing to listen or be in a passionate discussion, aren't going to like me. People are afraid they're going to 'set me off' or get me 'riled up'. Who cares? I enjoy hearing where people are coming from & I enjoy in engaging them as well. I don't want to fight. But I just feel that it's ok to be passionate.
So, back to my cowardly ways. I got thinking about how I want my children to be passionate. To be aware and take part in making a difference. I want, my daughter especially, to be aware of what it means to be a woman. To see the double-standards and inequalities and stand up for them. Or scratch that, stand up for anything that she feels is right. I don't want her to be afraid to open her mouth, I don't want her to feel like she has to shed her personality like clothing and wear only certain articles of it for certain people. I hope that they can stay true to who they really are.
As I'm standing in front of my closet, dusting off the parts of my personality that I've long ago hung up and neatly put away, I'm no longer concerned about whether people are 'ok' with it. I'm on a mission to do the work and fight for things that need to be fought for. I'm ready to be scared and happy doing it. It'll be a wild ride. But I'm ready.
What better message can I send to my children? If I just do, then they will see and learn and be.
The other day, Bill Clinton was on Ellen. Ellen asked him about Hilary running for office. His response was, "Whatever she wants to do is fine with me. I'll suit up and play."
Bryan, Connor and Gracie.....suit up. Mommy's on a mission, come along for the ride.
Today I got to thinking about how cowardly I had been for so long. About how strong I felt on the inside, but was too worried about others to really be myself. I still feel scared at times. Most people, I think, can't handle me or what I have to say. They see me, often times, as argumentative, intimidating (this one shocks me, but apparently, I am), negative, bitter, uptight, etc. But really all that it is, is that I feel strongly about things that mean something to me & I am animated. I enjoy a good debate. But what I don't enjoy is when you have to take a low-blow just so you can leave the debate feeling like you've accomplished something. If you can't stand on the merit of your own thoughts, leave the cheap shots out of it.
Anyway, I get passionate and feel passionately about women and women's issues. I feel passionate about being kind, human-to-human. I am not wired to feel passion in a quiet, demure way that is pleasing to everyone. I wish that I were wired that way. Instead, I'm wired to be loud and firm and steadfast.
It has taken me quite awhile to come to grips with this. Because I think people that are afraid to face their own ideas on norms and aren't willing to listen or be in a passionate discussion, aren't going to like me. People are afraid they're going to 'set me off' or get me 'riled up'. Who cares? I enjoy hearing where people are coming from & I enjoy in engaging them as well. I don't want to fight. But I just feel that it's ok to be passionate.
So, back to my cowardly ways. I got thinking about how I want my children to be passionate. To be aware and take part in making a difference. I want, my daughter especially, to be aware of what it means to be a woman. To see the double-standards and inequalities and stand up for them. Or scratch that, stand up for anything that she feels is right. I don't want her to be afraid to open her mouth, I don't want her to feel like she has to shed her personality like clothing and wear only certain articles of it for certain people. I hope that they can stay true to who they really are.
As I'm standing in front of my closet, dusting off the parts of my personality that I've long ago hung up and neatly put away, I'm no longer concerned about whether people are 'ok' with it. I'm on a mission to do the work and fight for things that need to be fought for. I'm ready to be scared and happy doing it. It'll be a wild ride. But I'm ready.
What better message can I send to my children? If I just do, then they will see and learn and be.
The other day, Bill Clinton was on Ellen. Ellen asked him about Hilary running for office. His response was, "Whatever she wants to do is fine with me. I'll suit up and play."
Bryan, Connor and Gracie.....suit up. Mommy's on a mission, come along for the ride.
11/23/06
So Kind and Generous
This Thanksgiving Morning, at 7:21 a.m., I trudged out of my house and ran across the street in the cold, to the store to get our local paper. I was chomping at the bit for the Black Friday ads. I get home and start picking over the paper like a vulture over the carrion of a carcass. Finally, after all of the sale ad perusing, I see the front page. The headline is: The Woman Under The Bridge: Homeless and abused for 40 years, a widow struggles to find her way.
The weathered face of the woman, with a church for a backdrop, is looking right at me. I begin to read the article, which is part 1 of a 5 part series. As I'm reading the beginning of her story, my mind drifts and then zeros in on Jen and her wonderful heart, her giving spirit, her passion. Things come into perspective.
I've cried over the fact that we live paycheck-to-paycheck. I've beaten myself up for staying home with the kids, instead of working, while Bryan works to support us - solely. I've cried over the fact that we've taken ourselves down to becoming a one-car family. I've bitched and complained that our house is too small, the carpets are dirty, the yard is too small, Connor's scooter was stolen and we don't have the money to just run out and spend on silly, material objects.
HOWEVER,
Reading this article - thinking of Jen and the work she does - reading the homeless statistics in my home state, I am humbled. Because we have a home, we have a paycheck, we have a yard, we have a carpet, we have heat, WE HAVE HEALTH INSURANCE. And so many don't. I am blessed with a table to eat meals on, I am blessed with two happy, healthy children who have shoes and coats. For all of the things I think we don't have, we really do have so much.
So, I begin my Thanksgiving by being in awe and complete gratitude for Jen and the work she does. I am thankful that I have the ability to visit her blog everyday - several times a day - to merely read of the good works she is doing. She is making a life of.
I also begin my Thanksgiving by stopping and being truly grateful for the bounties I do have. The good fortune of having a warm home- but ever aware that I could be one of those numbers.
Jen, thank you. You are my Thanksgiving blessing today and I go forward today with you and all those you work so hard for locked in a warm embrace around my humble heart.
Happy Thanksgiving to you all.
The weathered face of the woman, with a church for a backdrop, is looking right at me. I begin to read the article, which is part 1 of a 5 part series. As I'm reading the beginning of her story, my mind drifts and then zeros in on Jen and her wonderful heart, her giving spirit, her passion. Things come into perspective.
I've cried over the fact that we live paycheck-to-paycheck. I've beaten myself up for staying home with the kids, instead of working, while Bryan works to support us - solely. I've cried over the fact that we've taken ourselves down to becoming a one-car family. I've bitched and complained that our house is too small, the carpets are dirty, the yard is too small, Connor's scooter was stolen and we don't have the money to just run out and spend on silly, material objects.
HOWEVER,
Reading this article - thinking of Jen and the work she does - reading the homeless statistics in my home state, I am humbled. Because we have a home, we have a paycheck, we have a yard, we have a carpet, we have heat, WE HAVE HEALTH INSURANCE. And so many don't. I am blessed with a table to eat meals on, I am blessed with two happy, healthy children who have shoes and coats. For all of the things I think we don't have, we really do have so much.
So, I begin my Thanksgiving by being in awe and complete gratitude for Jen and the work she does. I am thankful that I have the ability to visit her blog everyday - several times a day - to merely read of the good works she is doing. She is making a life of.
I also begin my Thanksgiving by stopping and being truly grateful for the bounties I do have. The good fortune of having a warm home- but ever aware that I could be one of those numbers.
Jen, thank you. You are my Thanksgiving blessing today and I go forward today with you and all those you work so hard for locked in a warm embrace around my humble heart.
Happy Thanksgiving to you all.
11/16/06
Silver Lining
**I want to apologize in advance for the scary picture of me. It's just the only picture I had of me with my Holly Hobbie doll**
There weren't many playthings that I was attached to when I was growing up. Frankly, I didn't play with toys. From the time I was one year old, I pretended to go to school. I'd carry books around & wave good-bye & say 'school'. I colored, sketched, cut paper, pretended to be a receptionist, a teacher, played house, and read. I wasn't in to Barbie. At all. She wasn't my scene. However, I did have a rag doll that I was particularly found of. It was a Holly Hobbie doll that I received for my 3rd birthday. The only 'frill' that doll had was, if you pulled the bow on her hat, her eyes would close. And if you pulled the bow in the other direction, they opened. I ADORED that Holly Hobbie doll.
After the divorce, we moved. A lot. And that doll, with all of the rest of my belongings, always seemed to get lost in the shuffle. With each move, more things were gone. Until the point where there was nothing left of my childhood. And I distinctly remember upon turning the ripe-old age of 8, that I told myself it was time to give up all of 'that kiddy' stuff. I guess so that when more things ended up missing, I could deal. The only artifacts of the so-called childhood I had were things that I managed to keep myself. Things like, a piece of driftwood that my dad found on a beach and drew a rainbow and pot of gold on for me. (Which today hangs above the doorway in my kitchen and has faded over the years to where you can barely make out the picture), the small, tan stone that he found & gave to me that just happened to be in the shape of a heart, an arrowhead that I found on the farm when Dad & I were walking the fields, small little trinket boxes that he gave me, etc. These are things that I hold on to as if they were the finest of fine artifacts. And well, they are.
It has occured to me, when looking around my home that, because there's nothing from the Golden Age of Tabitha's youth, that I hold onto everything that my kids have touched. I have every craft that Connor has done since he started preschool..two years ago. I keep almost every pair of shoes, baby blankets, their little baby towels, locks of hair, their hospital bracelets. You name it, I've saved it (I do draw the line at saving the umbilical cord...I can't handle that).
I feel that I've gone to the extreme, though. There are just some things I need to let go of. If I keep everything that pertains to my children, I'll need a house the size of.....well, Delaware (haha).
I wish that I didn't have this crazy need to over-compensate with my children, for all of the things I lacked. Case in point....remember that Holly Hobbie doll I mentioned? I just had to get that for Gracie. Yup. I'm sick. I found the exact same doll on ebay & bought it. And honestly, she could care two squats about it. Truth-be-told, I used her as a 'beard'. I say I bought it for her, but really bought it to reconcile something inside of me.
I guess it comes down to now that I have children of my own, I see how important it is to reconcile all of this crap. I need to let it go. There aren't many out there who know, the full extent of what has happened so many years ago. And many would say, it's old news, ancient history. It's long gone and done. Why are you still hanging on?? To which I'd have to say that it needs to be purged. The only way I can move forward in a healthy, productive way - for my children, for my husband, and for myself is to give it it's fair due. Finally. After all of these years. I ran from it all for so long. And today, I finally feel strong enough to take it on. And that only came about from being a mother.
Maybe I'll get strong enough to pitch some of the things I don't 'need' to hang on to. Maybe I won't. But tonight I think I can go to sleep for the first time, in two decades, knowing that I finally have found the strength within myself that I've been searching for. And I have found it by looking into my children's eyes.
There weren't many playthings that I was attached to when I was growing up. Frankly, I didn't play with toys. From the time I was one year old, I pretended to go to school. I'd carry books around & wave good-bye & say 'school'. I colored, sketched, cut paper, pretended to be a receptionist, a teacher, played house, and read. I wasn't in to Barbie. At all. She wasn't my scene. However, I did have a rag doll that I was particularly found of. It was a Holly Hobbie doll that I received for my 3rd birthday. The only 'frill' that doll had was, if you pulled the bow on her hat, her eyes would close. And if you pulled the bow in the other direction, they opened. I ADORED that Holly Hobbie doll.After the divorce, we moved. A lot. And that doll, with all of the rest of my belongings, always seemed to get lost in the shuffle. With each move, more things were gone. Until the point where there was nothing left of my childhood. And I distinctly remember upon turning the ripe-old age of 8, that I told myself it was time to give up all of 'that kiddy' stuff. I guess so that when more things ended up missing, I could deal. The only artifacts of the so-called childhood I had were things that I managed to keep myself. Things like, a piece of driftwood that my dad found on a beach and drew a rainbow and pot of gold on for me. (Which today hangs above the doorway in my kitchen and has faded over the years to where you can barely make out the picture), the small, tan stone that he found & gave to me that just happened to be in the shape of a heart, an arrowhead that I found on the farm when Dad & I were walking the fields, small little trinket boxes that he gave me, etc. These are things that I hold on to as if they were the finest of fine artifacts. And well, they are.
It has occured to me, when looking around my home that, because there's nothing from the Golden Age of Tabitha's youth, that I hold onto everything that my kids have touched. I have every craft that Connor has done since he started preschool..two years ago. I keep almost every pair of shoes, baby blankets, their little baby towels, locks of hair, their hospital bracelets. You name it, I've saved it (I do draw the line at saving the umbilical cord...I can't handle that).
I feel that I've gone to the extreme, though. There are just some things I need to let go of. If I keep everything that pertains to my children, I'll need a house the size of.....well, Delaware (haha).
I wish that I didn't have this crazy need to over-compensate with my children, for all of the things I lacked. Case in point....remember that Holly Hobbie doll I mentioned? I just had to get that for Gracie. Yup. I'm sick. I found the exact same doll on ebay & bought it. And honestly, she could care two squats about it. Truth-be-told, I used her as a 'beard'. I say I bought it for her, but really bought it to reconcile something inside of me.
I guess it comes down to now that I have children of my own, I see how important it is to reconcile all of this crap. I need to let it go. There aren't many out there who know, the full extent of what has happened so many years ago. And many would say, it's old news, ancient history. It's long gone and done. Why are you still hanging on?? To which I'd have to say that it needs to be purged. The only way I can move forward in a healthy, productive way - for my children, for my husband, and for myself is to give it it's fair due. Finally. After all of these years. I ran from it all for so long. And today, I finally feel strong enough to take it on. And that only came about from being a mother.
Maybe I'll get strong enough to pitch some of the things I don't 'need' to hang on to. Maybe I won't. But tonight I think I can go to sleep for the first time, in two decades, knowing that I finally have found the strength within myself that I've been searching for. And I have found it by looking into my children's eyes.
11/14/06
Gravel In Ya Guts and That Spit In Ya Eye
Whenever I do a reflective post regarding my childhood and the wonderful affects my mother had on it, it's never too positive. Scratch that, it's never been positive. I feel bad about that. But that is what she made out of her time with me, shaping me, molding me. So, when I need to rip that old band-aid off, I will. She is my mom, yes. Did she do the best with what she knew? I suppose. But my mom was the Yin and my dad was the Yang. And when I can find something positive and uplifting to recall about my childhood with my mom, I will.
I'm still searching.
Anyway. This is leading somewhere. Last Thursday, I called my mom in the morning to check in. She called me back a few hours later, we spoke and hung up. I began my chores for the day of laundry, stripping beds, and well...you get the idea. I was upstairs, the phone was ringing & there were no phones upstairs with me - they were all downstairs. The answering machine picks up. And this is what I hear in a horribly monotone, horribly suspicious, horribly bland tone of voice: "Je-ss. Where are you? *sigh* I don't know where you go all of the time. All right. Callmeback." This annoyed me terribly. It doesn't sound like much. But you'd have to hear it. It had her 'tone'. The one I've heard my whole damned life. The one that makes insanely ridiculous accusations, the one that is Passive/aggressive, the one that makes my neck hairs stand on end, the one that sends me in a tailspin. After I huffed and puffed, ranted and raved about this message, I had a revelation.
I've lived with accusation after accusation, suspicion and guilt. And I lived this on a daily basis with my mother. So, no wonder I'm always so damned defensive. I constantly had to defend my actions, my thoughts, my desires to better myself. And I had to defend them to my mother. Granted, I'm not defensive all of the time. I am actually a pretty laid back person. However, the minute I feel I am being questioned, demoralized, put into a corner, condescended, scolded or bossed around. BAM!!! Out she comes....Mt. DefensiveBitchTabitha.
Yes, I am an adult. With my own mind. My own personality, my own views, morals and values. But at what point can we shed what has been, essentially, programmed? I know it's there. It's one of the things I like least about myself. But it's like the aftershocks of an earthquake. It's just going to happen. It's part of the process. Nature vs. Nurture, folks.
It's funny how something as trivial and stupid like, a little message on an answering machine, can open a whole can of worms. But that's the funny thing about life and our 'demons'. They're there. We're all walking around "carrying a bunch of ghouls" around with us. (You'd have to watch old episodes of 'The Soprano's' to get that one. Good old, Paulie.) Anyway........
Something has been working it's way out. I've been on a journey the past few months. Where that journey will lead, who knows. And my journey's never seem to make any sense until about 5 years, after the fact. I'm just hoping that I am able to walk away from the defensiveness that has been bred in me. I'm hoping to shed that last bit of that little girl that sits cowering in the corner, awash in shame and guilt, for no good reason. Other than her mother's need to keep her down in "the mud and the blood and the beer". Because that little girl has had a fire burning inside of her for quite sometime. It just has been grossly misdirected.
I'm still searching.
Anyway. This is leading somewhere. Last Thursday, I called my mom in the morning to check in. She called me back a few hours later, we spoke and hung up. I began my chores for the day of laundry, stripping beds, and well...you get the idea. I was upstairs, the phone was ringing & there were no phones upstairs with me - they were all downstairs. The answering machine picks up. And this is what I hear in a horribly monotone, horribly suspicious, horribly bland tone of voice: "Je-ss. Where are you? *sigh* I don't know where you go all of the time. All right. Callmeback." This annoyed me terribly. It doesn't sound like much. But you'd have to hear it. It had her 'tone'. The one I've heard my whole damned life. The one that makes insanely ridiculous accusations, the one that is Passive/aggressive, the one that makes my neck hairs stand on end, the one that sends me in a tailspin. After I huffed and puffed, ranted and raved about this message, I had a revelation.
I've lived with accusation after accusation, suspicion and guilt. And I lived this on a daily basis with my mother. So, no wonder I'm always so damned defensive. I constantly had to defend my actions, my thoughts, my desires to better myself. And I had to defend them to my mother. Granted, I'm not defensive all of the time. I am actually a pretty laid back person. However, the minute I feel I am being questioned, demoralized, put into a corner, condescended, scolded or bossed around. BAM!!! Out she comes....Mt. DefensiveBitchTabitha.
Yes, I am an adult. With my own mind. My own personality, my own views, morals and values. But at what point can we shed what has been, essentially, programmed? I know it's there. It's one of the things I like least about myself. But it's like the aftershocks of an earthquake. It's just going to happen. It's part of the process. Nature vs. Nurture, folks.
It's funny how something as trivial and stupid like, a little message on an answering machine, can open a whole can of worms. But that's the funny thing about life and our 'demons'. They're there. We're all walking around "carrying a bunch of ghouls" around with us. (You'd have to watch old episodes of 'The Soprano's' to get that one. Good old, Paulie.) Anyway........
Something has been working it's way out. I've been on a journey the past few months. Where that journey will lead, who knows. And my journey's never seem to make any sense until about 5 years, after the fact. I'm just hoping that I am able to walk away from the defensiveness that has been bred in me. I'm hoping to shed that last bit of that little girl that sits cowering in the corner, awash in shame and guilt, for no good reason. Other than her mother's need to keep her down in "the mud and the blood and the beer". Because that little girl has had a fire burning inside of her for quite sometime. It just has been grossly misdirected.
10/27/06
The Trouble With You
Mother pressure. I can't figure out what else to call it. But I'm buckling under the pressure.
I feel that I'm half the mom I used to be. With one, glorious child, I was the very picture of a doting, together mommy. I did all of the one-on-one attention things with Connor. I didn't feel tired, I didn't schlep around half-dressed, half-asleep, unkempt, un-showered(unless I was sick). When he fell, I kissed his boo-boo's. Now, when either one of them run up to me, "kiss my foot, I fell. kiss my butt, I fell. Kiss my elbow, I fell...and so on", I'm like "You're fine. Oh come, here. I'll kiss it. Jeez." When I really want to say, "Yeah well, I fell and sat on the bologna pony and I got landed with you. But where are my condolences???"
Ok, so I had a choice. And truth-be-told, I don't want things any other way. I just can't handle the pressure. I can't handle the pressure I put on myself. To do all of the things I want to do. I need to do.
I can't handle at times, that as soon as I wake up, I feel like quietly throwing on a jacket. And walking out the door. Without a word. Without a second glance behind my shoulder.
I feel like a subpar mom. I never, ever thought that I would feel like this.
These four walls are closing in on me. I want to be Mother Earth incarnate. But I can't handle all that comes along with it. I mean, even my moods effect the entire mood of the house. My kids act up if I'm feeling tense or sick or tired. You can feel the change in the air, when I'm having a mood. The balance shifts and everyone is scattering like rats.
I want so desperately to feed my brain, to feed my soul. I've been on this journey to find myself again. I'm restless. I want to feel fire. I want to feel passion about something - anything. But I feel guilty. Why can't I feel passion about being a mom? Or do I? But I'm just so caught up in the day-to-day that I don't even know what passion really feels like anymore?
The pressure of wanting to better myself, while trying to juggle my duties as a wife and mom. I feel guilt for wanting time for myself. It goes back to me not being completely satisfied by being 'just a mom'. I want more. I need more. I don't want my entire identity & worth to be only fulfilled in my children. That is a scary place to be. Dont' get me wrong. My desire to be a good mother while they are under my wings, learning to fly with theirs, is a strong one. I want to be here. But when they go soaring on their own, I need to be able to hold myself up.
Hell, it's not easy. No one said it would be, I guess. I just thought I could handle it. I thought that I could handle all of the demands on myself. I thought that I could easily fulfill every role. I long for the ability to happily juggle it all. With smiles on everyone's faces, a clean house, with ease.
The endless days, the mundane routines. I could give you a play-by-play of my day. Almost down to the minute. Don't worry, I won't do that. But the fact that I can do that irks the shit out of me. As I sit here typing, I want to cry. I should just let it go. But my pride is holding it back. I'd be giving in to my weakness if I let the tears flow.
The seriousness of this hit me last night. I was watching Gracie sleep. She looked so cute, peaceful. My heart filled up to overflowing watching her breathe in, exhale. Over and over. The toils of my day before forgotten. All of the tantrums, the hitting, throwing, yelling. Forgotten. She looked perfect. And of course, in my eyes she is.
But as she was laying there, I realized I was looking at her through Whiskey-colored glasses.
Trouble With You
I feel that I'm half the mom I used to be. With one, glorious child, I was the very picture of a doting, together mommy. I did all of the one-on-one attention things with Connor. I didn't feel tired, I didn't schlep around half-dressed, half-asleep, unkempt, un-showered(unless I was sick). When he fell, I kissed his boo-boo's. Now, when either one of them run up to me, "kiss my foot, I fell. kiss my butt, I fell. Kiss my elbow, I fell...and so on", I'm like "You're fine. Oh come, here. I'll kiss it. Jeez." When I really want to say, "Yeah well, I fell and sat on the bologna pony and I got landed with you. But where are my condolences???"
Ok, so I had a choice. And truth-be-told, I don't want things any other way. I just can't handle the pressure. I can't handle the pressure I put on myself. To do all of the things I want to do. I need to do.
I can't handle at times, that as soon as I wake up, I feel like quietly throwing on a jacket. And walking out the door. Without a word. Without a second glance behind my shoulder.
I feel like a subpar mom. I never, ever thought that I would feel like this.
These four walls are closing in on me. I want to be Mother Earth incarnate. But I can't handle all that comes along with it. I mean, even my moods effect the entire mood of the house. My kids act up if I'm feeling tense or sick or tired. You can feel the change in the air, when I'm having a mood. The balance shifts and everyone is scattering like rats.
I want so desperately to feed my brain, to feed my soul. I've been on this journey to find myself again. I'm restless. I want to feel fire. I want to feel passion about something - anything. But I feel guilty. Why can't I feel passion about being a mom? Or do I? But I'm just so caught up in the day-to-day that I don't even know what passion really feels like anymore?
The pressure of wanting to better myself, while trying to juggle my duties as a wife and mom. I feel guilt for wanting time for myself. It goes back to me not being completely satisfied by being 'just a mom'. I want more. I need more. I don't want my entire identity & worth to be only fulfilled in my children. That is a scary place to be. Dont' get me wrong. My desire to be a good mother while they are under my wings, learning to fly with theirs, is a strong one. I want to be here. But when they go soaring on their own, I need to be able to hold myself up.
Hell, it's not easy. No one said it would be, I guess. I just thought I could handle it. I thought that I could handle all of the demands on myself. I thought that I could easily fulfill every role. I long for the ability to happily juggle it all. With smiles on everyone's faces, a clean house, with ease.
The endless days, the mundane routines. I could give you a play-by-play of my day. Almost down to the minute. Don't worry, I won't do that. But the fact that I can do that irks the shit out of me. As I sit here typing, I want to cry. I should just let it go. But my pride is holding it back. I'd be giving in to my weakness if I let the tears flow.
The seriousness of this hit me last night. I was watching Gracie sleep. She looked so cute, peaceful. My heart filled up to overflowing watching her breathe in, exhale. Over and over. The toils of my day before forgotten. All of the tantrums, the hitting, throwing, yelling. Forgotten. She looked perfect. And of course, in my eyes she is.
But as she was laying there, I realized I was looking at her through Whiskey-colored glasses.
Trouble With You
By: Dave Matthews Band
The brightest starOn a cloudless night
The brightest starOn a cloudless night
Some kind of miracle
Almost empty sky
In fact, sure as God is a monkey's dream
Ate that mushroom and believe what he see
The trouble with you
is you always wanna find the fires
And sitting warming your hands by the fireside
The trouble with you
is you always lookin' way outside
Oh, and not enjoy yourself by the fireside
Just as the bite of the blade
Wakes the absent mind
There's time to dreamAnd there's time to open your eyes
She said Just as the warmth of a kissBrings the love alive
It's right here by the fire
Where the answers lie
The trouble with you is
always wanna find the fire
Oh, when you warmin' your hands by the fireside
The trouble with you is you always lookin' far and wide
Oh, why not enjoy yourself by the fireside?
But you saidWhy you always lookin'?
Always lookin'?
She said
Why you always lookin' outside?
She said
The trouble with you is
you always lookin' for the fire
When you're warming your hands by the fireside
The trouble with you is
you always lookin' far and wide
Oh, why not enjoy yourself by the fireside?
The trouble with you is
you always lookin' somewhere else
Oh, and what you see there inside yourself
The trouble with you
is you always lookin' for the fire
Oh, why not enjoy yourself by the fireside?
Oh, why not enjoy yourself by the fireside?
She said, oh, why not enjoy yourself sittin' by the fire?
She said
The trouble with you
The trouble with you
10/15/06
I Tried
"When the wind had freed me from the roots that tied me down, now I need them back for comforting" 'I tried' by Matt CostaIt may appear, at times that I cannot let things go. It may seem that I re-hash things that should long be forgotten. I say codswallop. You think those things because you do not know me. If I bring something up again, it is not to keep a fight going or relive something. I bring it up, usually, because I've been trying to reconcile it in this noggin of mine.
I've taken the opportunity to think about it, twist the words around inside of my head, to hear them in different intonation. I tend to recede within myself and see if that particular piece of information fits into context, if it can be applied across the board, if there's any merit or validity, and if it has been worth all of my time or not.
This thought has occured to me: my b-i-l was right. I am not sunshine and smiles. And it was wrong of me to portray myself that way. I am mostly cloudy to partly sunny. And my smiles are only spent on those whom I think may deserve them.
I am introspective, introverted, I am deep, always lost in thought. I try to mask my caverns with moss, flowers and shallow ponds. I try to keep away from the depths that I teeter along on a daily basis. I know that those depths could carry me into madness. I walk that fine line between sane in insane everyday.I lean toward the sarcastic and the cynical.
The quiet and hopeful.
I long ago wanted to be the girl at the party/bar that everyone flocked to, the one with all of the jokes, the one with the right thing to say at the right time.
I have never been, nor will I ever be that girl.
I have found that because I am always afloat in my cloudy bliss that it gives me leave to appreciate more, the things of beauty, the Gods and Goddesses of Sun, the hopeful things, the lovely things. I have also found that in my caverns I hold feelings that run deep. I feel with my whole body. I feel happiness with my whole self. I lean towards empathy, I am eerily perceptive and can feel strong emotions for a total stranger in need.I wish, however, that I didn't run from myself for so long. Because I think that I had potential to do some real good, to make some real change. With my mostly cloudy to partly sunny personality. Instead, I listened to people who - didn't really matter - and sold myself short.
Now is the time to feed my depths even further. Which, in turn, will feed my children. To help shape their caverns. And give them the fire that, in me, was put out too early.
I now look at something that I took as a dagger, as a gift. It has made me realize, though I'm not a round peg - or a square peg even - that I may be a little Left of Center.
That is more than o.k.
I enjoy my ability to wrap my mind around many thoughts, to feel for everyone (even those that can't feel for themselves) and to be passionate.
Thank you. I need to remind myself that being all sunshine and all smiles is not always o.k. Clowns are all sunshine and all smiles. And they're freaky.
10/12/06
Meant To Be?
So, I did the Dead Celebrity Soulmate quiz on Biography's website. And here's my 'perfect match'. Rudolph Valentino. Whudda thunk it??10/10/06
The Space Between
There's a tiny corner in my house.I walk by it and it gives me hope.
It appears to be untouched by chubby little hands - eager to paint the wall of that tiny little corner - with unintentional fat, kid finger strokes of smeared caresses as they walk by.
It has somehow, someway, serendipitously removed itself from the wrecking path of this family.
There is no adult detritus of shed clothing, shoes flung about, laundry, used dishes, books or bits of daily living left there - uncared for.
It is devoid of the sprinkling of the joys of two small children. No toys lay unplayed with - forgotten there. There are no tossed-aside books, no crumpled up socks. Not even a crumb from a once-enjoyed snack.
This tiny corner is a space that is well-traveled, regularly used and yet, somehow, almost forgotten. We have failed to dirty this corner with the smatterings of our family.
If there were an art book or magazine designed to showcase what a tiny little corner 'should' look like, this tiny corner - our tiny corner - would be on the cover and the focal point. It is the very epitome of a tiny little corner.
It gives me hope that, in time, one day the rest of the house could look like this. That tiny little corner is the standard to which I hold the rest of our home against.
Though it sounds quaint, prim and almost-perfect, it does bear a mark or two. It serves a most practical purpose, a tad filthy even. But yet this area is so pristine.
I walk by the tiny corner. At least 40 times a day.
Each time it gives me hope.
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