Letter from my Closet

As I scanned my Facebook feed; I came across a topic of the day posted by a dear, old friend, dare I say, ex of my youth responsible for several closet skeletons.  I read the posed question, shook my head and scrolled onward.  Wait a minute.  Did I really just read what I think I did?  Ugh.  Now I understand that my high school years were far from the land of political, religious or moral fortitude discussions, in fact, my youth blazed behind me fast and infamously, but I don’t regret much, though some would say I should, because I am proud of the sum of my experiences both positive and slightly off balance - Elena always knew.  There was never a question of conservative or liberal, Jesus, Buddha or Allah; we all coexisted as bando, druggie or jock with random non-molders.  A boy/girlfriend was never expected to outline their perspectives on life, the universe, and everything before being considered worthy of making out in the park across the street after school - philosophy was better savored in college.

Where was I?  Yes, the posed question.  I shall paraphrase, “When does life begin?”  Pause.  Breathe.  Moment of unconsciousness. 

Letter from my skeletons: To the boy you once were.

Now a father yourself with a beautiful daughter, recovering from a life of debauchery and wickedness, I seek out that former self to lay ourselves to rest.  Many seasons ago you swept a girl away from naïveté.  For one moment allow yourself to see your daughter as a teenager when she comes home in love with the boy next door, from a good Christian family, who rocks her world completely and heedlessly.  Remember her and understand now what your former self could not comprehend.

You were twenty and I turned 16 that year: in my eyes you were an older, fast talker, larger than life…swoon.  I slid into your circle with ease and your family welcomed me as one of their own.  I believed the best in people and assumed I was protected and safe, that honesty directed all things and everything was right. 

This was the 80s decadence and drugs: cocaine, pot, hash, LSD, opium.  I dabbled and experimented, and assumed the same of everyone.  I had a line that I never stepped over, but inched ever so closely, not noticing those around me leaping well beyond the safe zone.  I was hospitalized one night from too much speed, recovering with a slight case of anxiety that haunts me to this day.  I smoked laced pot on several occasions that still seem like hypnotic dreams.  I don’t remember much of the Pink Floyd concert – the devil may know why.  I came from a conservative Greek household and never had the talk, and my parents trusted too much or were merely too afraid to find out the truth.  You took my hand and said it would all be ok.

At the height of our whirlwind I didn’t know your true poison.  Whether it was the good in you or selfishness not to share; I am grateful for your shielding me from the crack of your world.  A simple I’m sorry and make up adventures always brought my forgiveness and affections.  I felt full of life in your guidance and trusted your desires in our exploits.  Ahh the stump in the field, the basement sleeping bag, going through the toll booth, the boat, the beach…bahahahah some of my best stories come from those days.  Surprisingly for my naiveté I lived.  Abruptly, your world and my world crashed the day the police came, took you away, and I learned that I was pregnant.

       

Eddie came to my rescue with an ear and a hug and encouraged me to tell you.  With a child’s heart I didn’t even know how or why or what.  There was no feeling of options or happily ever after, merely a darkness and unreality.  Your parents brought me to you.  I never understood if it was prison or rehab: I just shut down and my mind thought of nothing.  I remember a large room almost like a cafeteria and everyone gave us some time alone to visit.  I can’t recall if we were across the table or side by side.  I don’t even see your face as I remember telling you.  I don’t know whose idea yours or mine, or if the decision was an unspoken agreement or of there was discussion.  I can’t remember if we talked about options or plans or possibilities.  I don’t remember walking away sad, but I don’t remember you beyond this moment.

That day.  That day so long ago in April was cool and Ed and Missy picked me up and took me to that place in Paoli.  My mom was afraid there’d be protestors and talked to them about how to shield me.  My mom, bless her for her patience with me.  I couldn’t let her come, I begged her not to come, and she agreed as long Ed and Missy promised to take care of me.  You were nowhere or somewhere and not there. 

The required counseling terrified me and robotically I said no thank you and why do you make girls feel so awful about a decision that they make.  The wait felt grey and numb.  I didn’t exist.  I don’t remember changing, but I remember that room.  It was cold and smelled overly-sanitized and was very small.  On the table, shivering, exposed, I heard voices, but didn’t want to open my eyes.  I remember them explaining each part, and thinking, “Why. Why. Why?!”  I wasn’t under general anesthesia because it was too expensive and this was all I had saved.  I heard the machine…r.rrrrr..rrrrr…rrrrrchug chug rrrr chug.  The pain that I wasn’t supposed to feel seared inside and out. 

After that day my memory fails.  The infection that followed brought anything left of me to the brink.  I hurt and screamed and cried and had nightmares that woke my parents from deep sleep.  I had an allergic reaction to the pain meds and wanted to die.  My father raged and sobbed that he failed to protect me.  He never said a word to me, but I heard him yell at my mother, and he bought me flowers as the only gesture he could bare. 

A family friend was looking for a nanny to take with them to the Bahamas to watch their little angels on vacation.  A free trip to the beach and I just had to watch the kids over dinner time so the adults could enjoy their vacation.  My parents agreed this time away would be great for my health.  Suitcase and bathing suit in hand I landed at Club Atlantis with such promise.  The kids beamed in front of their parents and turned behind their backs.  They spit, hit and threw things at me and yelled that they didn’t have to listen to me and I was nobody.  The parents went out to dinner and dancing and parked on the beach and left me to their entitled monsters who took advantage of my fragile state.  I remember the trip occured over Mother’s Day and I sat in the hotel room on the double bed while the kids screamed that they didn’t have to go to bed and they didn’t have to listen to me.  A typical Lifetime-esque show about mothers, their love of motherhood and their children brought me to my knees.  I called my mother gasping for air, crying for so many sorrows.  Worst decision ever.

You stayed in jail after your court appearance, and I think we passed a few letters or calls.  And after your release I went to Wildwood to see you.  In fact, our best picture together was there along the rocks of the bay.  We looked picture perfect, standing there in the breeze, arms around each other.  But holding on was useless.  I resented your lack of participation in the whole affair; the fact that you could never know the darkness I experienced, what lived deep inside because of our innocence - or stupidity.  It never happened to you…like a blowing wind and a whisper it passed you by without a mark.

I hospitalized myself that fall because I couldn’t come to terms with my pain.  It’s not that I ever wanted us back – the naiveté and school girl fantasies no longer resided in my heart.  I needed to understand life and everything I could know about what life meant: my ignorance of the ways of the world, my foolishness, believing so blindly, my anger at my parents for leaving me unprepared and exposed.  My desire to define the existential questions didn’t find answers: I was ill-equipped for my journey.  I hid myself from my classmates, friends, family, the world.  It took me a long time to realize that I went there to hide amongst the suicidal, drug addicts, the abused and neglected, since I felt unworthy of the normalcy outside the walls as well as needing protection from that scary outside life. But I didn’t belong there.  The anger I learned in therapy never left, seething beneath the surface, and prompted so many reckless and bad decisions thereafter.  I know now that I was punishing myself, not forgiving myself or you.

I carried that Scarlet Letter in my heart for too long.  It wasn’t until I was pregnant with my own little girl that the guilt and pain slipped back into my sub-consciousness.  How did one life deserve to arrive and another not.  I didn’t deserve motherhood.  And how would I look into her eyes knowing that she will be an only child, but shouldn’t have been.  I know now these were silly mind games to play with myself and left me wallowing in a pit of despair that I didn’t deserve.

So your question about when does life begin prompted me to reply that life begins when there are organs and a brain to support life functions.  I wanted to cyber scream, “You Bastard!”  I wanted to send you an email blasting your selfish question.  I wonder if you understood my position.  I wonder if you felt a pang like I did.  It’s not fair to hold you to that image of who we were then or expect that your closet holds these same demons.  But then I slipped into that time of long ago and realized you and I never made peace with that time.  I’ve held you accountable instead of asking both of us to forgive each other and share a moment of empathy for our youthful foibles.  I’m not here to have a religious or scientific discussion about the start of life, the difference between life or the potential for life.  I’m not here to guilt you or me into some sympathic apologies.  But I am here to ask you how you come to terms with your question yourself.

My skeletons have packed their bags and walked into the light.  I’m grateful for modern technology for bringing us cyber together and laying a potential life to rest.

For Deb - Rule #112 of What I Wish Someone Told Me about Pregnancy

As the oldest of 4 girls I played mommy young and happily. Each new little sister was the best Baby Alive a girl could ever want: they cried and needed fed and rocked and loved – my living dolls. My dreams foretold the joys of motherhood and the fabulous glow of pregnancy – barefoot of course. I couldn’t wait to find that special someone to create an amazing life – my prince charming. The years went by as did relationships begin and end, and my dreams turned dark like lies, mocking my hope. Just as my clock neared midnight that amazing moment came like a magic wave of the wand…key fairy godmother singing bibbity bobbity boo.

Reality check: scared, knowing how many miscarriages and false positives exist in the world as well as watching all of my friends go through fertility treatments with futility, I didn’t actually accept the reality nor did I feel worthy when so many had failed before me, especially after a several weeks binge of living up the non-parent life with wine and parties and adventures o my. I told my hubby, who was thrilled (stifle fears and worries here), and we agreed to only tell immediate family since I had this twinge of concern. We asked those in the know to pipe down until we were prepared for the world to know, and day by day we accepted the new reality, but kept buttoned up for the bulk of the tests.

The landmark week 8, first doctor’s appointment, arrived and I hoped this would assuage my fears and growing anxieties, but, alas, over 35 meant high-risk doctors, testing, and decisions and quitting my 2 pack a day smoking habit as well as my party nights. I cringed, thinking about being a pin cushion and fearing for the health and well-being of myself and unborn, let alone what decisions I may have to face and did I already cause damage. I feared the worst and began building a wall between me and the world. I selected the non-CVS route and instead went with genetic marker tests and ultrasounds, with the more invasive amniocentesis only-if-necessary. I nervously went to the counseling and blood tests and regular ultrasounds and waited. I waited for the joy of pregnancy to begin.

All my tests came back normal and strong and healthy – yeah! But that didn’t seem to lift my mood. As each milestone test returned I hoped for a smile and flutter of excitement, but instead I vomited for 7 months and developed reflux and the heartburn seared holes in my esophagus; I could no longer walk from planters fasciitis in both feet, the equivalent of bursitis in both thighs, and a dropped groin – let’s not go there, all right?! The pain moving from sitting to standing and walking or rolling over sent red hot flashes through me. I longed for the days I sat outside drinking my Hoggarden or Sauvignon Blanc or Vodka martinis with my packs of smokes and all the time in the world. My body changed for the miserable and I wondered why I ever thought pregnancy beautiful.

I couldn’t break my smoking habit, but patted myself for cutting back to 6 cigs a day. I had to hide myself for fear of chastisement and disgust. The doctors encouraged my continued efforts and allowed me this small piece of my former life. They asked how I felt and I replied cautiously, “ok as can be expected.” Slight grin. I hated people, especially those who kept berating me for “not enjoying pregnancy” and that “I should be thrilled and happy” and “I needed to change my attitude” and “get over it”. O each little word out of each ugly mouth gave me visions of ripping their heads right from their shoulders, spinal cord swinging and stomping on their pathetic, foolish brains. SHUT THE FUCK UP!

I wondered if I was cut out to be a mom after all. I was happy living my rock star life complete with rock star husband and fabulous freedom and adventures. I worked hard and played hard and lived life like no tomorrow. My belly grew, my drinking ceased, my smoking declined, my hours of wakefulness became nil and my mental state went black. I beat myself up: how could I be so resentful of what I always dreamed? I’m a monster for feeling the way I do. I couldn’t pull myself out from the quicksand. My exhaustion and pain fed my depression, which fed my exhaustion and pain. No one understood, and how could they: I was the bad person. At the same time I was warring with the demons in my head a delicate balance grew within the household - my husband lost a child at birth a wife-ago, feeding his own concerns as birth day closed in, stewing below the surface, preventing either of us from comforting the other. The house simmered just below boiling.

An unexpected moment of happiness occurred at my 22 week ultrasound when I learned I would bring a daughter into the world. Hubby and I enlisted my mother to come along to this level 2 ultrasound, not only would yiayia get to experience the joy of modern technology, but she would act as a buffer as they told me it was a boy – my husband was certain. The heartbeat more real than the Doppler at the ob/gyn office, the image of ten fingers and toes, left arm in the “drama” position and possibly thumb in mouth made me awestruck, the measurements and movements and the reality... Then the tech asked, “Do we want to know what the sex is today?” I replied, “I do, but hubby wants to wait. Send him outside.” Hubby interjected, “No, no I want to know.” “Well, it’s a girl. You see these 3 lines….” And I heard nothing else. And my hubby turned an ashen-shade of white. That moment of utter joy carried me through the day. Yet the darkness in my grey matter slowly wrinkled the truth with suggestions that it wasn’t 100%, the baby’s position could have been off, or maybe they made a mistake. I hoped, but couldn’t believe.

The sickness in my head wouldn’t let sunshine stay long. I spent each day crying and paralyzed at the office. The pain increased daily, allowing me to offer only meager smiles and cordialities. I spent more time traveling from desk to bathroom than I could fathom, and the intolerable pain making me dread any form of movement; pushing up from my seat with my arms, I would hold my breath until I could maneuver my legs to hold me upright. The first few steps I took seemed impossible, exhausting all the energy my body contained. By the time I made it to the bathroom I usually had a small accident (panty liners and I were well acquainted) and had to rest my head against the cold metal stall before I attempted the trek back to my desk. When I could, I spent lunch time in the car: heat on, the seat slightly reclined, phone alarm set for 30 minutes. I relished the days that I could do this because that brief 30 minutes helped me until I could leave for home. Some days if I couldn’t nap I sat there crying to the radio or into my daydreams.

I hurt inside and out. The cycle never ended. At night sleep failed to refresh me because of the pain ravaging my lower body, the symbiont creature in my belly, the burning in my throat and the hourly trek up and down the stairs to the bathroom – whose brilliant idea was it to buy a house with only one bathroom on the first floor?! I learned to crawl down the steps on my hands and knees and back up on my butt – talk about land of the living opposites. By the time my body rested enough for sleep the urge came on again. I couldn’t sleep downstairs because the only comfortable place was my 4 inch memory foam topped bed with 27 pillows fixed just right. I dreaded the arrival of little miss with feedings and the promise of no sleep yet to come – I was already too deprived. Lost in the mist of depression and physical pain all I could dream was sleep. I remember my days-of-ago motto: I’ll sleep enough when I’m dead - how foolish! No one understood and my dirty little secrets consumed me.

I didn’t want to resent the little creature or the new life we faced together. Even when the stomach sickness subsided sometime around month 7 and the kicks and spins in my belly replaced some of the sadness and woe, I never really felt aglow. I resented missing out on everything that once made me happy, and resigned myself to the new life – really what choice did I have. At the same time I looked for a doula to assist me through delivery and educate me on breastfeeding and postpartum depression – I anticipated the likelihood. My spirits rose slightly as I prepared to evict the little alien from my body one way or another and teach her the ways of the world. I felt there was never a time when I could confide my story to anyone at least until I met my postpartum group. Each time I made a small attempt to hint that I wasn’t the glowing baby factory that a woman is expected to resemble, I watched eyes go blank, jaws slacken, and heads tilt. With a wave of the hand I was labeled “ill” or ridiculous or dramatic. I still harbor anger towards those who could have (should have) seen that I needed compassion and strength, not a waving, pointing finger and insults or brushed off or ignored. I thank my little symbiont for saving me. From the day she arrived nothing else has mattered. I had never heard of perinatal depression, and it scared me more than delivery – it shouldn’t have…and that’s a tale for another day.

If sheep could read

I'm fairly private and tech savvy.  I keep all my Facebook options to Friends Only; I typically only accept friend requests from folks that I want to keep in my life, speak to regularly, and genuinely care about; I don't allow FB apps (anymore); and I don't fall for any of the virus posts, millionaire emails, or allow bank account access to anyone but my bank and another bank for wire trnasfers that I am initiating.  That being said, I am noticing how my privacy is really not private any longer.  SURPRISE!  Not.

Due to some recent business ventures I've accepted friend requests from folks that I normally would have declined, not because I'm a mean, heartless bitch, but because I really wanted Facebook to be the place where I kept in touch in this crazy world with friends and family ONLY.  I didn't want to friend co-workers past or present unless we were friends outside of the office or we have a commraderie that would extend outside if we had time; I didn't want to friend old school acquaintances whom I didn't really plan to stay connected or agree with their philosophies on life; I didn't expect to use Facebook as a marketing tool.  And Google+ really?  Not right now please.

I've ventured out into the world of dance instruction and have needed to market my business to attract people that may be interested in lessons, especially from an old friend.  I've also tapped my inner sales woman and been marketing Arbonne products to said expanded friend base.  I of course offer my discounts and freebies to these friends and families.  I am also slowly (but not forgotten) working on a project to open my own business in the ARTS.  These ventures have eroded that sense of security that I once had on Facebook.  I've friended one timers and friends of friends that I will most likely never speak to again...until the next party.  I've friended acquaintences to shamelessly market myself, my services and my goods.  I've friended all sorts of family because I love my family, but, then again, they now also have access to this blog, which is sometimes not a pleasant read.  I've allowed the ease of technology to creep into my personal space and blast to the world. 

I started this blog to help myself and others who have or may or are suffering post-partum.  I wanted people to read it so that they may better understand me or themselves.  I wanted the writer in me to re-emerge and spread the word.  The problem is that at times this blog became more of a journal than a public blog, and I found myself not wanting to Facebook blast that particular post, hoping that only my die-hards would actually peer into my soul.  Or that if one of my friends or family did see that "one" that they would take it for what it was and not "react". <-- and for you english friends, yes, I do prefer the British punctuation rules to our MLA.  LOL.

Yesterday I tried to use PayPal to pay for our dinner delivery online so that neither of us had to trek out in the sweltering heat if we didn't have to.  Well guess who did anyway?!  Let's try and make this short-ish, shall we?  Apparently, I have to a) give PayPal direct access to my bank account, or b) get their credit card, or c) pay a $4.95 convenience fee for the equivalent of a gift card in order to continue using their services.  Now mind you I've had PayPal since the days they were in their infancy, and well before the concept of "account verification" was conceived by their greedy leadership.  I rememeber the notices stating..."hey get verified, but it's optional!"  Now they tell me since I have cumulatively sent $2000 over 12 years, I now have to do a, b, or c in order to continue using their pay service.  WTF.  They have my debit card.  The equivalent of my bank account, not a regular credit card.  I should not be forced to give them my direct account information to be used as a wire transfer instead of a payment service.  If someone steals my card numbers it's easier to replace, but my bank account numbers?!  Come on!!!  You are not a bank or a retailer, you are a payment service!  You should not legally be allowed to force me into providing you my bank account information.  That makes you not much different than my favorite Nigerian Scam artists.  Even my bill payments and other banks don't force my direct bank access - I can use a credit card or debit card of my personal choice.  So now I can no longer purchase from Amazon, EBay, or several other of my regular vendors.  O well.  The reality is none of the corporations that have control of our broken economy really want it fixed, so I won't spend my money the way or where I am accustomed any longer.  Fuck You PayPal!  O, BTW...look into the 2004 Class Action suit against PayPal to understand more.  I guess I should have paid more attention to it back then.

So here I am blogging away.  A fairly harmless one today.  I have a lot on my mind, but I'm not in the frame to share my abyss at the moment.  So enjoy my worthless tirade on privacy and paypal in lieu of emotional meltdown.

Poison

What is the worst thing someone you care about can say to you; 6 inches from your face at the top of their lungs; something that feels the equivalent of being stabbed? Let me share: “I hate you. My family hates you. I don’t care.”

According to Merriam Webster the word hate is defined as:
noun
1. a. intense hostility and aversion usually deriving from fear, anger, or sense of injury
    b. extreme dislike or antipathy : loathing
2. an object of hatred
verb
1. to feel extreme enmity toward
2. to have a strong aversion to: find very distasteful
intransitive verb
1. to express or feel extreme enmity or active hostility

You can’t take back words. They resonate and bang around your brain at varying octaves and tones in waves. I’m sorry never erases the venom that stung. The poison will eat away until there is nothing left. You can kill a person with words.

Yes, sometimes being responsible sucks: it includes, putting your children and partner above all else, making some people unhappy with your decisions, and making sacrifices that are unpleasant. No one said that being responsible was easy or comfortable. But that’s what makes the world go around: responsibility and respect…it’s what makes us civilized.

Rant

I'm not really in the mood to write today, but I haven't been "in the mood" for a very long time.  Such is the story of my modern life in o too many ways.  I'm washed up and feeling quite old and worthless.  Being a mother is for the young, but society encouraged us to change our views on such nonesense and we became older mom: superbeing.  Bull shit.

Where does wife, friend, sister, daughter fit in or self for that matter.  One group of people says that you should work to teach our daughters to be strong women; another group says bring back the stay at home mom for our children's welfare and security; and yet another says daycares are best; and then still, stay at home dad's are just as good.  I don't knock anyones opinion, but I do knock people stepping in on my decisions for my family.

Don't question my authority, decision or ideas.  Do not go against my wishes and don't believe that your views are superior in any way.  My family is my family and I make decisions for its welfare and safety and comfort.  These decisions take careful consideration of working hours, finance levels, child care and discipline, home care and maintenance, travel options, available time and nourishment and most of all my ability to function to make it all happen.  I don't expect anyone to agree with me wholely, but respect that I am a smart, educated, common-sense filled female and don't tread on me or the family I have created.

In memorium

Rest in Peace, Mark Lewis.

 It hurts my heart knowing the suffering of this world troubled you in too many ways.  I hope that today you find peace and comfort.  My friend, you live on in all of us in our memories and hearts. You were a talented artist and a sweet, sweet friend, and I have missed you dearly and will do so always. You were always the good guy in a difficult world.  All my love.

My Phoenix

I spent a wonderful week with my daughter and mother and grandmother - 1 week, four generations, all women - in Pittsburgh swimming and going to the zoo and being away from my daily grind.  Nice, but lacking in the relaxation department.  I am happy to have this memory of my grandmother playing with my daughter in the early summer sun.  My time, however, was bitter sweet.  So much has changed in life and knowledge and expectations that I had to bite my tongue more often than not to prevent a generational war.  I yearned for that "wisdom" to reach our conversations, but, alas, in 86 years too much difference taints perceptions.  I smiled and walked away and did what my maternal instincts said was correct.  I snapped a few pics and looked from the outside so that my movie would capture the sentiment instead.  

As I watched time pass melding history and future I learned that a friend lay weak and worn in a hospice bed, waiting out his last days in suffering.  An odd fear gripped me as I dug through my long stored hey days for the memories of youth and immortality that held our shared time.  I remembered his kind face and troubled emotions and days that never ended.  I thought of friends long since tucked away and places and events better left in the closet of phantoms.  My heart aches for him.  At moments I think of him alone in his pain and confused, much like my father had been, and say a few words to the universe begging for his comfort and whisper to him all the love that so many of us have for him.  I want to see him, but want to remember him as my memories do.  I will contact his father today.  I'm afraid to call or write.  I selfishly don't want to know when he's left this place, but I want him to know it's time to move on and be free from the plagues of this world.  Another kind soul, an artist, a friend, fading to the other side. 

And while I cry for Mark I cringe every time a CaringBridge update arrives in my inbox.  Lisa fights the moster as well.  I don't know that my heart can take much more.  We all watched and followed her through her breast cancer treatments, disolution of her marriage and her young boys eyes looking upon their mom with adoration and strength.  We cheered as the results seemed to say she was free of the demon that assulted her.  Now it has returned with a vengence powerful and cruel, engulfing all but her beautiful soul.  I panic for her and want to take away all the pain.  I want her boys to hold her tight and her family to give her strength.  I want the dragon slayed for good.  I want a miracle to shine upon her.  I believe.  I believe.  I want to make new memories with her and our children.  I want to play on the beach together as we did what feels like so long ago.  I want us to laugh and dance and be free.

And now I wait, incapable of fixing, curing or relieving.  I am helpless and lost myself in the whys and hows and fuck this dirty world thoughts.  I think of my own feelings and fears and sadness and none are so powerful as what I feel for these friends.  I start to look at the puzzle pieces of my life.  I notice that where there were missing pieces, now the holes are filling in.  I think of the legacy that we leave behind and how immortality is nothing more than other's memories, the imprints passed on by the living.  A completed puzzle forms out of the requiem my father's voice sings for the lost souls.  I will follow this song and see where it takes me. 

Today my vision forms a place where I can offer help to those that suffer disabilities or illness and a place where the community can create their immortality in dance, music, art, writing, drama, and all the muses.  A place that can heal or comfort and make some happiness in place of the pain.  A place where children through seniors can create and explore their passions and souls.  I want to bring this place to life in honor of those who I love and miss.

Me Paparazzi

I am my own stalker. 
I stalk myself out of curiosity. 
I stalk myself out of boredom.
I stalk myself to understand, learn, know, translate, explain, contemplate, discover who I am. 
I amuse my self, scare my self, fear my self, love and hate my self. 
I'm baffled by the puzzle and clues of me.
I'm amazed by the web created by me.
I want to be a part of me.
I want to entertain the same reality as me.
I worship me.
I want to be me.

Natural Disaster

I walked out my door this morning at 6:45, 15 minutes later than I should, but 5 minutes earlier than usual. Instead of a bone chilling cold the air felt not cold, just light with a hint of forsythia. I decided to take a second and survey the new day before I slugged to my car and off and away to warm a seat. I noticed our garden welcoming spring with bright yellow daffodils and the buds filling the Magnolia just about to burst. Soon the irises and tulips will burst through the ground then the multi-colored oddities that continue to bloom year over year even though they shouldn’t will complete the garden. The hydrangeas and lilies and delphiniums will sprout overnight making the aura of our home fragrant. For a second I thought about how much happiness I miss each day lately.

We are still awaiting the debate between the attorney and the mortgage company to come to a close. Not knowing if it will be in our favor makes it hard to breath one moment to the next. I think to myself, where will we go, what will we do, how about Anya’s playhouse and swing set her IPop built and the sandbox that just arrived for her birthday. The years of sweat and tears already invested in this home that we got married in and brought our baby home, to lose it all…because of timing: a hubby laid off months before the birth of our child, account-sucking post-partum medical bills and the vanished savings. We bought our first home with money from working 2 jobs, me at the bookstore and Rich playing gigs. We bought it in disrepair, crying out for salvation from 130 years of neglect and no updates since 1905. We believed in this home and what its ghosts could bring to our lives.

As soon as we de-siliconed the windows we felt her breath…it was a deep, life affirming sigh of gratitude: you could smell the air circulating through each room, chasing away the must and gloom of decades. We poured our dreams into what she deserved with her original transoms, knobs, and light fixtures. We loved her 1945 newspaper tales of WWII and bread for $.10 hidden beneath the rugs and the pleasantly distorting view of the outside through wavy glass. We reveled in her now defunct but topic of discussion outhouse and chicken coup. In four years she already needs fresh paint on her walls, real floors installed instead of carpet over 2x4s, and a kitchen that includes cabinets and counters and a sink newer than 1935. The roof scares us the most with its perhaps 70 year old tiles slowly giving way, and the cement walkways crumbling into dust with each new step…they trip and slip all who dare come and go.

We figured we had time and money to afford her care and reconstruction: we would bring her to glory and pride. But now, 2 years into financial and emotional ruin we sense a different sigh from the walls. We hear the neighbor on the other side of our twin as his curses boom the 40 years of abuse to his wife. Anya cringes and cries and runs for comfort from the joining wall, we turn up the TV or radio, and sometimes throw shoes in their direction, thudding their shut up against the walls. The lights burn out and aren’t replaced quickly enough, making the rooms darker and smaller. The padding on the cheap “we’ll replace them in 3 years” carpet has deteriorated making each step hard beneath tired feet. I feel like we’ve let her down, yet another promise of love and nurturing her beauty and history failed.

I realize I’ve become a cave dweller. I move from my bed, to my car, to my desk, back home to my living room and back to bed. Most days I can’t stir up enough energy to cook or take a walk or make calls or just enjoy life. I’m constantly harried and stressed and emotionally a wreck. In order to afford to live now we would be forced to move to an area where I wouldn’t want Anya to attend school or sit outside in the evenings. I feel like I’m running from one job to the next even though I love teaching dance and sharing Arbonne , and how can I find more minutes in 24 hours to play with my little girl who is growing up faster than the breaths I take. I still have too much pain for the efforts I’ve made to reduce the physical suffering from the complications of my pregnancy. Some days I still feel like throwing in the towel and running away.

My family and friends keep me going. Sometimes they even bring a smile to my face and a skip in my walk. The energy boosts they provide get me through the next hurdle. Lately, though, I have an unhealthy kind of fear; it’s that damned news and people fucking up life every day that brings it on. I hate selfishness and lack of community and mean, abusive asshats. I despise drivers who think they own the road and always have to get there 3 seconds faster than you. I groan at corporations that have nothing to do with life-saving or sustaining responsibilities treating their staff like the world will end if they don’t work 100 hours a week and forsake their family and health to meet stupid deadlines. I spit on condescending attitudes and general esteem-killing language: contrary to what you may believe, demeaning someone does not make them more productive or quality focused. I resent modern technology for putting me back in touch with people whom I care about, but not providing me the extra time to spend with them.

My daughter reminds me that love is life. Her giggles and tall tales in toddler babble complete with a range of arm motions and facial expressions that indicate a passion and emotion larger than life give me a reason to fight against all that ails. She gives me strength and motivation to strive harder, believe more and be something for her to be proud of. I fear that this horrible world of bullies and beasts and bombs and stupidity will bring harm to her. I am useless against it all and cannot protect her…I am afraid.

I know there are many me’s. I am strong, independent and willful, but I am also shy and demure and afraid. I can be funny and angry and alluring. I am a leader and a follower. And for all these me’s I survive and strive. I feel ugly when I am depressed and down and afraid. I resort to self-deprecating and emotional beatings at my mistakes. This also makes me moody and much more aware of my physical pain. I know I need to snap out, and I will, but I need to stop this from happening all together. I wonder if that’s possible. The life I live now versus that life I worked hard to live aren’t having tea together in the park.

We have yet another gloomy day, bringing clouds and rain and dampness to a colder than usual spring. The dots of color in freshly mulched beds don’t seem to be enough to balance the lack of sunshine that is apparent on everyone’s face. I like tricking myself into warm shiny analogies of weather and emotion. But also understanding cycles and time - everything is temporary. What happened to my eternal sunshine? I miss being happy more than not, and feeling capable and successful. I don’t want to be a statistic of any sort. Honestly, I don’t want to accept that I can’t fix everything. My father taught me that failure is not acceptable…this was not one of his better lessons for sure. It’s become my personal hell. Hrm…that’s interesting.

The earth and its people are still struggling to recover from the March 11th 9.0 earthquake, resulting tsunami and nuclear reactor failure in Japan. Every day there is more news of suffering, radiation leaks and doomsayers. There is also a fair amount of those being ignorant. I had to stop myself from reading and watching any more. The earth is not so large as it once was. Being a grown up makes me mortal. I remember being told, don’t rush life, enjoy being young. Of course that means nothing to the immortality of a kid. We want so much to be grown up, then we realize that it sucks, but you can’t go back…and if you try you just look stupid. I think of history classes and reading of wars and industry and the emergence of the modern world we live in today. We consider advancements genius = always. Maybe the Amish have it somewhat correct. But you can’t have one without the other.


We have longer life expectancy, but more disease. We have faster transportation, but more accidents. We have higher birth rates, but more poverty. We have better technology, but less human-ness. I have always expressed life as a balance between two opposites; it usually makes the most sense to me. But I also know there is plenty of in-betweens that I can’t justify, just accept as a fact. And again I am wont to apply this to my emotional purgatory. I am not bi-polar, but I sympathize with those who are. My mood swings since my pregnancy are wide and wild. Now…attaching this concept of failure from my father I begin to breach the mystery of my planet Nay.

When I defeat the villains of my world I am proud and strong and hopeful, but when I fail I am low, distraught and fearful. I wade and wallow accordingly. I have a successful dance instruction business that I am proud of and motivated to grow, then an earthquake hits when I feel less than qualified due to my inability to perform shaking my self-confidence, mostly a result of my physical limitations post pregnancy. Immediately following the depression sets in waves, one after another, creeping deeper into my psyche, eroding more of the strength and progress I’ve made. While picking up the pieces and moving onward, various containment failures pick at the delicate façade during repair, cumulating and reaching critical levels, then balancing then peaking, and cycling. I’m in a constant state of natural disaster and recovery. Ha…Natural Disaster Nay. peanut gallery have fun with that.

I have a lot to contemplate.

Time Tricks

Deep breath. Mind sorting. Another deep breath. Sigh.

Time. What a strange concept. I would say that time didn't really exist if it wasn't for the sun and moon playing peekaboo each day to night. And with the seasons warming and cooling with the leaves green to red to dead and back again. But really...what is time?

I celebrated my daughters 2nd birthday this past weekend. I was able to manage a day-long extravaganza for her with young playmates to adult smiles, lots of food and Blues Clues cake and presents that made it feel like Christmas again. I always wish that more friends and family would fit into my home and that celebrations never ended. I needed those laughs and conversations more than I knew. I understand now that my social butterfly sat beneath the bell jar for too long, and for one day that freedom simply cleared my cobwebs. Anya is older now and needs less suffocating attention. I was able to sit back and converse and have a relaxing drink and enjoy my friends and family. I was smarter this time and had food brought in and had the kids play at Gymboree so that my stress level could remain at handle-able versus overdrive.

I looked at my little baby and realized for the first time she was different to me. New in her features, the way she held herself, the tone of her voice, the exotic facial expressions, the language she was beginning to control; she was a little girl, like magic, turning two. She holds my cheeks in her hands and says, “o mommy.” She squeals with excitement and babbles a story that is half English half gremlin like she was conversing with Loreli Gilmore, then runs off into a million directions. I’m fascinated how 2 years have passed and I am lost finding those minutes, hours, and days that got me here. I am in awe of this being that came from love and grows and thrives and amazes me every moment of every day. I can’t allow myself to consider how fast forward my life will continue to morph or that I can’t protect her all the time and the anxiety as I must let her experience life. One day she parasitically melded with my body, the next she emerged as a separate entity.  She will continue to grow and change and develop and make friends and enemies and make memories.

I went to a fundraiser for a dear friend, a sister of hearts, my youth’s twin. The memories came flooding back as we pull into the DQ parking lot. The line already wrapped around the door and passed the other stores. I feel my heart skip a beat and my lungs compress and my muscles tense. For a moment I allow myself to be a teenager, walking from my house around the block on Moonflower, arm in arm with my partners in fun, in the warm summer evening, hearing the gathering grow in the light breeze before twilight. We would arrive in the mini strip with enough cash for a slice of pizza from Mark’s, a medium coke, and a blizzard from DQ, carrying only a pack of smokes and gum. Inevitably the crowd of crazy teens would frighten the store owners or family-type folks that saw the potential for a mob and teens up to no good and the cops would breeze through chasing us out with little success. We would scatter, hide out in the Village Mall across the street or walk the neighborhood for a few minutes only to return and dance with the cops again. Occassionally, they would ticket the brazen of the boys for saying “fuck” or “shit” or generally cursing, a fineable offence in the 80s - at least that’s what they told us..

An eternity of summers passed in that parking lot. Some nights we were stormed on and others we melted into the pavement. But always there. Together. Being kids who wanted to be grownups who didn’t know the rules or even cared to consider them. How could we be any different? Time doesn’t exist when you’re 16…you never get old and nothing bad ever happens and all we need is each other. We gossiped and lost virginity and cried and had fights. We kissed, smoked pot and snuck beer and thought that we ruled the world. It was ours after all.

Tonight I saw familiar faces, but recognized the years, more than 20, that separated most of us. We introduced spouses and children and suddenly two decades vanished, but reflected a different universe. We crowded the parking lot and filled the air with chatter. Old man winter blasted the evening air with a spring cold snap near freezing, making the ice cream event seem odd, yet you felt the determination that we wouldn’t consider being chilled out of our purpose. My eyes shifted back and forth scanning the crowd for my partners, my friends, my strength, fearing that I couldn’t accept what time was doing to pieces of my heart.

Once we settled in the back of the line, three stores down the strip, I looked up and in an instant saw her. She looked strong and radiant and beautiful as ever. Each hope she saw in the gathering made her seem taller and more grounded, yet overwhelmed. I couldn’t wait in the back for the feet to shuffle close enough to touch her fortitude. I left Rich and Anya to hold our place and held my breath in fear that she was leaving not greeting, I had to grip my panic and urgency. I couldn’t let another minute pass without holding her close and trying to take away all the suffering and pain she experienced. My bff stood there teary-eyed holding the gatherers tight for herself, and even more so for them.

I saw her brother leaning against the DQ window. He shadowed her and stood like he always did: strong and protective and imposing. He was the best big brother a girl could want. And seeing him there, knowing that he couldn’t protect his little sis from her disease, made our hug hello bittersweet. I didn’t know what to say, and felt apologetic for life putting years between our inseparable memories, but we are grown up now, and we know that love doesn’t tell time. I missed this other family of mine and I hate seeing them again under such stressful circumstances. I hated that even though we all stood there, crowding the parking lot of our childhood haunt, the warp of time had screwed it all up: it was cold and orderly and sedate.

Finally I wrapped my arms around her back and worked the smile of warmth that came over me. We hugged and cried and held each other up. I didn’t want to let her go. I could have stood there an eternity cleansing the demons from her. Her sorrow broke my heart and I wanted everyone and everything and all this suffering to disappear. I wanted to be back at the shore on Memorial Day weekend in our bikinis and a case of beer and the boardwalk after hours on the beach. I wanted to pick her up for a cruise through town on a Friday night and a party. I wanted to skip across the carnival with her, laughing and believing that nothing could tarnish our happiness. I wanted to beat and maim all that caused her hurt. I wanted her to know that I loved her so much and that I know that we have plenty more memories to make together and that life works in strange ways and to never let go her strength and hope and love.

Slowly the hum and buzz of the crowded lot broke through. People were hungrily waiting to donate their strength and health and I wanted her to take as much as her body needed to fight. I got back in line with my husband and daughter and let myself breathe in and out slowly. I couldn’t make sense of the upside down vortex that we were sharing in this place of happy memories. I knew not to try.

After our ice cream treat and Anya anxiously wanting to be free of the crowded inside of DQ we went back outside to see more phantoms of my memories continue to arrive. I looked over and saw my surrogate mom beam at the crowds gathered for her daughter. Now, a mother myself, I felt something new for this woman whom had been an integral matriarchal figure in my youth. I felt her hurt and her need to protect and confusion over her baby girl growing up and being consumed by a disease that we still understand so little about. I want her to know that I love her so much and want to help her in any way that I can that she will allow me. I don’t want her to burn up from the stress and pain. I know what she feels as the caregiver.

I circled the lot a few times confused and lost. My husband gently reminded me that it was time to go, and that he and Anya would be waiting in the car. I am grateful for his nudge and direction; otherwise, I may have taken up the block and walked into a stranger’s house that I once called home. I waited for her to catch her breath in between supporters and took my chance to hold her tight again. This time I wanted her to know that on good days and bad days and all of them in between I was here for her. We are sister and we stick together. We cried some more and hugged even tighter, but we knew that I had to go or we would never leave that moment. I had to share her with all of the other loves there for her tonight, and this whole week. I wanted her to be healed by the love that we all brought her. I kissed her hand as we reluctantly let go, waved a quick goodbye to her family, and ran for the car and to breathe again.

I can easily look back on last night and know that my mind was unable to close on time’s tricks. There I was in a place with people that bring back summer breezes and laughter to my heart, but none of us could hide from the sober reason we all amassed. The location was fitting and familiar. We could use the ghosts of our youth to strengthen and reclaim her health. She will fight and we will fight with her. We won’t let time dictate how we perceive or use or experience life. It’s ours after all.