Monday, February 15, 2010
Mafia Love
The only Valentine I received yesterday was from the Wheel Man in my mafia. This means something. I'm not sure I want to understand what.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Happy Valentine's Day
Something essential has been taken away from me and I would like it back please.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
The Last Word
This morning, right before waking, I dreamt of my Mother. Since she died, she has only come to me once before and this has really upset me. Doesn’t she want to see me? Doesn’t she care how I am doing? I AM her Only Child.
At any rate, her rare visits *do* tell me something BIG is happening: something that requires her attention.
The first time she came was the first night in my house. She came to tell me that my backyard was too big for one person to manage (this was before I permanently crippled myself) and that what I really needed was a goat. And then she laughed and laughed and laughed. Like I had never seen her laugh in Life.
This morning, she silently stood by as I waited, all dressed up, to go to a Christmas party I never attended. Eerily mirroring my waking life. Her silence and his are eerily the same. Her sudden departures and his are eerily the same. Her unresponsiveness and his are exactly the same.
Upon reflection, it seems that there were tears in her eyes. Something I NEVER saw in Life.
Lately I’ve come to understand all of the things I was certain reflected my Mother’s disdain and hatred were resolutely misunderstood. On a cellular level.
The cherry on top of this sundae of pathological (and archetypal) misunderstanding (how’s that for a slain metaphor) is that she told me this herself.
On July 4, 2000, my mother entered the hospital around 4:30 in the morning, after my Father discovered her on the floor of their bathroom, unable to move.
Despite the oxygen, she required a tracheotomy to breathe. It was clear to no one but me that her second stay at St. Joseph’s Hospital (her first was when I was born) would be her last.
There was a LOT of arguing and finally the priest said that my Mother had to speak her wishes for herself. However, she could not as the trach was still in place. Her hands were too shaky and her writing illegible.
She kept making scissor-cutting motions with her fingers, however, no one but me understood what she was saying.
My thinking was the clearest, despite drowning in grief. However, due to the tears and the denial, I went unheard.
The decision was made to remove the trach so my Mother could speak. This was a risky proposition as (a) by this time, the trach had been in place for two weeks and her vocal chords might be too damaged; and (b) she was so weak that she might not survive the operation.
My Mother, all five feet of her, possessed the strongest will I have ever come into contact with in all of my lifetimes. Of course, she survived the operation.
Of course, she survived the operation in order to be able to tell us how pissed she was at everyone for not listening to her.
Of course, her vocal cords were too damaged to do so.
But her eyes said it all.
Another thing only I could see: her absolute anger over the ninnies she was forced to rely upon.
Another two weeks passed as I sat by her bed and prayed relentlessly. Late one afternoon, as she dozed, I stared into her face, willing God to finally notice her suffering.
Suddenly, she sat straight up, turned, and looked me right in the eye.
“I love you.” she stated, matter-of-factly.
I was clear-eyed as I looked into her heart for the first time and saw all that it was.
Then she fell back onto the pillows and slipped into a coma.
Less than a day later, life support was unnecessary.
~*~*~*~*~
To summarize: It took 9½ years, 37 therapists, a move out of state, a stroke, a crippling, my Beloved Daddy’s own dance with the Grim Reaper, a devastating separation, 592 poems and 47,368 margaritas to find the answer I had all along. I had the answer before I began the journey. I began the journey with the answer.
My Mother was right: I *am* a God-damned ninny. She wasn’t being cruel; she was simply stating a very obvious fact.
At any rate, her rare visits *do* tell me something BIG is happening: something that requires her attention.
The first time she came was the first night in my house. She came to tell me that my backyard was too big for one person to manage (this was before I permanently crippled myself) and that what I really needed was a goat. And then she laughed and laughed and laughed. Like I had never seen her laugh in Life.
This morning, she silently stood by as I waited, all dressed up, to go to a Christmas party I never attended. Eerily mirroring my waking life. Her silence and his are eerily the same. Her sudden departures and his are eerily the same. Her unresponsiveness and his are exactly the same.
Upon reflection, it seems that there were tears in her eyes. Something I NEVER saw in Life.
Lately I’ve come to understand all of the things I was certain reflected my Mother’s disdain and hatred were resolutely misunderstood. On a cellular level.
The cherry on top of this sundae of pathological (and archetypal) misunderstanding (how’s that for a slain metaphor) is that she told me this herself.
On July 4, 2000, my mother entered the hospital around 4:30 in the morning, after my Father discovered her on the floor of their bathroom, unable to move.
Despite the oxygen, she required a tracheotomy to breathe. It was clear to no one but me that her second stay at St. Joseph’s Hospital (her first was when I was born) would be her last.
There was a LOT of arguing and finally the priest said that my Mother had to speak her wishes for herself. However, she could not as the trach was still in place. Her hands were too shaky and her writing illegible.
She kept making scissor-cutting motions with her fingers, however, no one but me understood what she was saying.
My thinking was the clearest, despite drowning in grief. However, due to the tears and the denial, I went unheard.
The decision was made to remove the trach so my Mother could speak. This was a risky proposition as (a) by this time, the trach had been in place for two weeks and her vocal chords might be too damaged; and (b) she was so weak that she might not survive the operation.
My Mother, all five feet of her, possessed the strongest will I have ever come into contact with in all of my lifetimes. Of course, she survived the operation.
Of course, she survived the operation in order to be able to tell us how pissed she was at everyone for not listening to her.
Of course, her vocal cords were too damaged to do so.
But her eyes said it all.
Another thing only I could see: her absolute anger over the ninnies she was forced to rely upon.
Another two weeks passed as I sat by her bed and prayed relentlessly. Late one afternoon, as she dozed, I stared into her face, willing God to finally notice her suffering.
Suddenly, she sat straight up, turned, and looked me right in the eye.
“I love you.” she stated, matter-of-factly.
I was clear-eyed as I looked into her heart for the first time and saw all that it was.
Then she fell back onto the pillows and slipped into a coma.
Less than a day later, life support was unnecessary.
~*~*~*~*~
To summarize: It took 9½ years, 37 therapists, a move out of state, a stroke, a crippling, my Beloved Daddy’s own dance with the Grim Reaper, a devastating separation, 592 poems and 47,368 margaritas to find the answer I had all along. I had the answer before I began the journey. I began the journey with the answer.
My Mother was right: I *am* a God-damned ninny. She wasn’t being cruel; she was simply stating a very obvious fact.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
And One More Thing...
Whoever has mistaken me for the Rock of Gibraltar please *realize* your error and STOP hurtling boulders at me.
Please and thank you.
Please and thank you.
Update
Yesterday my therapist said I seemed really grounded. I did not have the heart to tell her I had three Bloody Marys right before our session.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Accidentally Enlightening
Last night during my lecture, I said "Let's love forward" instead of "Let's move forward." (I told you I was Venus).
While I commit these types of Freudian slips all of the time (I do have a PhD in forensic clinical psychology), one of my students had a complete epiphany (her words) over the "love forward."
I find it ludicrous that anyone would find anything I say epiphonic.
While I commit these types of Freudian slips all of the time (I do have a PhD in forensic clinical psychology), one of my students had a complete epiphany (her words) over the "love forward."
I find it ludicrous that anyone would find anything I say epiphonic.
Monday, February 8, 2010
The Love of Pizza
Goodbye Lenny’s
The only good thing about my most recent trip to California was the prospect of Lenny’s pizza.
I flew to California to stop a ship from sinking and, not only could I not find the harbor, I wound up wearing the same clothes for four days, buying underwear from Target that is two sizes too small and having to explain to my Dad (78 years old and recovering from open heart surgery) why I am in California, in addition to having to ask him for the car, a place to stay and money to get back home.
In between all that, I walked out on a bar tab, wrote a poem and explained to some woman that the street was not a parking lot by side-swiping her car.
When I gave him his car keys, my Dad put away the bail money. I called Lenny’s to order a medium sausage, pepperoni and mushroom. My Dad’s and my all-time favorite. I have tried pizza all over the world and I can tell you Lenny’s is the best. Hands down.
I couldn’t believe what the operator was telling me so I made my Dad call.
I couldn’t believe what the operator told my Dad so we drove to Lenny’s.
I couldn’t believe what the sign said so we drove home and ate DiGiorno’s without putting it in the oven.
After all that.
After
All.
Of.
That.
There was no Lenny’s.
THAT was the final insult.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
I Love You Mommy
So, approximately 37 nanoseconds after I wrote “To say that my Mother and I had a troubled relationship is like saying the Grand Canyon is a hole in the ground,” I had a revelation.
Not just any revelation, mind you, but the kind that wakes you up in the middle of the night with the cold hard facts of your life. The kind of cold hard facts that include irrefutable evidence that you have screwed everything up on a cellular level.
My Mother had her private battles, and, as her Only Child, I of course thought they began with me. After all, weren’t my parents happy for 11 years before I was born? Didn’t the problems begin with me?
No. They did not.
What I thought was rejection was in fact fear-fueled retreat. My Mother’s fear that she would hurt me in the ways she had been hurt. At best, she was completely ambivalent about having children out of fear of hurting them. Not an inability to love them. Not a lack of wanting them. An instinct to protect them.
Isn’t the most loving thing a Mother can do for her children (manifested or not) is to keep them from harm, even if she is the one who can inflict the harm? Particularly if she is the one who can inflict the harm?
When a mistake in her calculations created me, what was she to do?
My Mother was the toughest person I have ever met. I scared her out of her wits for 35 years.
When she retreated into silence, it was because she was trying to protect me, not abandon me. When I screamed about my abandonment, she retreated even further. Out of fright, not anger. Not hatred. Not rejection.
In her attempt to minimize the damage, I maximized it.
I understand all this 9½ years after my Mother died. Any chance for apology or reconciliation has been fertilizing her graveside magnolia tree for years.
My Mother loved me with her entire being.
I misunderstood completely.
My God it is hard not to jump on that easy slide into the pit of self-loathing.
Not just any revelation, mind you, but the kind that wakes you up in the middle of the night with the cold hard facts of your life. The kind of cold hard facts that include irrefutable evidence that you have screwed everything up on a cellular level.
My Mother had her private battles, and, as her Only Child, I of course thought they began with me. After all, weren’t my parents happy for 11 years before I was born? Didn’t the problems begin with me?
No. They did not.
What I thought was rejection was in fact fear-fueled retreat. My Mother’s fear that she would hurt me in the ways she had been hurt. At best, she was completely ambivalent about having children out of fear of hurting them. Not an inability to love them. Not a lack of wanting them. An instinct to protect them.
Isn’t the most loving thing a Mother can do for her children (manifested or not) is to keep them from harm, even if she is the one who can inflict the harm? Particularly if she is the one who can inflict the harm?
When a mistake in her calculations created me, what was she to do?
My Mother was the toughest person I have ever met. I scared her out of her wits for 35 years.
When she retreated into silence, it was because she was trying to protect me, not abandon me. When I screamed about my abandonment, she retreated even further. Out of fright, not anger. Not hatred. Not rejection.
In her attempt to minimize the damage, I maximized it.
I understand all this 9½ years after my Mother died. Any chance for apology or reconciliation has been fertilizing her graveside magnolia tree for years.
My Mother loved me with her entire being.
I misunderstood completely.
My God it is hard not to jump on that easy slide into the pit of self-loathing.
Friday, February 5, 2010
For the Record
I know I am not supposed to say this for fear of tempting Fate; however, it's true.
I would rather break my ankle or have another stroke or watch my Mother die again than go through the pain of facing my own demons.
For the record, I mean this.
I really do.
I would rather break my ankle or have another stroke or watch my Mother die again than go through the pain of facing my own demons.
For the record, I mean this.
I really do.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
My Family – Cousin #6
It is a truth universally acknowledged that everyone bitches about their family. However, when a person’s Actual, Real Life Family’s antics begin to mirror those of the Foxmans in This is Where I Leave You, it becomes ridiculous.
Case in point: Cousin #6 (on my Father's side).
First, some background:
Walking around downtown Portland for the first time ever was a complete revelation. The air was crisp, the sky was blue, and the trees…
Growing up in sunny So Cal I had never seen leaves turn color before. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I knew right then and there I had (finally) found my home.
It’s important to note here that my home was in Oregon, not with my cousin. A minor point that should be obvious to all, but unfortunately, it was not.
Two months later, I returned to Oregon for job interviews. Driving back home from massages at Skamania (to which I treated my cousin as a “thank you” for introducing the state to me), my cousin launched into an 80-minute diatribe about how, if I moved to Oregon, I was not to expect anything from her: she was not going to help me get settled, meet people and/or find my way around. And (the capper), “I’m not going to take care of you like your Father does.”
This from a person who grew up 2,273.01 miles away from me.
This from a person with whom, prior to this ride in the car, I’d spent approximately 168 hours in the previous 298,056.
Since then, we’ve spoken nine times in as many years. This includes her wedding (to which I did not receive an invitation) and after her Father’s funeral (which she was unable to attend; my job was to attend and report back to her. So this doesn’t really count: it was a forced communication).
She would say that she felt crowded by my “sudden” presence in her life.
I would say I chose to live in a town 65 miles away from her precisely for that reason (to not crowd her).
I would say that my decision to move to Oregon had nothing to do with her and everything to do with Oregon.
Yes, her invitation was the catalyst. Her invitation to Oregon; not to her life. I understood there was no invitation into her life. I didn’t want an invitation into her life. I wanted to hang out with the trees. I knew only they, if anything, could make me feel better.
(They did.)
It’s a sad God-damned state of affairs that the only way this misunderstanding can get resolved is by blasting it out into cyberspace rather than talking about it with the other party who lives an hour away.
That, in a nutshell, is how my relatives and I best relate: on completely separate, independent and non-intersecting planes.
Note: While it may seem like I hold onto things for a long time (I do), that's not the entire point of this story. This information is related to and sets up a more recent story that I will share toward the end of the month. So...stay tuned, Mrs. Calabash, stay tuned.
Case in point: Cousin #6 (on my Father's side).
First, some background:
- My Mother died on July 30, 2000 after a long illness (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease).
- Watching her die was kind of like watching a balloon let out its air…for six and a half years. Of course, the balloon is someone you love desperately.
- To say that my Mother and I had a troubled relationship is like saying the Grand Canyon is a hole in the ground.
- So of course, when she died, I did.
Walking around downtown Portland for the first time ever was a complete revelation. The air was crisp, the sky was blue, and the trees…
Growing up in sunny So Cal I had never seen leaves turn color before. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I knew right then and there I had (finally) found my home.
It’s important to note here that my home was in Oregon, not with my cousin. A minor point that should be obvious to all, but unfortunately, it was not.
Two months later, I returned to Oregon for job interviews. Driving back home from massages at Skamania (to which I treated my cousin as a “thank you” for introducing the state to me), my cousin launched into an 80-minute diatribe about how, if I moved to Oregon, I was not to expect anything from her: she was not going to help me get settled, meet people and/or find my way around. And (the capper), “I’m not going to take care of you like your Father does.”
This from a person who grew up 2,273.01 miles away from me.
This from a person with whom, prior to this ride in the car, I’d spent approximately 168 hours in the previous 298,056.
Since then, we’ve spoken nine times in as many years. This includes her wedding (to which I did not receive an invitation) and after her Father’s funeral (which she was unable to attend; my job was to attend and report back to her. So this doesn’t really count: it was a forced communication).
She would say that she felt crowded by my “sudden” presence in her life.
I would say I chose to live in a town 65 miles away from her precisely for that reason (to not crowd her).
I would say that my decision to move to Oregon had nothing to do with her and everything to do with Oregon.
Yes, her invitation was the catalyst. Her invitation to Oregon; not to her life. I understood there was no invitation into her life. I didn’t want an invitation into her life. I wanted to hang out with the trees. I knew only they, if anything, could make me feel better.
(They did.)
It’s a sad God-damned state of affairs that the only way this misunderstanding can get resolved is by blasting it out into cyberspace rather than talking about it with the other party who lives an hour away.
That, in a nutshell, is how my relatives and I best relate: on completely separate, independent and non-intersecting planes.
Note: While it may seem like I hold onto things for a long time (I do), that's not the entire point of this story. This information is related to and sets up a more recent story that I will share toward the end of the month. So...stay tuned, Mrs. Calabash, stay tuned.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Happy Groundhog Day
So Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow today. Six more weeks of winter. Wonderful.
As February is the month of love and I *am* Venus, I've decided to devote the entire month to all of the times Love has bitch-slapped me so hard I bled out my ass.
I include all types of Love in this: Love of Fellow Man, Love of Country, Love of a Good Steak...along with more traditional interpretations and applications of this most maddening state of being.
Which I hate, by the way.
I hate being in love. I hate loving people.
(Yes, I know that "in love" and "love" are the same thing. Sometimes I just like to verbally spar with people. It's so rare that I find a worthy opponent.)
I swore to myself it would never happen again. I swore to myself that I would not add anyone else to the very short list of people that I love. It's just too God-damned painful. Being the goddess that I am, to ease my despair, I have to go out and zap someone/thing.
It gets messy.
I hope this dark winter ends eventually.
I hope to be able to once again enjoy a more stable, durable kind of Love:
Love of Yardwork.
As February is the month of love and I *am* Venus, I've decided to devote the entire month to all of the times Love has bitch-slapped me so hard I bled out my ass.
I include all types of Love in this: Love of Fellow Man, Love of Country, Love of a Good Steak...along with more traditional interpretations and applications of this most maddening state of being.
Which I hate, by the way.
I hate being in love. I hate loving people.
(Yes, I know that "in love" and "love" are the same thing. Sometimes I just like to verbally spar with people. It's so rare that I find a worthy opponent.)
I swore to myself it would never happen again. I swore to myself that I would not add anyone else to the very short list of people that I love. It's just too God-damned painful. Being the goddess that I am, to ease my despair, I have to go out and zap someone/thing.
It gets messy.
I hope this dark winter ends eventually.
I hope to be able to once again enjoy a more stable, durable kind of Love:
Love of Yardwork.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)