As greatly as we may miss Lindsay Lohan's screen presence (go ahead and have a moment of silence here, if you are so inclined) this one isn't about the movie, but rather the archetype. Well, okay, and specifically (mumbling) I was recently, um...well, I think I was a...okay I acted like a Mean Girl.
Who am I kidding?
I was mean. I felt mean and I went with the feeling.
Sort of.
See, it didn't start out like that. It started out with desperation and brokenness and dependency and need and um...silence. And since I was swirling and dizzy in the desperation and the brokenness and the dependency, the silence was um...pretty goddamned silent. I didn't know--had no way of knowing, because I was consumed by the words I actually did have to hear. Not good words, lots and lots of not good words.
Consumed. Ever been consumed? It's pretty self-explanatory. Completely devoured, chewed up and gone. That was me. (Sit down if you must, but seriously, try to follow along a little better from now on because me being all that stuff should not surprise you one bit at this point.)
Anyway, that was me. And I leaned where I could, against whatever was there, because if I fell, it would be one big goddamned fall. So I um, I had a friend and I leaned on her and she let me and said nothing. I knew nothing, except, you know, Thank God For Her. Unfortunately, I should have known better. Should have considered that she could not, and in fact, should not yet have understood my pain. She was appropriately ill-prepared. Still, I didn't see. And this became an imbalance, an irritation, a resentment for her. But she was silent. And I couldn't figure how to get to bedtime without losing my mind, much less read her mind. See, communication (you know how I am about that) was synonymous with confrontation for her, and you know I don't get that shit (Talking. It's called talking--that really would be a lousy bumpersticker, wouldn't it?), so it was a bad mix. I never had a chance, a trial. We should have talked.
But we didn't. Until the day we stopped completely. I didn't know. She'd never mentioned the resentment, the anger, the stress. Call me out, call me names, but for God's sake, call me on it. Give me a chance. But nothing. So the break was nasty and sudden and sharp and shocking. One more shitty loss. To me. How could I mend something so hidden? And perhaps I couldn't have, but I should have had the fair opportunity. On that, I will not budge.
But I digress.
So this all happened a lifetime ago, and while I now understand that I put her in a place in which she had no business or capacity to understand, and hopefully, she never will, I think somehow, that I was recently mean to her. There's no way, no reason she'd "understand" and that made me mad, and it made me mean. Why my mother? my son? my family? No one could tell me, and it turned my grief hard and mean. Indirectly, sort of. Whispery and behind my hand. The worst kind. No better than her silent condemnation, at the very least. And when I was in that broken and dark place, I should have picked on someone my own age to hold my hand--yeah, I was reaching into oblivion because I had to, but couldn't I have known she wasn't able to hold on? Couldn't she have said?
Regardless, if I'm going to talk all about forgiveness like I know it up and down, all climbing mountians and similar crap, then I should probably confess myself and begin to forgive myself as well.
So yes. I think I was a Mean Girl. And I am sorry.
Moving on.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
All Done: Part Deux
Nah, nothing to do w/marriage.
Amazing how a few stolen hours can remind even us who we were, and are, and what we do and why we do it. That our children are, absurdly funny and unquestionably ours, regardless of the mix. And That Smile, a little more tired maybe, but still that same smile--it is good and it is enough. Talking, even when it's hard stuff, even when it's Misguided chatting with Misunderstood, comes slowly, awkwardly, and sometimes still a bit on the late side, but we do it. Hurts, feels silly, seems like something we should have mastered by now, but, well, we loved so fast, so hard, that I think maybe we missed some steps.
No shame in retracing, right? It works for car keys, so why not give it a whirl? It works for talking, too.
And this "all done" isn't about LRHF. No, he had a great observation. He did back flips. Literally did back flips. Now, this is not an independant goal, you understand, but the laughter, the pride, the "hey did you guys see how amazing and cool I am?" engagement was positively prism-esque. That's my boy.
My Happy Boy
Nah, this "all done" is about forgiveness. Finally knowing that forgiveness is really kind of a puzzle that God leaves around for us figure out so He can get the Really Important Stuff done. It sounds massive and magnanimous. It sounds implausable and holy. It sounds like the the top of the mountain, and, oh, it feels like the top of the mountain when all you can do is consider that it is One More Goddamn Thing You Have To Get Done.
I don't think it's the top of the mountain. Not anymore. I think that it's more like finding that little bit of brave that will let you get closer to the mountain. And it's looking at what you have with you, and discerning how to leave the old stuff, the stupid stuff, the indignant and hurt stuff at the bottom of the mountain to consider the climb. Put all that crap down and then it's easier to stand up and breathe.
Breathing is good.
And man, I am so often (read: regularly) at the bottom of that mountain, all pissy, kicking the shit out of those first few rocks (which is a really good way to break a toe, btw) I absolutely spend way too much time worrying about whether to take this or that, or if I'll need this or that, or do I have enough of this or that...seriously, I can't pack a lunch without all that drama. But when the drama is done, when it's just plain old time to get going, then I think I'm learning a little. Not quickly or easily, or even willingly, but I'm learning that forgiveness is an exquisite and necessary Grace, a get-out-of-hurt-free-card, if you will, in that it is the difference between insisting on carrying all that crazy-weighing-down-stuff and discerning the Grace of simply lifting our eyes and moving forward.
Today I got all done with some crazy-weighing-down-stuff, I think. Yeah, it wasn't on the books for today, but I think it happened just the same.
All done. Lifting my eyes. Moving forward. Upward.
Now that's a gift. Thank you.
Amazing how a few stolen hours can remind even us who we were, and are, and what we do and why we do it. That our children are, absurdly funny and unquestionably ours, regardless of the mix. And That Smile, a little more tired maybe, but still that same smile--it is good and it is enough. Talking, even when it's hard stuff, even when it's Misguided chatting with Misunderstood, comes slowly, awkwardly, and sometimes still a bit on the late side, but we do it. Hurts, feels silly, seems like something we should have mastered by now, but, well, we loved so fast, so hard, that I think maybe we missed some steps.
No shame in retracing, right? It works for car keys, so why not give it a whirl? It works for talking, too.
And this "all done" isn't about LRHF. No, he had a great observation. He did back flips. Literally did back flips. Now, this is not an independant goal, you understand, but the laughter, the pride, the "hey did you guys see how amazing and cool I am?" engagement was positively prism-esque. That's my boy.
My Happy Boy
Nah, this "all done" is about forgiveness. Finally knowing that forgiveness is really kind of a puzzle that God leaves around for us figure out so He can get the Really Important Stuff done. It sounds massive and magnanimous. It sounds implausable and holy. It sounds like the the top of the mountain, and, oh, it feels like the top of the mountain when all you can do is consider that it is One More Goddamn Thing You Have To Get Done.
I don't think it's the top of the mountain. Not anymore. I think that it's more like finding that little bit of brave that will let you get closer to the mountain. And it's looking at what you have with you, and discerning how to leave the old stuff, the stupid stuff, the indignant and hurt stuff at the bottom of the mountain to consider the climb. Put all that crap down and then it's easier to stand up and breathe.
Breathing is good.
And man, I am so often (read: regularly) at the bottom of that mountain, all pissy, kicking the shit out of those first few rocks (which is a really good way to break a toe, btw) I absolutely spend way too much time worrying about whether to take this or that, or if I'll need this or that, or do I have enough of this or that...seriously, I can't pack a lunch without all that drama. But when the drama is done, when it's just plain old time to get going, then I think I'm learning a little. Not quickly or easily, or even willingly, but I'm learning that forgiveness is an exquisite and necessary Grace, a get-out-of-hurt-free-card, if you will, in that it is the difference between insisting on carrying all that crazy-weighing-down-stuff and discerning the Grace of simply lifting our eyes and moving forward.
Today I got all done with some crazy-weighing-down-stuff, I think. Yeah, it wasn't on the books for today, but I think it happened just the same.
All done. Lifting my eyes. Moving forward. Upward.
Now that's a gift. Thank you.
Dear Waiter at Red Robin:
I realize that it was a Monday evening and we needed lots of kids' menus...and really, really, I'm not one bit mad or annoyed, it's just that I think you should probably know this one teensy thing for future customer service-type reference:
When Mama orders a bourbon up with twist of lemon, she is most definitely not kidding. Mama doesn't kid about bourbon. She fully means she wants a bourbon up with twist of lemon. Please do not ask her "what she really wants to drink." Write it down that first time and everyone lives another day.
Bless your heart.
It's just fine to bitch to to the bartender about the shoddy mothering going on at table eleven when you're at the bar getting the bourbon, but just get the bourbon.
Are we clear?
Great.
Check, Please.
When Mama orders a bourbon up with twist of lemon, she is most definitely not kidding. Mama doesn't kid about bourbon. She fully means she wants a bourbon up with twist of lemon. Please do not ask her "what she really wants to drink." Write it down that first time and everyone lives another day.
Bless your heart.
It's just fine to bitch to to the bartender about the shoddy mothering going on at table eleven when you're at the bar getting the bourbon, but just get the bourbon.
Are we clear?
Great.
Check, Please.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Recovered Memories
We ran away together.
We had to. You understand, right? I mean, we didn't abandon anybody, or anything, we finally, FINALLY freaking found someone who could/would spend 24 hours with our precious baby angels. She left intact, for all intents and purposes. We left her with lots of beer, so here's hoping it was all mostly good. Just a little bloodshed (LRHF--big toe--apparent toybox attack.), and nobody seemed to miss us as much as we had missed each other.
It's been a long damned time since we spent 24 hours like that. Ten years? At least. That's as long as we've had kids, so yeah, that seems right.
So sweet. So sweet that I wept (not as arousing as one might think, btw). I saw that smile--you remember me talking about that smile? I saw it! Like the Northern Lights, hell, like the freaking Loch Goddamned Ness Monster, but I saw it, I did, I did, I did! I will try very, very hard not to forget it because it is enough make me hopeful.
It's goddamned hard, what we have, what we do, how we do it. And nobody gets points for that stuff, no matter how often I hear that "special kids find special parents." Frankly, that just makes me picture a heaven full of beautiful, albeit high maintenance baby-angels hanging out looking for trouble... (For the record: If you get to the "if" part of that phrase before I start slapping, it's only because I've pulled a muscle. Really. Don't try me.)
So, yesterday we ran away. We looked into each others' eyes again. We reached for each other again. We saw each other again.
And today we came home.
*sigh*
Friday, January 14, 2011
There's Got to be a Morning After...
My heavens, but yesterday morning sucked! It sucked for all the usual recent reasons, along with LRHF's inexplicable intestinal ick, which kept him home from school after three of Alabama "What's that white stuff?' days off from school.
And we fought. And I cried. And we changed pull ups. And I did laundry. Followed those same four steps for at least six, maybe seven hours. At least. Altho, at some point, I did have to scrub a feculent mattress, so don't nobody tell me I don't know variety in my day.
These things come on us like or own virulent ick. We know. We know, and yet...
Ugh. At one point I realized that his problems with me--or rather, as he says, "the things he would like to see because he thinks I'd be happier," are eerily similar to that list I'm sure his mother has tucked away somewhere in her very controlled, germaphobic, autismaphobic, PETA-loving mind. Oh you Mommy's Boy!
So, well, I need coffee desperately right this minute...but when I get back, I will tell tales of drama and weeping and locked doors and, well, pull ups, but more to the point, of him closing his eyes and nodding his head at one point. This is his tell. His Maybe Mea Culpa tell.
And I'm wondering if two people can just forget that they love each other. And then, they remember.
What do you think?
And we fought. And I cried. And we changed pull ups. And I did laundry. Followed those same four steps for at least six, maybe seven hours. At least. Altho, at some point, I did have to scrub a feculent mattress, so don't nobody tell me I don't know variety in my day.
These things come on us like or own virulent ick. We know. We know, and yet...
Ugh. At one point I realized that his problems with me--or rather, as he says, "the things he would like to see because he thinks I'd be happier," are eerily similar to that list I'm sure his mother has tucked away somewhere in her very controlled, germaphobic, autismaphobic, PETA-loving mind. Oh you Mommy's Boy!
So, well, I need coffee desperately right this minute...but when I get back, I will tell tales of drama and weeping and locked doors and, well, pull ups, but more to the point, of him closing his eyes and nodding his head at one point. This is his tell. His Maybe Mea Culpa tell.
And I'm wondering if two people can just forget that they love each other. And then, they remember.
What do you think?
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Mercurial Much?
Damn, I miss the guy I married. He was...so funny, so beautiful, so gentle...so much an unexpected gift...I miss him so...freaking...much...
See, he came to me long after I'd given up on finding someone, anyone to love me in good true faith. I was after-30 lonely, and it was a different kind of lonely, not like this one, and the chances of two people finding, loving, keeping each other seemed obscenely low. I'm sure it was.
But him. When I met him, when he turned around and smiled at me in that little Church in Eldersburg, I knew. It wasn't love at first sight, I'm (as I so adamantly pointed out in the last post or two) not stupid. It was...well, it was unexpected and even a bit unpleasant, it was a realization without preparation. Knocked me down. Kept me very quiet and sort of pale (or so I hear) on the long ride home after the wedding rehearsal. Kept me up that night.
Hmmm....
We never looked back. God, how I adored him! And I'm sadder now for how he then adored me just as well. I got a dozen roses every day for a flat-out solid week after our first date. Can you imagine? I teased him that our children would be limited to community college if he kept it up. I would have been less fascinated and more appreciative of the roses if I'd known that they apparently meant something that was only true before we married. I haven't seen roses since my wedding bouquet. Foreshadow much?
Oh, I could go on...I was treasured...my beautiful husband had a smile, such a magical smile, and I mostly saw it if my late-night kiss broke his sleep just a for the briefest moment. He would lift his head and open his eyes and he would smile a smile that was so true, so loving, so pure, it made me, this tattered tired thing, it made me shine like a queen. It gave me peace. It's gone now, of course, that smile. He sleeps with a hood pulled over his head, with earplugs, and hell, half the time, I'm not sure if he's there or not--just a clutter of pillows and quilts beside me in the dark. But oh, how lost I am without that smile!
And I used to be beautiful. "Beautiful," he would say. Then, I was pretty. He would say that. Now he doesn't say. Really. If pressed, he will admit to "finding me attractive." When the fuck did I become Florence Henderson? I don't know how that happened.
How can twelve years be a regret? How can *I* regret wasting his time for the last twelve years? But I do. Oh, how I do. How can I wish that he had married better, or more appropriately, when all we ever wanted was to be married? Yes. Yes, I am sorry. Sorry I didn't quite meet minimum standards. Sorry I didn't quite get the hang of whatever I was supposed to get the hang of. I am sorry. I didn't mean to fall short for him. I know I did, I do. But I always thought he'd love me. And yet, here we are, falling away, losing our grip, fading on the horizon. God, I never had second thoughts, never reconsidered, never saw anything but our love.
Our Great Love. God, how I loved him. Him. All of him. That guy. I miss him more than I can bear. More than I can put into words. And I'm not supposed to notice the difference, sort of like when they replaced the Becky character on "Roseanne." But, as I said before, I'm not stupid. He's gone, that guy I loved. That guy who loved me. Same parking space, different car. And the indifferent stranger who swears nothing his fault and I am really losing my mind is only pulling down heart so much farther so much faster. And without so much as a thought.
I mean, seriously, I don't know him. And what's worse, I do know what he thinks of me.
See, he came to me long after I'd given up on finding someone, anyone to love me in good true faith. I was after-30 lonely, and it was a different kind of lonely, not like this one, and the chances of two people finding, loving, keeping each other seemed obscenely low. I'm sure it was.
But him. When I met him, when he turned around and smiled at me in that little Church in Eldersburg, I knew. It wasn't love at first sight, I'm (as I so adamantly pointed out in the last post or two) not stupid. It was...well, it was unexpected and even a bit unpleasant, it was a realization without preparation. Knocked me down. Kept me very quiet and sort of pale (or so I hear) on the long ride home after the wedding rehearsal. Kept me up that night.
Hmmm....
We never looked back. God, how I adored him! And I'm sadder now for how he then adored me just as well. I got a dozen roses every day for a flat-out solid week after our first date. Can you imagine? I teased him that our children would be limited to community college if he kept it up. I would have been less fascinated and more appreciative of the roses if I'd known that they apparently meant something that was only true before we married. I haven't seen roses since my wedding bouquet. Foreshadow much?
Oh, I could go on...I was treasured...my beautiful husband had a smile, such a magical smile, and I mostly saw it if my late-night kiss broke his sleep just a for the briefest moment. He would lift his head and open his eyes and he would smile a smile that was so true, so loving, so pure, it made me, this tattered tired thing, it made me shine like a queen. It gave me peace. It's gone now, of course, that smile. He sleeps with a hood pulled over his head, with earplugs, and hell, half the time, I'm not sure if he's there or not--just a clutter of pillows and quilts beside me in the dark. But oh, how lost I am without that smile!
And I used to be beautiful. "Beautiful," he would say. Then, I was pretty. He would say that. Now he doesn't say. Really. If pressed, he will admit to "finding me attractive." When the fuck did I become Florence Henderson? I don't know how that happened.
How can twelve years be a regret? How can *I* regret wasting his time for the last twelve years? But I do. Oh, how I do. How can I wish that he had married better, or more appropriately, when all we ever wanted was to be married? Yes. Yes, I am sorry. Sorry I didn't quite meet minimum standards. Sorry I didn't quite get the hang of whatever I was supposed to get the hang of. I am sorry. I didn't mean to fall short for him. I know I did, I do. But I always thought he'd love me. And yet, here we are, falling away, losing our grip, fading on the horizon. God, I never had second thoughts, never reconsidered, never saw anything but our love.
Our Great Love. God, how I loved him. Him. All of him. That guy. I miss him more than I can bear. More than I can put into words. And I'm not supposed to notice the difference, sort of like when they replaced the Becky character on "Roseanne." But, as I said before, I'm not stupid. He's gone, that guy I loved. That guy who loved me. Same parking space, different car. And the indifferent stranger who swears nothing his fault and I am really losing my mind is only pulling down heart so much farther so much faster. And without so much as a thought.
I mean, seriously, I don't know him. And what's worse, I do know what he thinks of me.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Maybe I'm Going, But I'm *Not* Forgetting
There's this one thing I realized today. Well, two things, actually, but who knows how long before I'm just a metaphorical footprint in the sand of this marriage, right?
Today I realized that I don't think I like him anymore. He's so different from that man who could bring warmth and light to the darkest parts of my soul. I don't know this man. I know that I dim in his presence and I become cold in his bed. He's lessened me, wounded me, and I do believe now that he's lost me. He's set up a whole nifty life where he doesn't have to admit I exist, and he doesn't have to admit that's part of the fun.
There's nothing I can do. He tells me it 's all about me, and then he tells me how I will surely kill him. That's a little bit about him, isn't it? He tells me how I don't take care of myself (huh?) while his barely shaded vanity, his self-obsession bleeds through in every part of his life where I am not. And that's a lot of life. It makes sense that there would be no room for me.
There's a bunch of stuff tied up in not liking this man to whom I'm bound. Yes. Yes, I'm sorry I married him. Not because I didn't love the man I married and not because I didn't want so very, very badly to be his Great Love that I gave up my family, my friends, my career, and my future. I don't like being married to this man, this stranger, full of blame, and superiority and issues. I don't like that if he doesn't admit to such things, they do not exist. I don't like that it is so easily my fault, my crazy, my stupid. I never saw him coming, not really. And if I have to stay, an you know I have to stay, I just wanted you to know that I *do* know how it is. It's my choice because it's my children.
After all, I'm not stupid. No matter what he thinks.
Today I realized that I don't think I like him anymore. He's so different from that man who could bring warmth and light to the darkest parts of my soul. I don't know this man. I know that I dim in his presence and I become cold in his bed. He's lessened me, wounded me, and I do believe now that he's lost me. He's set up a whole nifty life where he doesn't have to admit I exist, and he doesn't have to admit that's part of the fun.
There's nothing I can do. He tells me it 's all about me, and then he tells me how I will surely kill him. That's a little bit about him, isn't it? He tells me how I don't take care of myself (huh?) while his barely shaded vanity, his self-obsession bleeds through in every part of his life where I am not. And that's a lot of life. It makes sense that there would be no room for me.
There's a bunch of stuff tied up in not liking this man to whom I'm bound. Yes. Yes, I'm sorry I married him. Not because I didn't love the man I married and not because I didn't want so very, very badly to be his Great Love that I gave up my family, my friends, my career, and my future. I don't like being married to this man, this stranger, full of blame, and superiority and issues. I don't like that if he doesn't admit to such things, they do not exist. I don't like that it is so easily my fault, my crazy, my stupid. I never saw him coming, not really. And if I have to stay, an you know I have to stay, I just wanted you to know that I *do* know how it is. It's my choice because it's my children.
After all, I'm not stupid. No matter what he thinks.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)