Approaching San Francisco . . . .
I've finally had some sleep, and we are approaching San Francisco, so my mood has lifted considerably. Time for fun!! Let me begin by saying that were it not for this four day escape, I might have had that breakdown I've been on the verge of for a few years. Whew!!
My friend Kenny, whose birthday we were all gathering to celebrate, is just a wonderful person. I felt honored to have been invited along on this trip, and to be included with his family and other friends who played a part in his life. Seriously! Kenny and I went to high school together in New Orleans, and were friends then, but have become much greater friends through more recent years. He's got a generous and happy heart, and likes to share that. I was traveling with my own emotional baggage I was trying to lose in transit, but Kenny had his to, due to recent breakup with his partner of the last decade. I believe he and I were really ready to change the course of things for ourselves. We were at 50, new decade, new start, all that good stuff. Out with the old, in with the new and improved. This was it!
As it turns out, with this group of family and friends, we could have been in Fargo, North Dakota, and would have had a blast! (No offense intended, Fargo.) I jumped into a group which varied in size at different times from 12-18, and felt like I had known them forever. I was back in my New Orleans element, and it was relaxed, fun, and just plain good. There is an attitude of N.O. people you just don't get anywhere else. I miss it, and so badly needed it! I don't remember the last time I laughed as much. Every experience, riding the ferry, a catamaran sail at sunset, running through Muir Woods because we were out of time, sitting on the shuttle bus, eating spoonfuls of garlic sauce at The Stinking Rose, touring vineyards, the party bus while touring vineyards, the birthday dinner at the winery of one of Kenny's old friends, the way we all just gelled together as if we did this all the time . . . the wine, champagne, more wine, and yet more wine . . . . it was simply perfect. Although my own selfish desire to escape and be happy was ever present, I so badly wanted my friend to see how much he was loved and cherished by so many, and remind him that endings only bring new beginnings. Start anew, and create exactly what we want for ourselves. I want my dear friend to have all that he wants in this life, which only he completely knows.
I recently had a conversation with someone in a rather unhappy place in life, and asked, "what do you want from this life?" It's a big question, but the most important one ever. What is the first thing, maybe even one word, that comes to mind when asked what it is you want from this life? As a big question, you may think that a simple answer is too, well, simple or general, but it's really not. The answer is the big picture you want. The details are in how you achieve it, how you work toward it, and how you appreciate the bumps along the way. There are always bumps.
Over the course of the 4 days in SF, I began to ponder the question again myself. I was also reminded of what the answer to the question was for me. My answer, the big picture one, is two-fold: love and happiness. Of course we all want love, but that's not what I'm talking about. I know I am loved by my family and friends. It is what carries me, comforts me, warms my heart. The love I'm talking about though is the kind that warms my soul. My soul is weary, it has been battered, and it is time to heal. There was once someone who told me repeatedly that I was unlovable. I knew he was wrong, and not just wrong, but stupid. However, sometimes those dagger words pierce the skin, enter the soul, and allow some of it to escape. Other injuries and scars are made by more harsh words, betrayal, and dishonesty. Eventually, the scar tissue blocks out those soul rays, and the light begins to fade. My light will fade no more. It is already warming up, and I am confident that it will once again be a full glow. The pilot light is lit. So that's the first part. The second part is happiness.
The happiness I want from this life has never been completely absent, even in the darkest times, but I want more of it. I want to be greedy for it, hog it for myself, and wallow in it. I'm not talking about just having a good day. I want laughter, lots of laughter! On this trip to SF, I was reminded of how much I love to laugh. I love it! I like being silly. I like being inappropriate. I like being surrounded by people who joke and play, and who love to share it. I find so much of that in my connection to New Orleans, but I want it everywhere I am. I may very well end up back there some day, but I have no intention of waiting until and if that time comes. I have troubles in my heart, things I can't fix, but I refuse, even more staunchly to let that win out. I have described our group that weekend as not being a quiet and subtle group. Thank goodness! We carried with us an overflow of happiness, joy, and fun, and others around couldn't help but join in. The crew of the catamaran was laughing, smiling, and having fun as they watched us revel in the mere fact that we were all there together and happy. At the Russian River Vineyards a few of the group spontaneously began a rendition of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day," which was followed by the Who Dat chant. Others at the vineyard came to see what was going on and couldn't help but feel our joy. The young man who led our wine tasting said, "I have no idea what just happened here, but that was freakin' AWESOME! I wish we had more people like you all come through here." That joy, that happiness, I want more. I don't want to feel inhibited about it. I don't care what anyone thinks if I choose to be silly and make a joyful fool of myself. I just want more of it. More!
No matter what happened before I left for SF, by the time I came back four days later, I had regained focus of my "what do I want out of this life" question. Intuitively, I know that I have turned a corner, not just chronologically, but psychologically. I pray that my friend Kenny feels himself turning that corner too. I thought turning 40 was going to open my life up again, but I was a bit premature. Fifty is the start of the new. Let's do this thing!
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Turning 50 . . . .part I (the ugh part)
It has been months since I last wrote. It's not that there hasn't been anything on my mind; quite the contrary. Sometimes I just need to reflect for a while before I really know what I want to say. Then again, sometimes I'm just lazy. I'm thinking the lazy part most appropriately applies here, but there has been much to ponder. Today is May 30, and I am now 10 days into my 5th decade. Yes, on May 20, I turned the big 5 0 !!! This was not a traumatic event for me, as I know it is with some. In fact, I see it as a time to begin again, a fresh start, a new chapter in life, etc.
Let me explain how I spent my 50th birthday. . . . the day itself pretty much sucked, except for the part where I was at work and my students and co-workers graciously wished me good things. At home was another story. The previous couple of days had been spent with my oldest son in the emergency room as he was withdrawing from meth, heroin, and God knows what else. I had to let him come home with me to keep an eye on him for a few days. I cleaned up vomit from the bathtub, and on my birthday, as I speedily tried to get out the door for work, had to clean vomit from the kitchen sink. Drugs suck, but you've been hearing that from me for quite a while now, so I won't go on with that. During the day, he texted me that he was throwing up blood. Right after work, back to the ER we go. FIVE HOURS LATER . . . . we're still waiting to be seen, and we leave. Seems that he's feeling much better now. Unfortunately, that nice steak dinner my younger son and I planned to have for my birthday didn't seem possible. In the end, we made it to the restaurant at 9:30, and closed it down. That was my birthday. No pomp and circumstance, just another day, but I felt differently. In a good way, differently.
None of the above really mattered though because two days later, I would be leaving for a fun-filled weekend in San Francisco! This excursion was the brain child of a dear high school friend from New Orleans. Friends and family of his were all going out to San Francisco to celebrate HIS 50th, which was coming on May 25th. All I had to do was deliver the younger son to his father, drop off the older son wherever he was choosing to live at the moment, take the dog to the vet for boarding, and make it through a day of work. Here's how that Wednesday went down . . . woke up to older son feeling better and younger son throwing up from a stomach virus. Awesome! More barf! Yuck! Ok, off to work. Come home, drop off younger son, and then proceed to have hours of crap from older son. Turns out he had no intention of leaving. Verbal and emotional abuse, screaming at me, telling me I'd have to call the police to get him to leave, etc. Yes, I understand that he would very much like to have "home" again, but home doesn't ever work for him. This was a big reminder of why. I sat there, listening to all of it, it brought me back to what I used to deal with from his father, and I just became paralyzed. I just stopped moving, thinking, etc. Sat there. With the help of a friend, we managed to get him out of the house without calling the police, she got me started on packing, and I got a couple of hours of sleep before work.
Thursday, flying out to SF day . . . . older son texted a sincere apology, younger son texted to make sure I was ok and that his brother and the drama was gone. We love him dearly, but his addiction and behavior does not allow him to be with us. Stomach is in knots all day about the previous evening. When dealing with an addict, you always wonder if maybe this time was the time I should have done something but didn't. Truth is, only the addict can do something. The emotional hurt of the parent is astronomical, and I'm sure my son says the same thing from his view. For this new decade, I make the vow of putting MY needs on the table, and not giving the addiction as much time. I've gotten so much better, but still so easy to fall into the mind games.
Please, let's just get on the damn plane and escape for a few days!!!! At the airport, and on the plane, the reflecting, which I had so looked forward to, was finally beginning. My brain relaxed enough to process the birthday, and the terrible week so far. Put it behind, gain perspective, focus on the fun weekend ahead, have some fun for ME, especially with old friends. The smile returns to my face. Wheels up . . . . heading to San Francisco.
End of Part I . . . . go to the next entry for the fun part!
Let me explain how I spent my 50th birthday. . . . the day itself pretty much sucked, except for the part where I was at work and my students and co-workers graciously wished me good things. At home was another story. The previous couple of days had been spent with my oldest son in the emergency room as he was withdrawing from meth, heroin, and God knows what else. I had to let him come home with me to keep an eye on him for a few days. I cleaned up vomit from the bathtub, and on my birthday, as I speedily tried to get out the door for work, had to clean vomit from the kitchen sink. Drugs suck, but you've been hearing that from me for quite a while now, so I won't go on with that. During the day, he texted me that he was throwing up blood. Right after work, back to the ER we go. FIVE HOURS LATER . . . . we're still waiting to be seen, and we leave. Seems that he's feeling much better now. Unfortunately, that nice steak dinner my younger son and I planned to have for my birthday didn't seem possible. In the end, we made it to the restaurant at 9:30, and closed it down. That was my birthday. No pomp and circumstance, just another day, but I felt differently. In a good way, differently.
None of the above really mattered though because two days later, I would be leaving for a fun-filled weekend in San Francisco! This excursion was the brain child of a dear high school friend from New Orleans. Friends and family of his were all going out to San Francisco to celebrate HIS 50th, which was coming on May 25th. All I had to do was deliver the younger son to his father, drop off the older son wherever he was choosing to live at the moment, take the dog to the vet for boarding, and make it through a day of work. Here's how that Wednesday went down . . . woke up to older son feeling better and younger son throwing up from a stomach virus. Awesome! More barf! Yuck! Ok, off to work. Come home, drop off younger son, and then proceed to have hours of crap from older son. Turns out he had no intention of leaving. Verbal and emotional abuse, screaming at me, telling me I'd have to call the police to get him to leave, etc. Yes, I understand that he would very much like to have "home" again, but home doesn't ever work for him. This was a big reminder of why. I sat there, listening to all of it, it brought me back to what I used to deal with from his father, and I just became paralyzed. I just stopped moving, thinking, etc. Sat there. With the help of a friend, we managed to get him out of the house without calling the police, she got me started on packing, and I got a couple of hours of sleep before work.
Thursday, flying out to SF day . . . . older son texted a sincere apology, younger son texted to make sure I was ok and that his brother and the drama was gone. We love him dearly, but his addiction and behavior does not allow him to be with us. Stomach is in knots all day about the previous evening. When dealing with an addict, you always wonder if maybe this time was the time I should have done something but didn't. Truth is, only the addict can do something. The emotional hurt of the parent is astronomical, and I'm sure my son says the same thing from his view. For this new decade, I make the vow of putting MY needs on the table, and not giving the addiction as much time. I've gotten so much better, but still so easy to fall into the mind games.
Please, let's just get on the damn plane and escape for a few days!!!! At the airport, and on the plane, the reflecting, which I had so looked forward to, was finally beginning. My brain relaxed enough to process the birthday, and the terrible week so far. Put it behind, gain perspective, focus on the fun weekend ahead, have some fun for ME, especially with old friends. The smile returns to my face. Wheels up . . . . heading to San Francisco.
End of Part I . . . . go to the next entry for the fun part!
Friday, January 24, 2014
A Missing Child
As we drive along the pitch black highway in the middle of nowhere, I'm relieved that he can't see the tears flowing down my cheeks. In fact, he would be oblivious to them even if he could see in the dark, not because he doesn't care, but he just doesn't understand, and he can't.
"Mom, I really need to get out of town. Things are getting out of hand. Can you drive me?"
"It's over a two hour drive each way, and I'll have to do it on a work night. But, if you're needing to get out of town, it's probably a good idea. I'll take you, but when you decide to come back, you're on your own for a ride. You know I have to keep distance."
"I know, Mom. I understand. No problem. Thank you."
So, at nearly 9 p.m., we head out down the dark highway to the middle of nowhere, east Texas. As we go, I'm watching the person sitting next to me in the passenger seat. He's talking non-stop,coming down from meth, pcp, and pot, telling me all kinds of stories, losing his train of thought, jumping topics. As he's talking, he's looking through the case of CDs he made a year ago while on house arrest and bored mindless. It's all music I was happy not hearing for the past year, but it's just for a little while, and it keeps him calm, so I don't complain.
I try to convince myself that this is my child sitting next to me, the one I used to lay in bed with and talk to for what seemed like forever when I would put him to bed at night as a young boy. I try to convince myself that this is the child who was so excited when he was big enough to sit in the front seat, because it meant he could talk to me more, and easier. I try to convince myself that this is the same child who once had a hard time deciding whether he wanted to listen to a CD of NSYNC or Backstreet Boys on the way to school in his elementary days. It doesn't work though. It's not the same child.
Over the last five years, I've held on to the hope that my true child would return. He's been missing for a very long time, and I convinced myself that he was still somewhere inside that form. It gave me hope. I had a stupid fantasy that one day, he would just appear out of nowhere, that I'd be talking to the form, and out would pop MY child. Poof! Just like that. He's in there somewhere. Don't give up hope. That has been my mantra. As I look to my right, at the form sitting in the passenger seat, talking, jittering, flipping pages in the CD album, sometimes making no sense, speaking in a language I don't understand, an emaciated shell of what used to be, I realize that my missing child will never return. Take down the poster; he's left, and there's no way he can return.
A few more tears trickle down my face. They are silent, and he doesn't see.
I have so many wonderful memories of life with the missing child. The first flutters of life in my belly, the nausea, the need for a sausage biscuit from McDonald's every morning. The movement as his feet poked out of my tight womb, his need for ice cream every night at 10:00 to calm down his tumbling act so I could sleep. His dangerous birth, his amazing blue eyes looking up at me while drinking his bottle in the middle of the night. My constant companion for two years. His sitting on the floor surrounded by books, "reading," at the age of 18 months. My cuddle companion. My compassionate hearted child who loved to hold my hand and give me hugs. His joy as I lead his classroom parties in elementary school. His fascination with the American Presidents, with the Titanic, with shoes. So, so many things. These days, I find myself trying harder and harder to cement these memories in my brain. I feel a burning need to get the old video tapes digitized so I don't forget anything. I want to preserve every moment, every hand hold, every hug, every dance to Mary Poppins' Step in Time song, every smile, and every time I peeked in to see him sleep. I need to preserve these memories because my missing child will not return.
I ask him, "Do you have any memory of your life before you started drugs? Any happy memories that come to your mind at any time?" It's almost as if I want him to prove who it is he's supposed to be.
"To be honest, Mom, I really don't. The drugs have erased a lot. I mean, if you tell me something, it'll come back to me usually, but I can't ever seem to think of them on my own. Maybe that's a good thing. I don't know. You know I've got holes in my brain from the drugs, Mom," he says with a weird I'm-almost-proud-of-that-because-I'm-a-drug-addict grinning and laughing way. "Really? Nothing?" I ask. "No, unless you tell me."
Ok, that opened the faucet more. I'm still relieved that he can't, doesn't see. If he had, he would have felt guilty, he would have stopped talking, it would have put a strain on the dark drive. Better to enjoy what I had there at the time. Truth is, I never really know whether each conversation, each hug, and each "I love you" will be our last. He lives a dangerous life, a life on the edge which is full of meth heads, dealers, psycho behavior, paranoia, and pipes. A nomadic life, going from house to house, couch to couch, addict to addict. If the drugs don't kill him, I always fear that the lifestyle will. In this area, I can maintain hope that he will survive.
I believe it has been a false hope to think MY child will ever return. The truth is that he is forever changed, and will never be able to recapture his former self. Right now, he is the form sitting next to me, behaving as someone I don't know, someone I wouldn't normally be sitting next to for a two hour drive. If he ever decides to give up this lifestyle and all the related drugs, the person who will emerge will be a completely different person. My missing child is actually no longer missing . . . .he is gone. So the question becomes, what do I do in the meantime?
A few years ago, I wrote a blog about faith and hope. I thought I could maintain that state of mind, but I can't. Hope is an uncertain desire, faith is a firm belief that something is so. Now, five years into this nightmare of addiction, the only thing I seem to have faith in is our love for each other. He absolutely knows that I love him unconditionally and always will, and I know he truly loves me, even if he can't fully remember why. No matter what he does, no matter how bad, how disappointing, how stupid, I will always love him, the child who is gone, the form now present, and the person who will emerge. That's the only part I have faith in. Everything else is simply hope, a desire, which is uncertain, that he will survive and that the person who may emerge will be in a condition to function in this world, and will be able to know joy.
It's time to take down the missing posters. That part is over. Now, I have to wait to get to know the person who will essentially be born from this dis-tempered womb of addiction. There is such an amazingly deep pain, a pain that I am unable to put into words, a pain which is visible in every physical inch of my body, a pain which I do not know how to fully release. Even when I think I've let a lot of it go, I realize that it is the glue which holds me together. It has seeped into all the cracks and into the core. If I were to let it go, all of the pieces would crumble, and there really isn't anybody to hold them together, or to pick them up and make the attempt to put the puzzle back together. The thought is frightening, and I'm tired of being frightened.
So, what do I do? I accept the tears, they are part of mourning the child who is gone. I maintain communication with the form who is currently occupying the body of my former child. I continue to hope that a new, full entity will emerge, and that I will have the opportunity to get to know that person. And finally, I continue to love him. I love the child who has passed, I love the form next to me in the car while I cry silent tears, and I will love whoever the person is who is born from this struggle. I will always love him, with all my heart, with my complete soul, with every fiber of my being. Why? Because no matter what, he is my son. I will perhaps one day meet someone who is willing and able to help hold together all of my crumbling pieces while I clean out the glue, and I can really let go of some of the pain.
In the meantime, I just love him, love his brother, and try to love myself a little bit more.
"Mom, I really need to get out of town. Things are getting out of hand. Can you drive me?"
"It's over a two hour drive each way, and I'll have to do it on a work night. But, if you're needing to get out of town, it's probably a good idea. I'll take you, but when you decide to come back, you're on your own for a ride. You know I have to keep distance."
"I know, Mom. I understand. No problem. Thank you."
So, at nearly 9 p.m., we head out down the dark highway to the middle of nowhere, east Texas. As we go, I'm watching the person sitting next to me in the passenger seat. He's talking non-stop,coming down from meth, pcp, and pot, telling me all kinds of stories, losing his train of thought, jumping topics. As he's talking, he's looking through the case of CDs he made a year ago while on house arrest and bored mindless. It's all music I was happy not hearing for the past year, but it's just for a little while, and it keeps him calm, so I don't complain.
I try to convince myself that this is my child sitting next to me, the one I used to lay in bed with and talk to for what seemed like forever when I would put him to bed at night as a young boy. I try to convince myself that this is the child who was so excited when he was big enough to sit in the front seat, because it meant he could talk to me more, and easier. I try to convince myself that this is the same child who once had a hard time deciding whether he wanted to listen to a CD of NSYNC or Backstreet Boys on the way to school in his elementary days. It doesn't work though. It's not the same child.
Over the last five years, I've held on to the hope that my true child would return. He's been missing for a very long time, and I convinced myself that he was still somewhere inside that form. It gave me hope. I had a stupid fantasy that one day, he would just appear out of nowhere, that I'd be talking to the form, and out would pop MY child. Poof! Just like that. He's in there somewhere. Don't give up hope. That has been my mantra. As I look to my right, at the form sitting in the passenger seat, talking, jittering, flipping pages in the CD album, sometimes making no sense, speaking in a language I don't understand, an emaciated shell of what used to be, I realize that my missing child will never return. Take down the poster; he's left, and there's no way he can return.
A few more tears trickle down my face. They are silent, and he doesn't see.
I have so many wonderful memories of life with the missing child. The first flutters of life in my belly, the nausea, the need for a sausage biscuit from McDonald's every morning. The movement as his feet poked out of my tight womb, his need for ice cream every night at 10:00 to calm down his tumbling act so I could sleep. His dangerous birth, his amazing blue eyes looking up at me while drinking his bottle in the middle of the night. My constant companion for two years. His sitting on the floor surrounded by books, "reading," at the age of 18 months. My cuddle companion. My compassionate hearted child who loved to hold my hand and give me hugs. His joy as I lead his classroom parties in elementary school. His fascination with the American Presidents, with the Titanic, with shoes. So, so many things. These days, I find myself trying harder and harder to cement these memories in my brain. I feel a burning need to get the old video tapes digitized so I don't forget anything. I want to preserve every moment, every hand hold, every hug, every dance to Mary Poppins' Step in Time song, every smile, and every time I peeked in to see him sleep. I need to preserve these memories because my missing child will not return.
I ask him, "Do you have any memory of your life before you started drugs? Any happy memories that come to your mind at any time?" It's almost as if I want him to prove who it is he's supposed to be.
"To be honest, Mom, I really don't. The drugs have erased a lot. I mean, if you tell me something, it'll come back to me usually, but I can't ever seem to think of them on my own. Maybe that's a good thing. I don't know. You know I've got holes in my brain from the drugs, Mom," he says with a weird I'm-almost-proud-of-that-because-I'm-a-drug-addict grinning and laughing way. "Really? Nothing?" I ask. "No, unless you tell me."
Ok, that opened the faucet more. I'm still relieved that he can't, doesn't see. If he had, he would have felt guilty, he would have stopped talking, it would have put a strain on the dark drive. Better to enjoy what I had there at the time. Truth is, I never really know whether each conversation, each hug, and each "I love you" will be our last. He lives a dangerous life, a life on the edge which is full of meth heads, dealers, psycho behavior, paranoia, and pipes. A nomadic life, going from house to house, couch to couch, addict to addict. If the drugs don't kill him, I always fear that the lifestyle will. In this area, I can maintain hope that he will survive.
I believe it has been a false hope to think MY child will ever return. The truth is that he is forever changed, and will never be able to recapture his former self. Right now, he is the form sitting next to me, behaving as someone I don't know, someone I wouldn't normally be sitting next to for a two hour drive. If he ever decides to give up this lifestyle and all the related drugs, the person who will emerge will be a completely different person. My missing child is actually no longer missing . . . .he is gone. So the question becomes, what do I do in the meantime?
A few years ago, I wrote a blog about faith and hope. I thought I could maintain that state of mind, but I can't. Hope is an uncertain desire, faith is a firm belief that something is so. Now, five years into this nightmare of addiction, the only thing I seem to have faith in is our love for each other. He absolutely knows that I love him unconditionally and always will, and I know he truly loves me, even if he can't fully remember why. No matter what he does, no matter how bad, how disappointing, how stupid, I will always love him, the child who is gone, the form now present, and the person who will emerge. That's the only part I have faith in. Everything else is simply hope, a desire, which is uncertain, that he will survive and that the person who may emerge will be in a condition to function in this world, and will be able to know joy.
It's time to take down the missing posters. That part is over. Now, I have to wait to get to know the person who will essentially be born from this dis-tempered womb of addiction. There is such an amazingly deep pain, a pain that I am unable to put into words, a pain which is visible in every physical inch of my body, a pain which I do not know how to fully release. Even when I think I've let a lot of it go, I realize that it is the glue which holds me together. It has seeped into all the cracks and into the core. If I were to let it go, all of the pieces would crumble, and there really isn't anybody to hold them together, or to pick them up and make the attempt to put the puzzle back together. The thought is frightening, and I'm tired of being frightened.
So, what do I do? I accept the tears, they are part of mourning the child who is gone. I maintain communication with the form who is currently occupying the body of my former child. I continue to hope that a new, full entity will emerge, and that I will have the opportunity to get to know that person. And finally, I continue to love him. I love the child who has passed, I love the form next to me in the car while I cry silent tears, and I will love whoever the person is who is born from this struggle. I will always love him, with all my heart, with my complete soul, with every fiber of my being. Why? Because no matter what, he is my son. I will perhaps one day meet someone who is willing and able to help hold together all of my crumbling pieces while I clean out the glue, and I can really let go of some of the pain.
In the meantime, I just love him, love his brother, and try to love myself a little bit more.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Human Touch
I see my massage therapist every two weeks. I always look forward to it because I know it is a time to really, truly relax my body and soul. Best prescription the cardiologist ever gave me! It's always interesting though. I undress, lay face down on the table, and wait for the wonderful relief of working out all the knots in my shoulders and back. As I wait for her to enter the room, I always THINK that I'm relaxed, arms hanging down, eyes closed, etc. However, it's that first touch, the first laying on of hands, when I really relax. She puts her hands on my tight, knotted, clenched muscles, and my body just melts. It is then when I realize what causes that true relaxation and comfort is the simple human touch. The warmth of another person touching me causes a distinct physical, molecular reaction and transforms me into a state of peace and comfort I don't experience anywhere else.
So, back to the massage therapist. . . . it occurs to me that every two weeks I PAY someone to touch me. (Yes, I realize I'm mentioning massage therapist and payment together, but you know what I mean!) As that thought solidifies in my mind, I begin to realize that there are very few occasions in my life where I receive such a thing. I have been divorced for a long time, busy with my kids, and have only dated a little with that not really going too far, so it's been a long time since I've had that reassuring, loving male touch on a regular basis. I'm not even talking about anything sexual, just the little things like snuggling next to someone on the couch, an arm around my shoulders, holding hands, and a hug. I realize how much I have missed that over the years. Lord knows it would have been nice during some really tough times! In church yesterday, as we all held hands during The Lord's Prayer, this whole topic crossed my mind. The touch of a stranger in a unified meaning can be powerful. I will admit another realization . . . I like it when I end up sitting next to a guy. I'm beginning to sound a little pathetic, perhaps, but just making a point.
We need to be touched. From birth, babies desire to be cuddled and loved on, premature infants especially. A baby ignored and not touched will suffer in many ways. Older children with ADD have benefited from massage treatment. Human touch lowers blood pressure and reduces stress hormones. It can relieve anxiety. According to Tiffany Field, who directs the University of Miami's Touch Research Institute, the lack of touch in our society can lead to dangerous problems, " It's a very serious problem. If monkeys are deprived of touch, they kill each other." Even anthropologists have documented that primitive cultures with less affectionate touch are more violent than cultures with more touching. We all marvel at the brutality in society and wonder how we got there. I believe it's the disconnect of many things emotional, and perhaps even more so, the lack of genuine, loving, supportive, comforting touch.
Oh, and let's not forget all those wonderful spontaneous hugs from children! They melt our hearts as their little arms swing around the neck and hold on tightly. Pure, innocent, love. I miss those hugs from my kids, but imagine a child who grew up without that opportunity or who had it at one time only to be pushed back as he grew older. I still hug on my kids, whether they like it or not.
So, the point of all this is . . . . take a little time to be aware of whether you are giving and receiving enough human touch. Do you see someone hurting and hesitate to offer a hug, a hand, or an arm around the shoulder? We are more likely to hug someone in congratulations than we are in support and comfort. That's sad. Our skin is one of the most sensitive organs, yet it can be one of the most deprived. If you're not getting enough touch, you might even need to tell a friend, "Hey, I need a hug." Don't be afraid to ask. I don't like the corporate speak of, "Perhaps we need to reach out to him," because it's really meant in a more negative way, so don't let that one fool you. And yes, you know I couldn't write all this without saying it . . .
"Reach out and touch somebody's hand. Make this a better place, if you can." Yep, had to end on a corny note. :)
Saturday, August 31, 2013
I have 2 sons
I think I'm like other mothers when about to give birth to the second child. Underneath the excitement of adding another member to the family, there is that little nagging question . . . . "I never thought I could love anything as much as I love my first child. How is it possible to love another being that much more again? How does this work?" The idea of multiplying, or reproducing another love so big is overwhelming. You know it can and will happen, but wow!
Ethan was an only child for the first four years of his life. He and I spent so much time together playing, talking, learning, cuddling, loving, etc. We were amazingly close, and I often found it hard to believe that this happy, excited, loving creature was mine. He was a delight to have around, always entertaining, extremely compassionate, very curious, smart (of course), and just plain happy. For four years, the world revolved around Ethan, and he was fine with that. Of course he knew no different, so that was just the way life was. Somewhere around year three, he picked up on the concept of the whole brother/sister thing, and decided he'd like to have one. The idea was nice, but goodness, we were so happy, just the two of us, I didn't know if I wanted to change that, although I'd always wanted more kids. My marriage had some issues, but there was potential that they would resolve. I wasn't getting any younger, and I didn't want too big of a gap between children, so, why not!
Asa was born just before Ethan's fourth birthday. Any questions about how you can love another child as much as you loved the first had faded long before Asa's birth. We all loved this new little boy like crazy, and Ethan was such a proud big brother!! I had two sons, and they were wonderful. Ethan didn't complain much about the attention a new baby demanded. He waited patiently for a few months, then wanted to know when Asa would be able to play with him. In came the frustration of realizing that wasn't going to happen right away, but still he wanted to help with Asa, feed him bottles, etc. It was busier, but I loved my two boys!
As Ethan began to grow, the gap between the two of them grew. There was no way Asa could keep up with any of that, so Ethan had less time to devote to his little brother. Once the teenage years hit, Ethan became the prime focus again, first in small ways, and then in HUGE ways. From the age of 14 to his current age of 18, Ethan was the primary focus for all of us as with dealt with his drug addiction. Asa was more amazingly patient than I can imagine anyone would be. There were so many times when I had to leave him, at the age of 10, in the waiting area while I had 30 minute visitations with Ethan, so many times I hauled him up to Wichita Falls for the weekend so we could visit Ethan, so many nights I had to leave him at home while I went to family counseling for Ethan, so many times he stayed in his room when Ethan and I fought, and it was scary. Asa had every reason in the world to act out for attention, but he never did. As much as I hated it, it often felt like I was the mother of one again, Ethan demanded so very much! That feeling always made me sad for Asa, but he didn't complain.
When Ethan moved near his father last March, Asa and I both started on a different path. Although there were relapses for Ethan, bad visits back home, and other demands from him still, Asa and I began to center again. The next thing I know, it's all about me and Asa, and Ethan was no longer the central focus, mainly because of geography. It wasn't long before I once again felt like the mother of one. Then I felt bad for Ethan because it was so much easier not to deal with any of the drama when it wasn't living with me. Now, Ethan is in jail, and will be for a while, and Asa and I are getting to know each other in ways we weren't able to before. I so cherished the first four years I had alone with Ethan, and now I will cherish the last 5 years I have alone with Asa. However, I can't help feeling like I was cheated out of many years where I truly had "two boys." There were a few, but not enough. Sometimes I don't want to talk about Ethan because I get too sad. When those times come, I have lately found myself saying, "I have two sons, I have two sons."
Ethan was an only child for the first four years of his life. He and I spent so much time together playing, talking, learning, cuddling, loving, etc. We were amazingly close, and I often found it hard to believe that this happy, excited, loving creature was mine. He was a delight to have around, always entertaining, extremely compassionate, very curious, smart (of course), and just plain happy. For four years, the world revolved around Ethan, and he was fine with that. Of course he knew no different, so that was just the way life was. Somewhere around year three, he picked up on the concept of the whole brother/sister thing, and decided he'd like to have one. The idea was nice, but goodness, we were so happy, just the two of us, I didn't know if I wanted to change that, although I'd always wanted more kids. My marriage had some issues, but there was potential that they would resolve. I wasn't getting any younger, and I didn't want too big of a gap between children, so, why not!
Asa was born just before Ethan's fourth birthday. Any questions about how you can love another child as much as you loved the first had faded long before Asa's birth. We all loved this new little boy like crazy, and Ethan was such a proud big brother!! I had two sons, and they were wonderful. Ethan didn't complain much about the attention a new baby demanded. He waited patiently for a few months, then wanted to know when Asa would be able to play with him. In came the frustration of realizing that wasn't going to happen right away, but still he wanted to help with Asa, feed him bottles, etc. It was busier, but I loved my two boys!
As Ethan began to grow, the gap between the two of them grew. There was no way Asa could keep up with any of that, so Ethan had less time to devote to his little brother. Once the teenage years hit, Ethan became the prime focus again, first in small ways, and then in HUGE ways. From the age of 14 to his current age of 18, Ethan was the primary focus for all of us as with dealt with his drug addiction. Asa was more amazingly patient than I can imagine anyone would be. There were so many times when I had to leave him, at the age of 10, in the waiting area while I had 30 minute visitations with Ethan, so many times I hauled him up to Wichita Falls for the weekend so we could visit Ethan, so many nights I had to leave him at home while I went to family counseling for Ethan, so many times he stayed in his room when Ethan and I fought, and it was scary. Asa had every reason in the world to act out for attention, but he never did. As much as I hated it, it often felt like I was the mother of one again, Ethan demanded so very much! That feeling always made me sad for Asa, but he didn't complain.
When Ethan moved near his father last March, Asa and I both started on a different path. Although there were relapses for Ethan, bad visits back home, and other demands from him still, Asa and I began to center again. The next thing I know, it's all about me and Asa, and Ethan was no longer the central focus, mainly because of geography. It wasn't long before I once again felt like the mother of one. Then I felt bad for Ethan because it was so much easier not to deal with any of the drama when it wasn't living with me. Now, Ethan is in jail, and will be for a while, and Asa and I are getting to know each other in ways we weren't able to before. I so cherished the first four years I had alone with Ethan, and now I will cherish the last 5 years I have alone with Asa. However, I can't help feeling like I was cheated out of many years where I truly had "two boys." There were a few, but not enough. Sometimes I don't want to talk about Ethan because I get too sad. When those times come, I have lately found myself saying, "I have two sons, I have two sons."
Sunday, January 13, 2013
George Bailey, generosity, and the art of accepting help . . .
One of my favorite movies of all time is "It's a Wonderful Life." I could watch it any time and love it, but it especially warms my heart during the Christmas season as more people tend to feel the spirit. I don't presume to be as good and selfless as George Bailey tended to be, but I have always tried to be generous, encouraging, and supportive. That charges my heart, and I completely believe that "if I can, I should," when it comes to helping others. But, like George Bailey, I have had many times in life where I was completely downhearted and felt the world would be a better place if I hadn't been here to screw it up. Yes, that's a selfish thought, as if I had any real power, but it's that wondering if I had done something differently, would the outcome have been better, that nags me. George Bailey is given the angel, Clarence, to help him learn the truth about the difference we each make in the lives of others, most often without ever knowing we have. What a gift!
Now, while George is busy feeling sorry for himself, feeling like a failure, feeling like he let everyone down, and feeling like he might as well end it all, his wife Mary is out rallying the troops. When she finds out what the problem is, she doesn't hesitate to ask for help. The difference between George and Mary, on this matter, is pride. George puts it all on himself, and Mary just says hey, we need help! I am like Mary when it comes to anyone else. See a problem, let's get together and fix it. For example, a little over a year ago, a friend was in a serious bind. Another friend and I came up with a plan, went to our whole group of connected friends, and asked for help on her behalf. Everyone was so wonderful!! We came together, got her through a couple of rough months, and she's been getting back on track ever since. It was humbling to see. Just as in the movie, it was as if the front room was suddenly filled with people who were happy to put what they could in the basket and help George out. In fact, they were overjoyed to be able to do something to help. Bells were ringing and angels were getting their wings all over the place. Beautiful!! However, when it comes to me, pride keeps me from reaching out. I can't be Mary for myself. When I'm in trouble, I'm like George. I feel sorry for myself because I figure it must somehow be my fault. I feel like a failure because I didn't do the right thing. I feel like I let everyone down because things are no better, and often worse. I don't though, ever feel like I want to end it all. Hide in my bed, not answer the phone, avoid the world . . . . yes, but never end it all.
I believe my mother did a great job of raising me to be independent, able to take care of myself, and not afraid to do things that are tough but potentially rewarding. Independence and self-reliance though, can sometimes have their drawbacks. For me, that drawback is that I have a very hard time not only asking for, but accepting help when I need it. This is not to say that I haven't been helped in an infinite number of extraordinary ways throughout my life, but when I'm in a really, really deep hole, I don't know how to ask for the ladder. It usually has to be thrown down the hole and hit me on the head. Well, a ladder has hit me on the head, and I'm beginning to climb up. This hole has been caused by a culmination of things. Between 2004-2009, I didn't think life could get any more difficult and complicated. Many of you have battled some of the same things. I'm not at all unique. Divorce, single parenting a couple of angry and hurt boys who needed a father, health problems, stressful work, financial problems, making major changes like quitting a job, selling a house, and moving across the country with no job or house waiting for you, all the typical stuff so many people have been through. But, I did it. Didn't do it without a lot of support, encouragement, and exhausted ears and shoulders of my friends and family, but got it done. Once it was done, I thought, "Ok, it's all downhill from there. Surely." Then, the giant sink hole caved in. Like any other parent, throw anything at me, but don't hurt my children. Things fell apart. Ethan developed a raging and desperate drug addiction, which I discovered only when it was too late, that it was largely a result of some things he thought he had escaped when we moved. But, it was worse than that, so much worse than that. And then, even worse than THAT! I am not unique in dealing with this either. It is so much more common than I imagined. I air my dirty laundry a lot to all of you, but there's much more in piles that you can't see. There are hidden piles that nobody has seen. The surface has been hard enough to air. Getting it out helps, but there is still all the collateral damage to contend with. There are mountains of medical bills, prescriptions, testing, counseling, rehab hospitals, attorney fees, court costs, fines, etc., etc., etc. I'm busy trying to fill in the hole as quickly as I'm sinking. Then, it is suddenly no longer just Ethan, Asa is holding his own, but the same can't be said for me. Surgery for me. Brakes on, have to stop for a bit. Problem is, if I'm not shoveling it out, it's getting deeper.
So, like George, I find myself feeling sorry for myself, feeling like a failure, and feeling like I'll never get out of this damn hole! It finally becomes too much. Just at that time, Clarence arrives to tell me I'm not done yet, that I have plenty of love and support to carry me through, and that things will work out. Clarence was instrumental in "Santa" sending me a gift card so I could buy Asa Christmas presents and feel like less of a failure. Clarence was present when my friends kicked my butt into gear to give Asa the tree, decorations, etc. that he deserved. And Clarence has done what I couldn't do. Clarence has asked others for help for me. My stubborn pride left me sinking without any idea of how I was going to get out this time, just waiting for the endless bottom. Clarence even put the word out to my high school friends asking for financial support, and he wouldn't take no for an answer. I tried; believe me, I tried! It's been very strange to accept the help that many of you have given, and very humbling. There is an art to accepting help, and I haven't learned it yet, but I want you all to know that I'm learning. Your help has given the ladder in my hole some solid ground, and I'm starting the climb out. I can hear you all at the top of the hole cheering me on, and I know I'll get there. I remind myself often that it could be so much worse, that I don't have it nearly as bad as others, and that I'm not alone in my struggles. I appreciate your patience, your understanding, your encouragement, your support (both emotional and financial), and most importantly . . . . your genuine love and generosity of heart. In all honesty, I don't know how I've made enough of a difference in your life for you to want to help me, but I'm glad I did. I have done an amazingly beautiful job of choosing my friends in life. I don't know what I would do without each and every one of you. With the family and friends I have, I'll get to the top of my ladder and out of my hole. I will. And when I do, I'll throw a ladder down a hole for the next person. This is the beauty of life and love. Thank you for teaching me!
Now, while George is busy feeling sorry for himself, feeling like a failure, feeling like he let everyone down, and feeling like he might as well end it all, his wife Mary is out rallying the troops. When she finds out what the problem is, she doesn't hesitate to ask for help. The difference between George and Mary, on this matter, is pride. George puts it all on himself, and Mary just says hey, we need help! I am like Mary when it comes to anyone else. See a problem, let's get together and fix it. For example, a little over a year ago, a friend was in a serious bind. Another friend and I came up with a plan, went to our whole group of connected friends, and asked for help on her behalf. Everyone was so wonderful!! We came together, got her through a couple of rough months, and she's been getting back on track ever since. It was humbling to see. Just as in the movie, it was as if the front room was suddenly filled with people who were happy to put what they could in the basket and help George out. In fact, they were overjoyed to be able to do something to help. Bells were ringing and angels were getting their wings all over the place. Beautiful!! However, when it comes to me, pride keeps me from reaching out. I can't be Mary for myself. When I'm in trouble, I'm like George. I feel sorry for myself because I figure it must somehow be my fault. I feel like a failure because I didn't do the right thing. I feel like I let everyone down because things are no better, and often worse. I don't though, ever feel like I want to end it all. Hide in my bed, not answer the phone, avoid the world . . . . yes, but never end it all.
I believe my mother did a great job of raising me to be independent, able to take care of myself, and not afraid to do things that are tough but potentially rewarding. Independence and self-reliance though, can sometimes have their drawbacks. For me, that drawback is that I have a very hard time not only asking for, but accepting help when I need it. This is not to say that I haven't been helped in an infinite number of extraordinary ways throughout my life, but when I'm in a really, really deep hole, I don't know how to ask for the ladder. It usually has to be thrown down the hole and hit me on the head. Well, a ladder has hit me on the head, and I'm beginning to climb up. This hole has been caused by a culmination of things. Between 2004-2009, I didn't think life could get any more difficult and complicated. Many of you have battled some of the same things. I'm not at all unique. Divorce, single parenting a couple of angry and hurt boys who needed a father, health problems, stressful work, financial problems, making major changes like quitting a job, selling a house, and moving across the country with no job or house waiting for you, all the typical stuff so many people have been through. But, I did it. Didn't do it without a lot of support, encouragement, and exhausted ears and shoulders of my friends and family, but got it done. Once it was done, I thought, "Ok, it's all downhill from there. Surely." Then, the giant sink hole caved in. Like any other parent, throw anything at me, but don't hurt my children. Things fell apart. Ethan developed a raging and desperate drug addiction, which I discovered only when it was too late, that it was largely a result of some things he thought he had escaped when we moved. But, it was worse than that, so much worse than that. And then, even worse than THAT! I am not unique in dealing with this either. It is so much more common than I imagined. I air my dirty laundry a lot to all of you, but there's much more in piles that you can't see. There are hidden piles that nobody has seen. The surface has been hard enough to air. Getting it out helps, but there is still all the collateral damage to contend with. There are mountains of medical bills, prescriptions, testing, counseling, rehab hospitals, attorney fees, court costs, fines, etc., etc., etc. I'm busy trying to fill in the hole as quickly as I'm sinking. Then, it is suddenly no longer just Ethan, Asa is holding his own, but the same can't be said for me. Surgery for me. Brakes on, have to stop for a bit. Problem is, if I'm not shoveling it out, it's getting deeper.
So, like George, I find myself feeling sorry for myself, feeling like a failure, and feeling like I'll never get out of this damn hole! It finally becomes too much. Just at that time, Clarence arrives to tell me I'm not done yet, that I have plenty of love and support to carry me through, and that things will work out. Clarence was instrumental in "Santa" sending me a gift card so I could buy Asa Christmas presents and feel like less of a failure. Clarence was present when my friends kicked my butt into gear to give Asa the tree, decorations, etc. that he deserved. And Clarence has done what I couldn't do. Clarence has asked others for help for me. My stubborn pride left me sinking without any idea of how I was going to get out this time, just waiting for the endless bottom. Clarence even put the word out to my high school friends asking for financial support, and he wouldn't take no for an answer. I tried; believe me, I tried! It's been very strange to accept the help that many of you have given, and very humbling. There is an art to accepting help, and I haven't learned it yet, but I want you all to know that I'm learning. Your help has given the ladder in my hole some solid ground, and I'm starting the climb out. I can hear you all at the top of the hole cheering me on, and I know I'll get there. I remind myself often that it could be so much worse, that I don't have it nearly as bad as others, and that I'm not alone in my struggles. I appreciate your patience, your understanding, your encouragement, your support (both emotional and financial), and most importantly . . . . your genuine love and generosity of heart. In all honesty, I don't know how I've made enough of a difference in your life for you to want to help me, but I'm glad I did. I have done an amazingly beautiful job of choosing my friends in life. I don't know what I would do without each and every one of you. With the family and friends I have, I'll get to the top of my ladder and out of my hole. I will. And when I do, I'll throw a ladder down a hole for the next person. This is the beauty of life and love. Thank you for teaching me!
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Some random thoughts of late . . . .
Sometimes I think of things to say on my Facebook status, but it would either be too long to write, or there are too many things to say, and I don't want to put a laundry list on there. So, I guess this seems like a more appropriate place for a laundry list. Below are some random thoughts of late . . . .
- Yesterday afternoon and last night, I was so angry, frustrated, and sad that I had the recurring thought of "it's a good thing I don't own a gun." Now, don't misinterpret. I didn't want to use it on myself, or on anyone else, I just wanted to shoot things. Maybe hold someone hostage at the horrible, incompetent hospital Ethan was at, until they gave me his stuff and his Vyvanse pills back. It's a long story, but I can't think about it any more right now.
- This morning, on a Saturday, I woke up at 8:30 in the morning!! What's up with that? I even managed to stay awake, wide awake. As I was walking around the kitchen, getting a Diet Dr. Pepper, I thought about how it's probably a good thing that I don't live with anyone else (except Asa, who wouldn't care about this, and is gone this weekend anyway.) I was thinking about how comfortable I was walking around the house in a big shirt, my underwear, a sweater, and my socks. Just remarkably comfortable. I'd like to stay like this all day.
- I've been taking down the Christmas stuff, but I don't want to put away the tree. I will miss the lights at night when I'm sitting on the couch. I need to think of an alternative.
- "Under the Tuscan Sun" is a great movie, and always gives me a little of that elusive hope floating somewhere in the bottom of Pandora's jar. Happened across it this morning when I was up so early.
- "The Descendants," which I also happened across, and happily so, was an excellent movie, and made me think about the mess we make of life. But, there's always a chance for redemption. There is a scene in the movie (spoiler alert) where they are spreading ashes in the ocean. This made me think about spreading our little portion of Walter's ashes a couple of weeks ago. If you've never experienced such a thing, it's oddly wonderful. The ashes are not fine, gritty ashes. They're larger than you might expect, contain tiny bone particles, etc. I don't mean to sound morbid, but that actually made it a little more real. Walter was really still there, he wasn't just ash. We each spread a little, nobody wanting to spread too much before we each had a chance. After we'd passed the jar around a couple of times, there was still more left, and it fell to me to empty it out. The part in the bottom of the jar was held tight, and didn't want to let go. Then, we all chuckled a little about how stubborn he STILL was. I had to stick my finger in the jar and loosen it up. It was a strange feeling. Then, it was done. He was free, and would spend no more time on the shelf in Mom's prayer room. I think it's only just now hitting me as I write this, typing through some tears. I miss him, I miss my grandmother, I miss all of them.
Hmmmm . . . . . interesting, this whole writing process. I think I just needed to write #s 1-4 in order to get to #5, and #5 was what I was needing to deal with.
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