Uninvited Rage

What happened? Why are you stuck? These are questions asked by my therapist. We were talking about how, for awhile, I wrote every day. Every. single. day. And now I don't. I just quit.

Well, I am in the anger stage of grief. And I don't want to be. I don't want to be angry. at Dad for leaving me, but I am. I don't want to feel hatred and rage toward the brain surgeon who cut him open and let his brain bleed and not recover. But I am. I don't want to be angry at Dad for getting on that 4-wheeler and wrecking and laying facedown in the dirt, inhaling that damn dirt that grew that fatal bacteria that invaded our lives and took over and ruled over us. BUT I AM. Angry. Rage-filled. Bitter. Hateful. Full of bubbling, brewing, festering, infectious RAGE that at any moment could spill over and cover my entire world with a bitter plethora of colorful expletives and the stench of toxic emotion. I am so fucking angry.

I have been aware of this. But I don't want it. I have viewed it as something to ride out. like a storm. But it's not something I will ride out by ignoring it, by just knowing that it is there, and yet pretending to be capable of living a life of of peace, a life of honesty.

I am going to have to embrace it and let it overcome me. Consume me. I will need to let go of control and become submerged in it. Or at least in sort form of it. I will have to accept it and surrender to it. And let it wash over me.

I guess I am scared of that. First of all, I don't want this. I don't want to be consumed by anger and rage that I logically don't believe. It's not Dad's fault. It's not the surgeon's fault, no, wait, that one I don't fully believe. In this regard, I push down my feelings because my family is of a pacifist background and will never sue this man for malpractice. But I don't know that this wasn't some sort of carelessness by an overly-confident (cocky would even by an appropriate adjective) surgeon. But I have tried not to be angry about this because I see no resolve and that is even more frustrating. But I see where all this pretending has gotten me. Festering. Smelly. Infected. Toxic. Stuck.

But to go on, I don't WANT to be mad at my Dad. But he is the one who got on that 4 wheeler that day. He is the one who left me to face the rest of my family without him. He is the one who... oh hell, he fought so FUCKING hard to stay here, even when he was in so much pain and decay, see... I just can't blame him. I can't let that anger just live. Because he didn't want to go. He fought like a Son-of-a-bitch to stay. He loved life. He loved us. He wanted to be around for a much longer time.

I want to end this with that sweet summary of how I've faced this, walked through it, and now I get to experience that gratitude and know acceptance. But no. I'm not there. I am still angry, bitter, broken, and full of rage.

Missing Dad

Every day I wake with a little more of Dad inside of me... my heart, my actions, his voice in my ear, and in action (WWDD?) And everyday that he is a little more deeply embedded inside of me, he is a little less here outside of me. A little less of his energy, his presence, his passion embody the things he made or made happen, or built. They are little less of my Dad and more just earthbound things.

What does it even mean, he's inside of me?!

I feel him. I can't explain it. It just is. And I'm grateful. Because this Daddy's girl is so, so lonely for her Dad. But he's here. He's a part of me. Every day that I wake, I become a little more like him, because he is within me.... his energy, his gentleness, his compassion.

I don't know much, but I am willing to learn

My least favorite thing in the world. Feeling the feelings. Walking through my pain. But I have spent so much of my life both practicing and condemning avoidance. At the same time. I talk about my family of origin and how it was never okay to talk about.... well, anything really. I stew and fume and just keep it there to be my only source of angst whenever I wish. But I have also fostered it in my own life. I avoid the things I don't want to talk about, the subjects I wish NOT to tackle. But the truth is, the healing comes in the feeling and talking and walking. Walking the pain all the way to the end of the path. In that process is the pathway to peace. The victory of contentment. And I realize that being reasonably content is far more achievable than the ever-fleeting happiness. Happiness is temporary. But true peace, true contentedness, comes from a place of working through things and realizing that life isn't always rainbows and unicorns. And when that fleeting moment of happiness dissipates, content and peace will still remain. As long as I remain willing. Willing to walk through feelings, good or bad. Pain. Willing to learn a new way of thinking. The Bible talks about faith the size of a mustard seed. I think that applies to willingness too. If I have just a sliver of willingness, just a grain, on those dark days, it will be enough. Enough to pull me through and change me. To pull me through and open my heart and my mind to whatever God has for me. I try to remember this. Because I know my mind is a dangerous playground and a ticking timebomb. I know that if am not careful, I can be swallowed up by half-truths, by insane narratives in my head, by insecurities and fears. I know it can happen. I know I have to keep that doorway of willingness unlocked, even though some days the only thing keeping it from latching is a tiny grain of mustard seed.

This computer will automatically close all tabs and shut down in... (some amount of time)

Some mornings I get up and think I have nothing to say. Just the endless chatter in my head. I know I need to learn to write anyway. Write my way through the writer's block, if that's what it is. I think it is just that I forgot to close all the tabs before I went to bed and work up with 99 tabs open on my internal browser. And I keep getting a message that the storage is full and I need to upgrade. Am I alone in this? Memory is slow, but there's a lot to sort through, maybe that is why. I don't actually know how to upgrade my internal hard-drive or even access more storage. Maybe I'll try a reboot. A complete shutdown for the human life equivalent of a computer shutdown minute. So what does that mean? 24 hours? 48? And what exactly am I detoxing from? My computer? Any and all forms of electronics? Humankind? Well, humans these days are not super kind anyway. I am not sure I'll mind a human-unkind detox. Okay. For real. Help me formulate a plan for this. Will I magically heal and be ready for a reboot in two days? What else do I need to detox from? Prepared foods? Negative thoughts? I'm hopeful I can formulate a plan and then share my experience with all of you. You know, kind of like when your electronic browser says something like: "Computer will shut down in 60 seconds. Do you wish to save your work?" Or whatever. I am planning a shutdown. I can still cancel it or change the settings and save everything at this point. But once I shut 'er down, I may lose some data if it wasn't properly saved.

Turning a Corner

I grew up in a home where anger and rigidity ruled. Conformity was a necessity and essential to survival. I also spent a large part of my young and not-so-young adulthood feeling sorry for myself, building a wall of bitterness, calling out the people who I felt "wronged" me.

Not me. I'm not like them.

Except that I am. Because whatever I focus on, I become.  And I became angry, bitter, volatile, scared, angry, and pressurized. I wasted a lot of my adulthood pointing out my victimization and hurt instead of nurturing healing and forgiveness. I became the thing I hated. It is a sad fact. I regret this more than any other thing in my adult life.

The thing is, I am sad, and yes, angry, that I endured things in childhood that I shouldn't have. But holding that pain tight only hurt me more deeply. And in turn, it caused me to hurt the people I love.

Finally, finally, finally... I came to a place where the anger subsided. I could see. I could really see my family for just who they are. Flawed, broken people who were continuing to choose life in their own brokenness. Their own frailties. Their own lack of a better example. And the guilt and shame that those shortcomings carry with them.

I am awash with regret. With shame. with some emotion that I can't quite put my finger on. As this realization and reality washes over me, I am overcome with the knowledge that I perpetuated shame and sadness in the souls of those I love.

And yesterday. Yesterday I was offered a gift. I had both the opportunity and the right "mood" if you will, to offer an apology. I didn't offer an amend. Because when I offer an amend I ask how I make the situation right. And I didn't do that. But maybe, just maybe, by seeing life for what it really is, seeing others as beautiful souls, and offering kindness instead of judgment, I will be making some kind of an amend. Perhaps when I don't lie about my upbringing, but I don't get stuck on the violence and my own frailties, I will not cause more harm. Maybe. Just maybe.Yesterday I got to say with utmost sincerity, "I'm sorry I was so judgmental, so hard on you." And I also got the gift of being forgiven.

My 3 minute snaphot story

What's my story and am I really sticking to it?

I was born at the tail end of the 60's and went home to a house in a small town. When I was a mere 6 weeks old, we moved into the house that my Mom still lives in today.

My parents thought I was some kind of a genius. And they could be right. I have some of the traits that I notice in others that are of above average intelligence. Social awkwardness. Not really understanding the rules of society and socially acceptable behaviors... you know, I'm me and that's all I have, and I often don't know my thoughts, attitudes, and ideas are way out there until I'm knee deep in muck I have created in sharing my heart and soul with every passerby. Not everyone is my intimate friend. On some levels I get that. I mean, I REALLY get it. But on another level.... I give away trust like candy and usually to the people who should be regarded with skepticism. This is one area of my life where I have no filter. Zero. Zilch. For instance, I blog. I blog my pea-picking little heart out. I put it ALL out there for the world to see. Stupid? Quite possibly. Freeing? Most definitely. Because those thoughts are all trapped in my head and let's be honest, my heart, and pull me down and keep me from living until they are expelled. So... genius? Probably not. Socially-awkward, proficient in literary verbiage and so forth, no-filter, soul exposing, over-trusting, totally feeling, empath? yeah. Oh, and mouth of a sailor. I almost forgot one of my favorite qualities about myself. It's not pretty. But I get a foul-mouthed sense of superiority and sarcasm nearly every day. Some days more than others.

Story. Oh yeah. Easily-distracted. Sorry.

Anxiety started rearing it's ugly head at a young age. Fourth grade. My mom was called to school often as I remember it. And I had a special snack time and space for when I got stomachaches and headaches. And forgive me mother, but I kind of chalk that up to living with crazy people, living in a family setting with a crazy dynamic that was extremely dysfunctional and not really conducive to conformity of societal norms. But the latter part of that sentence could quite possibly be the biggie there. I was not a soul made to conform to the societal norm of the school setting and small town setting that I was living in.

I was that kid. The one that everyone treats like they stink, even when they don't. My teacher would hug me looking the other way and reaching out as far as possible in order not to let my skin get too close to her skin. That's real. That really happened.

I know today that addiction comes from growing up in survival mode (fight, flight, freeze). I know that my brain was wired to make me vulnerable to the escape offered in the way of alcohol, drugs, and sexual encounters.

I know today that I can re-wire my brain. But I'm also aware that I'll probably always be awkward. I can wire my brain to be grateful even though I'm still filter-deficient and socially awkward. Seriously. I am so grateful for my life today in all its awkward glory.

I also know today that I cannot make these changes alone. I cannot rewire my brain left in my own stinking thinking. I need a power greater than myself. A spirit. A deity. God. Okay, it's God. I need God today. Or good. I need good energy and good forces to live out in my life today in order to wire my brain from poor-carrie-lets-run-away-atleast-in-my-head-and-escape-this-shit-reality. I need to see the good, inhale the good, focus on it. I need to be willing to consider that my shattered kaleidoscope lens may not be the most effective way of looking at life. I need to be willing to get a new lens.

That's not my whole story. That is not even my entire three-minutes-to-tell-you-who-I-am-to-hook-you-in-and-make-you-want-more story. But I'm done. I guess I've revealed enough today. I feel exhausted and raw.

Namaste.

The Beast

Today I was ambling around in the grocery store, trying to get the bulk of what we need on the small amount of money I had. But I was stopped dead in my tracks. I thought for a moment that my shopping excursion might come to sudden halt. Maybe I should just stop and walk away. Or stop and pull over. Or... I don't really know. But I was struck with an intense sense of missing my Dad and wondering how I will go on now that he's gone. And I almost teared up and bawled in the store. Right frickin' there in the store, walking from the flour aisle to the milk shelves.

I'm sure it happens. Because grief is a strange beast. It is always with me and yet sometimes I am functional and sometimes it washes over me like I've never felt it before. I don't think this is unique to me. I think it is probably a natural part of the process. Except that I believe that in grief perhaps there is no process. Like a sullen, spoiled child, it just does it wants, when it wants, wreaking havoc on those it comes in contact with, leaving them in chaos and despair. We are victims of her heartlessness.

Oh Daddy, if only you were here to help me navigate this. This hollow, empty place. That slaps me upside the head in the grocery store, leaving me reeling and nearly succumbing to the tears. Dad, this grief is suffocating today. I can't believe you left me. I'm sad, I'm flustered. I'm disbelieving. I needed you, and left me. I feel guilty letting that thought go from head to my typing fingertips. I know you didn't leave by choice. I know you knew how devastated we would be. You had some insane sense of the depth of our need for your wisdom, your intuition, your skills.

But moreover, our need of your determination, your unfailing love, your father's heart. This is what I cannot seem to navigate my world without.

Tomorrow may be warmer, sunnier, in my soul. But today I will allow the blackness of my grief to wash over me and leave me out in the cold. Though I know I always have a choice, today it feels as if I have no choice.

Grateful, Not Hateful?

I found this quote this morning. I love it. Immensely.

 

But it also sparked my curiosity. I mean.... am I? Not hateful? The honest truth is that I have to process things first. The stages that I seem to go through as I process are: submissive; submissive-resentful; resentful-rebellious; Fuckyoualltohell; honest assessment; self-reflection; some amount of shame and repentance; one small grateful thought; choosing to see gratitude in a situation; much gratitude for things that once pained me. 

Two thoughts about the submissiveness phase: self-doubt makes me think your assassination of my character is true; and my first approach to situations tends to be-- be willing to learn, do things someone elses way, look for ways to acquiesce. 

As time wears on, my spirit wears down. And from the ground looking up I can see the good I've done, I can see that the burden is not entirely mine. I'm still submissive and trying to live up to the expectation or situation, but I am starting to hate what I'm doing. I feel trapped. I feel fraudulent, I feel manipulated. So I am still trying to be or do whatever is put onto me, but the smoke is starting to roll out of my ears. 

What generally happens next is a "What happens in *wherever*, stays in *wherever*." (That is a fill in the blank: the classroom, the school building, my home, my car, the company of friends....). At this point I am still saying yes, even though I mean no. Even though I am gritting my teeth at each new ridiculous requirement placed before me, and occasionally even baring my teeth and letting out a growl of protest. This is not really conducive to relationship building or gaining respect of those in positions of authority. And there is generally push back.

What happens when there is push back? I fly the big FU bird. Sometimes double-handed. Yep. The Fuckitalltohell stage. I will do what I want, when I want, how I want. This is the bridge-burning phase. When this phase ends, there is plenty to learn through reflection and self-assessment. Because I have most likely burned the situation, relationship, friendship, JOB, committee, responsibility, (whatever), to the ground. 

Now I have room and time to reflect. Honestly. To look at my part. To look at what it was that caused the burr in my saddle. Why did I go to the bridge-burning stage? What happened? And what was my part.

The "oh yuck" and puke-sick part of this is owning my part. I honestly hate this part so much. I'd much rather just point the finger and remain indignant. The self-reflection part sucks donkeys. blech. But if I want to continue to grow, I have to do it. I have to eat humble pie (think 2-slice Hilly), and be willing to make the changes in my life, behavior, attitudes. I have to be willing to say, "I am sorry that...." and then not just turn it into "I'm sorry that... you're such an asshole that I blew my top." 

It's at this humble stage where I get the privilege of growing. This growth is otherwise known as eating humble (shit) pie. It is here that one tiny seed of gratitude comes in. And I can find a reason to be grateful for the situation or at the least, for one tiny part, action, scenario within the situation. At this time, even though I am now enlightened to my part, I am generally still indignant. I'm like.... "I think you (not always a person, but for convenience sake...) are a stupid, selfish ass-wipe of an individual, but I'm so grateful that *this* happened to me because now I can see that (again, filling the blank)." 

At some future point I am able to look back and see that if this *horrible thing* had never happened, these many brilliant and joyful things would never have happened, and I am flooded with gratitude. Over-whelming, joyful tears kind of gratitude. And at this point in time, is where I reach the "not hateful" part. So... depending on how humble I actually got, you may or may not see me as grateful, not hateful. But I always get there. It just takes a few sullen, angry and humble processes first.

Roller Coaster Ride

I have been reading all sorts of things about May. About Mother's Day. About Father's Day. Tomorrow is mother's day. And I miss my dad more than ever. I think that it may just be an ache and desolation that never leaves.

My parents and I have had somewhat of a rocky relationship. On and off. I have had a long road to forgiveness for things that both were and were not their fault(s). I have idolized them. And I have knocked them off their pedestals. Today I am a puddle of mixed emotion.

A Poem Yet Unnamed

I have not been the pristine daughter.
I have been a rebel,
a fighter,
a hard case.

I have been an accuser
a hornet
an aggressor.

I have been broken,
abandoned,
crushed.

I have lost my parents,
over and over.
To my mind,
my emotions,
my defenses.

I have been indignant,
I have been unrepentant,
unforgiving.

I have been inconsolable.
Broken.
overwhelmed with sadness.

I have made amends
I have let go,
I have forgiven.
I have been forgiven.

I have been up.
I have been down.

Today, thinking about Mother's day,
I am sad.
I miss my Dad.
I miss a fairytale idea of family.
I love my realization of my strange,
weird and funny family.
I accept the bad.
The good.
The ugly.

I am sad.
I miss my Dad.
My defender,
the one who saw the good,
when no one else could.

Grief or Gratitude

I hate Mother's day. with a passion. Started long ago. The real, true loathing came that first year after you were born. Born on the 3rd of the same month, gone from me, living in your "real" home, with your "real" family. And it just kept on. Soon enough I was a step-mom. And they made gifts for their Mom and I helped them create and present and mail and all that jazz. And I sulked. And moped. and mourned. Mourned the loss of a child who wasn't dead. Mourned the loss of the dream of what I thought motherhood should look like. Mourned the marriage that did not honor me or any of my sacrifices. I had this idea in my head that mother's day should play out like a fairy tale. All happiness and glitter and and rainbows and shit. But it didn't. And I couldn't see that this was simply reality. Not some secret plot to destroy me. Accept it they say. It will get better they say. But it didn't. Get better. and I didn't. accept it.

And then YOU came along. And I tried to let go of all the sorrow I held for soooo long. The deeper than melancholy ache that robbed Mother's Day of any form of joy or gratitude for what I had. But it still held fast. Don't get me wrong. EVER. Your entry into my world was joy. The purest of joy. Okay, what do I know about purity or pure love or pure motivation. But joy. You brought joy. You beautiful little bundle. Joy.

But the emptiness of a Hallmark Holiday stayed. And every year I grieve. For a fairytale that didn't ever appear, for my own selfishness and that I couldn't somehow just love the children in my life without the intense jealousy of their parents. Their parents! Who in the hell does that?! Lives with a jealousy for a child's mother? or father? I could simply offer my children my love and accept them and cheer them on and help them design gifts for their Mom, and that should reward me. Because that is real love. I was able to put through for the most part, but to actually just be blessed in helping them? I chose grief over gratitude.

Today I live with more gratitude than I ever have before. But the stench of a holiday that is celebrated in such a fake way, such a middle-class, keep-up-with-the-joneses kind of way, that stink is still in my nose. It is still there. Rotting away in my nostrils, and stinking out the sweet, fragrant smell of appreciation and love for all I DO have.

And a little bit of redneck showing here.... When I think of mother's day, I think of two things:

My friend Gene saying "Happy mother's day to all the Moms, and to the rest of you mothers, have a happy day."

And that red neck song about "...up against the wall you redneck mothers..."

I will leave you with those thoughts. Once again, like impending doom, Mother's day is on the horizon. I can chose gratitude or grief.

Poverty? Generosity? Are they so terribly different?

Today I have been dwelling on my Dad's American dream. and just on my Dad. The man that I miss immeasurably. My dad was a generous man. Money sort of just sifted through his fingers, whether he was helping others or financing something he thought he "needed." Or a biggie of late, something he felt would help him on the farm. But money management was never his strong suit. If he had it, he spent it. If he didn't have it, he would find a way to get it, so he also spent it. Well, this is a habit that is deeply ingrained in me. Sometimes the one I am being generous to is myself. Right out of my bill paying income. Ugh. This is a curse. But it was a gift from a man who I found to be extremely gifted and generous. And I do not think his generous spirit was or is in any way, shape or form, a curse. It was a gift. But sometimes it cost him more than financially savvy people would have spent (emotionally, physically or fiscally). So my head really knows that I would be better off if I could learn a more responsible management of money. But money, in my book, is a means. And therefore has no value in and of itself. So it doesn't stay. Ever. It just sifts through my fingers like sand. But what I never knew until about five years ago, when I started really listening to my friend and pOVERty expert, Rebecca Lewis-Pankratz, is that this is a fairly common trait among those of us in poverty. Because we live with a poverty mindset. "Spend it before it's gone." Or... "we will be without again soon enough, enjoy it while it lasts." So you can see how this works against the very idea of getting out of poverty. Because when you spend it before it is gone, it is gone sooner than if you would have waited. And then the cycle of living without is perpetuated. But let me say this, myself, and people like me, we stimulated the economy with out stimulus checks. People in poverty know how to spend money! We ain't puttin' that away for if we need it! We need it! And we need it now. So in recapping: people like myself, who have lived any length of time below certain income levels (or who have been raised with this certain train of thought about money), we are the spenders, the givers, the crazy-generous people. We give gifts, we buy dinners, we have too many pets and we have toys that our kids don't play with (like the trampoline in my backyard). We are also the behinders. Behind on the gas bill, behind on the rent, behind on payment plans, behind our more progressive neighbors who have nicer lawns, more curb appeal, more middle-class-looking homesteads. And we are, at some point, the desperate. Desperate for a loan, a few bucks, for help getting out of the muck of our financial destitution. And truly: need breeds scarcity. Which perpetuates the ole cycle. Because now that I am in desperate times, I can feel the pressure building as I don't have the cash-flow or the freedom to be generous, to spend lavishly, to reward myself for being a relatively good human. And *BOOM*! Money comes in and I explode all my best laid plans in order to fill the need to give, to get, to spend. And just like that. It's gone again. And begins the cycle again.

So what I want you to know is this....

We (I) can change this. But it is not a simple choice. It IS a choice. But there is nothing simple or easy about it. It isn't likely that one day I'll wake up and say, "today is the day I am financially responsible" and it magically happens. One way I know how difficult this is, is because I say this to myself about once a month and I get really serious about it at least twice a year. So far, it's a no-go. I know that in order to change my chemical dependency and SO (significant other) dependency, I had to get really, really, REALLY miserable. I think this is the same. But so far, I can only be "good" and refrain from my spending habits for about so long and then I just say "chuck it" (and if you believe that is my phrasing, you should probably read yesterday's post which held a different level of transparency and honesty and will bring you up to speed) and I reward myself for being so good for so long. All my hard work is just chucked.

Why tell you all this? Well, because it is part of my story for one. And it is part of something bigger, some part of the whole class/hidden-rules/poverty/trauma cycle. I will connect more dots tomorrow. Today just know, that I appreciate you all for your love and generosity, and I will happily give you gifts of money or time or both or either.  When I have those commodities, they are for sharing. Can I get an Amen?

The spur of a Smalltown as a Hometown

I have been thinking on the paths my life has taken. And the struggle to get to where I am today. And how it just continues to be a struggle. Always on the struggle bus. I am aware that it is mostly up to me to change this. I also know there are some deeper social dynamics at work beneath the surface. Sometimes I wonder how I ever became so impassioned about poverty for one and racism for two. I mean, I'm white. I came from a home where my family lived the American dream. My Dad was the primary bread winner. We owned our home. We generally had money for extras. Except for the one year that we didn't. Have money. For extras or basics. That was a tough year. But my Dad had a good reputation as a hard worker and he could almost always secure a loan, draw money from his business, or find some way to generate cash flow so we could live the life, the American Dream.

So seriously....

I believe that one reason is that I'm an Empath. And I use that term loosely because I am not exactly sure what that means. But I am a person who feels things very deeply. Everything is personal. Things that many, that elusive group of folks I call "normal people (or Normies)," do not take personal. And I ache deep in my soul for people that society casts a less than favorable light on. I walk their path. It feels like their pain happened to me. Which is overwhelming. To me. To others. It makes me odd. (And I'm okay and secure today with my Odd-ness). It makes me it hard to develop and maintain friendships. Because I might be smothering while I'm living and feeling and experiencing your life with/for you. Your pain is my pain, your loss is my loss, and I feel it to my core, in my bones. But your success is always (cautiously) my success. An added bonus is that you now have a cheerleader for life. And there's pretty much nothing you can do to stop me from caring about you, cheering for you, praying for you. forever. Good or bad. Normal or creepy. And it is a bit on the creepy side of things. I'm kinda like your shadow now.

Okay. I wrote so poignantly above about how we were basically living the American Dream when I was a kid. But we were also people on the fringe. We lived in a small town and you can never really outrun your past in a small town. Not only that, but your family's past. You may be on the up and up, but if your father's father's great-grandfather did something to upset the members of your church (affiliating with a church was not a bonus when I was growing up.... you could belong to a church as a member, by past affiliation, or you could be viewed as heathens/evil/lost souls); it was part of your identity. So if you were, perhaps, one of those damn Sudermans, you were locked in to that. Yes, my last name was once Suderman, like Superman, only not as super. So you can accept this, or fight it. I was a fighter. I still am. And the truth is, not everything in life is meant to be a fight. But it has also served me well.

I didn't know I was one of "those" Sudermans as a young kid. But I did as I got older. My 7th grade math teacher would tell tales about my dad in class, as did my Algebra teacher, and my shop teacher. With the shop teacher being the biggest one. He let me know that he had his eye on me because he had been my dad's teacher and he had experienced my dad's ornery side, the adventuresome side. And my Dad may or may not have caused a welding table (which was made of steel pipe and very heavy) to jump and flip upside down. I happen to think it's a funny story now. Okay, I have always thought it was funny. I identified with my Dad's orneriness. Still do. But there was also an air of judgment to the story that I would never have the ability to overcome.

I was supposedly accepted by the "good kids;" the church kids, the members of the same church that I grew up in. But I and my bestie, we connected at a young age, we were the entertainment of the group. And I remember how they would laugh at us. I remember being singled out and asked to participate, just so they would have someone to scapegoat, blame, laugh at. Yeah, I was one of those damn Sudermans. It hurt my heart. It still does. When I think of how we were treated as kids, I just want to burn down the whole damn town. And there's a whole lot of "Fuck 'em" in my life today. I find it sad and oddly satisfying that I spend a vast about of time giving the finger to my hometown. Haha, I succeeded. Haha, I have obtained a fucking Masters degree. Haha.... and so it goes. A lot of my accomplishments are done one handed so my other hand can fly the bird.

I have rambled on long enough for this day. But there is more. SO much more. This conversation/monologue is not over. I have scratched the surface of who I am today. A flag flyer. A rebel. An F-you'er. An empath. A feeler. Everything I do is controlled by how it feels. So I will dive in more. However, my soul can only dive so deep and I cannot stay submerged for too long. I will die down there.

Spring Ballad

Listening this morning
as the rain hits the grass;
as the birds twitter and chat
back and forth to each other.

I listen to the sound of the squirrels
scolding
mankind and fowl and beast.

The orchestra of the birds
with the catcall of the Whippoorwill,
the melodic song of the Robin,
and the bright and beautiful song of the cardinal.
What a magical tune,
wafting through the morning air.

The smell of the rain
and wet grass.

The grey, overcast sky.
Singing it's tune of melancholy,
but yet
there is renewal, rebirth, resurgence
in its soggy song.

Today I listen
to the choir of the season
and the orchestra of its occupants.

Experiencing the open-window morning.
The cool breeze.
The songs of the birds
and the counter-chatter of the squirrels.
Damp.
Soft.
Spring.

Chaos in Childhood does not make for organization in adulthood

Living in chaos. I grow up in chaos. And escapism. And a vicious cycle ensued. I learned early that Dad was easy and Mom was.... well, a boyscout troop leader, I had better be prepared. For anything at any time. So let me say this before I proceed... today I know that it is up to me to move through this and beyond. Today I know that my Mom was/is not evil. Today I remember a lot of truly wonderful things about my childhood that only my Mom could have given me. So read this for what it is, and try not to read too much between the lines.

Today I know about how trauma affects the brain. And how deep those veins run. And I know that I only lived what I knew for a long, long time. I vacillate between regret that I distanced myself from my family and regret that I didn't do that sooner. I missed out. On some things that I never wanted to miss out on. Time with my Dad for instance.

But I also know today that I needed some space to learn to find models that I wanted to be like. I had to then submerge myself in their lives. Because I could say I wanted something different, but I didn't know how to achieve it. Today I know that the world judges me by my actions, not my words.

But I digress....

Childhood. Chaos. Organization. Me. None.

I. do. not. have. the. organization. gene.

What I do have though is a lot of survival skills. Bullshitery 101. Always be quick on your feet. With a reply, with a word, a smile, a monologue. Whatever it takes. To act like an intelligent, integral part of society. Even though I may feel like a fraud on the inside. Feeling like I will never actually know what it is that I'm supposed to know. This is generally not true. Because not only am I adept at adaptation to my surroundings, I am genuinely pretty smart. But most of the time, I don't know it. As I type it, I know it on some sort of intellectual level, but it is still missing on a deeply embedded heart level.

Another thing that I have going for me is ADD. I know you can't tell, since my writing is neatly categorized and organized into paragraphs that make sense. Okay, I also live with a fair amount of denial.

There are some interesting facts about the science of childhood trauma and how the brain develops. A brain raised on cortisol is not the same as a brain raised with "normal" levels of the stress hormone. I would love to know how much ADD/ADHD originates from trauma at an early age.

See that. Bunny trails. Who would have ever known?

Oh, and I also have sarcasm on my side. That was probably buried pretty deep as well, hidden from you, the dear reader.

What I know today is that I am going to try to clean in here. And it scares me and terrifies me and overwhelms me.  All at once. Everything all at once. *heavy sigh* I already know that I am going to get stuck, that I am currently procrastinating my little heart out, and that I will be exhausted very soon. Oh gosh, yes. I am exhausted just thinking about it.

So I was planning to write about how chaos in childhood affected my ability to parent, but this took a completely different turn. As writing often does. In my world, it is a beast of it's own and I can harness it's power, but I cannot tame it or control it. Today I know I am unorganized, unable to just decide it and then magically become organized, and that there is hope to methodically and slowly plod toward a future that is less chaotic, more organized.

So this is what I will trudge toward today.

Rant number 1023: Is it really all about free choice?

Going off on a crazy rant. I realized yesterday how stir crazy things are getting here. And I got off on a huge rant with my friend. It was a little bit like this....

Him: I believe that choice should come before conception. I mean, everyone can choose. Choose birth control of some kind, not abortion.

Me: Not everyone can choose. Not everyone lives in rural Kansas, and maybe even people who do, don't get to resources all the time that provide birth control. What about this?

And here is where I went on a longish tirade.

What about 10, 11, 12 year old girls living in the projects who have someone coming into their rooms at night? And their family can't afford to live without said person? Do you really think they are going to the school counselor to ask for birth control? Do you really think they are going to stop the man who is getting ready to take advantage of the them and say, "hey, I got these condoms from school, let's use birth control tonight."? Now, I use the idea of poverty and government-financed  housing projects as a stereotypical situation. Because guess what? These kinds of situations happen in good ole rural Kansas also. Sometimes it really is not the situation that the woman, the mom, the one who is supposed to protect the children, just chooses a man over her kids. Sometimes, most times, there is so much there. I am not advocating for this kind of situation. I am saying these women need us to love them. And their girls (and boys for that matter), they need us to know that they don't necessarily (not always) want to be separated from the only family they know. That when they are "rescued" to foster care and ripped apart from their siblings and "parents" that they are traumatized. That being one step away from being out of a place to live, out of any resources for food, out of transportation, is very real for some. That sometimes Moms do things that break their hearts as they do it. That not everything is a "choice" as we portray it in or hands-off, no sense of community, live-next-to-our-neighbor-for-years-and-never-even-learn-their-names society.

I have gone from a far-right, mouthy, opinionated point of view about life in general, including abortion, poverty, police brutality, and much more; to a sliding further and further to the left side of a "political" view of things. My stance isn't really so much of "let everyone do all the things" as it is, "there are few, if any, situations presented to us in life that are as simple as what presents on the surface." And my constant question is: What lies beneath this?

Is abortion a poverty issue? Not solely. But is our broken societal system perpetuating a problem bigger than a woman's right to choose? Definitely. Do I think this is a smallish, Popsicle-sized little sliver of ice beneath the surface? No. I think this buried iceberg could sink any ship. There is so much going on below the surface. A broken economic system. A broken justice system. Systemic racism. Broken church systems. Ignorance in society. A widening gap in classes. A caste system. These are a few portions of the foundation of this particular iceberg. And I don't see a basic change happening here any time soon. Because it will take more than a village, it will take a nation, looking for change, voting for change, marching for change, getting on our knees for change, putting in the blood, sweat and tears for change. It will require a paradigm shift.

So I am only one person. Where will this change come from? I believe it will come from one person at a time, opening their mind, reserving judgment, and finding out what lies beneath the surface of the issues that we have always seen as black and white (as in black, white, and grey areas; not referring to race issues right here). But as a fairly privileged white person, I do know that many things have a racial element to them. Oh, that sounds so clean, nice, white. I know that racism, prejudice, and ignorance, drive the actions of many people in power and many opinions of the commoner. There, is that more to the point? I hope you get where I am coming from.

Rant is not over. But this *little* rant, exhausted me. There will be more to come. I don't know when, but it would come bubbling out again soon. I do know this.

Princess or Villain. Either one is the victim.

Once upon a time in Neverland, there lived a girl who was both a princess and a villain. Her name was Carina.

While her parent bestowed love and lavish praise on her in some instances, there were many, many rules. Hidden rules. Rules that the princess didn't know she had broken until she was villainized by the parent. This was confusing. The princess became more adaptable. She learned to be at the ready, to interpret the signs, to smell the winds of change. The little princess began to know how to maneuver the hidden rules and to survive. She adapted. But not without a cost. You see, the adaptation was to be ready for anything. Which leads to living life in survival and being ruled by the fight, flight, freeze part of the brain. This also signals the body to make more cortisol. The longer you live in this part of the brain, the more your body just keeps producing cortisol. Stress hormone. And for one thing, this is exhausting. For another thing, it impairs the ability to think through things rationally. It is amazing though, how well a person can adapt and play the part of a sound thinking human while in survival. Kids who live in fear of abuse do it all the time. Teachers see it everyday. Little Carina, princess in training, was living in fear and chaos. And did I mention fear? Sometimes this presents in making decisions that leave not only the person making the decision scratching their head, but also the people around them. And those beloved adults are wondering and saying to the child, "What happened?!" "What were you thinking?!" Well, they weren't. Thinking. Their brain just did something crazy without their permission and they are going to need help navigating back to a better place. A safer place. But this is where they are often misunderstood and left to their own coping skills (or the lack thereof). And so it was for Princess Carina.

She is left in her kingdom with a lot of power. Power = responsibility. Responsibility to entertain herself, to stretch her knowledge, to learn new things.  She has a responsibility to amaze the queen. And she can mostly manage to pull this off, even though she lives her life at the ready. Ready for anything.

But villainous Carina is always there. Always lurking. Ready to just say "chuck it" and do something crazy. There are those times that, if the punishment is coming, she makes sure that a crime has been committed.

The moral of this tale is this: Controlling violence is powerful for the victim (I mean villain), and provoking violence is better than waiting in fear of not knowing when the wind will change.

A letter to a defiant teen

Dearest Child,

For you...I am grateful; I am proud; I am in awe.

But I am also grief stricken. It breaks my heart to fight with you. It baffles me to think of where it all could have possibly gone wrong. So terribly, terribly wrong. Where I stopped putting my foot down and being your parent. And what makes you think that if I don't speak or make a plan that lives up to your pie-in-the-sky standards, that I am not the adult in the house? My precious child, this is not the truth. All it means is that you don't like how I parent. It means you are not getting what you want, the way that you want it. Refusing to engage in drama is not me being dramatic as you have suggested. It is me declining your invitation to the chaos. It is me, trying really hard to not parent like I have and let you get away with anything and everything, and trying not to go back to some deeply ingrained violent tendencies. So I am lost. What I've been doing isn't working, what I haven't been doing is not working and what I was so good at for so long certainly isn't a valid option. So I am at a profound loss. Which is not weakness. So please stop pouncing on me as if it is. I am not displaying weakness. I am pausing because I don't know what to do, and praying for a solution to present itself. What you consider to be an eternity is merely a minute dear child. In the grand scheme of life, it is a flicker, a moment. Perhaps you cannot simply "be patient." But you also do not have the power to speed up time or get results in making demands of the gods. So we are stuck here. I do not know what the next chapter will look like, but it will hopefully not be the same chapter we have read so many times already.

But the expectation is that we will discuss and negotiate (?) when I set the time. Not in your time. Not during your meal time, or mine. I deserve to eat my meal when it is hot and fresh, the same as you do.

While you are free to judge me, my decisions, what you perceive my feelings to be, what you feel my shortcomings are. You are not free to bestow those judgments upon me. You do not have the right to share these and to stand in judgment, and attempt to take over the position of leader. You are not the leader here, whether or not you think my leadership is shit or shinola. Either one. I am still the captain, the queen, the PARENT. And my parenting decisions are subject to the state of Kansas and the laws and statutes therein, and also subject to the laws of God. I am still responsible to God for how I raise you and teach you and love you. And the truth is, it is heavy responsibility. It shouldn't be taken lightly. Not now. Not ever.

Child of mine, I love you. So much more than you can possibly perceive. But we are at a dangerous crossroads. A place where we have to decide our future. And for me, that is daunting. Frightening even. Because every time I cave to your demands, your wishes, I am taking so many steps back in this dance and encouraging the current conditions of entanglement and chaos. So the pause is a decision. A decision to value myself. To wait. To listen to the powers that are greater than me to find a new way of acting and responding. To stop reacting in my vulnerability.

So make no mistake. Do not take my silence for weakness. The pause for insecurity. I am sure that I want change. I am sure it is worth pausing for. I am sure I am competent.

love,
your MOTHER

New Normal. New Life?

The weather has been balmy, beautiful, Spring-like. Therefore, I have been tiedying to my hearts content. But today, the cold front has come in like the force of nature that it is. I have been contemplating just what might be next for me in life. How am I going to tap into my artsy side in a way that makes me a living wage? What am I going to do? Will I teach again? Will I launch a craft business? Will I tiedye? Go back to school.... again? Finish my Master of Education in Building Leadership? Add a Preschool endorsement to my degree? What do I want to do? What calling will I follow? What will I pursue? So many things to consider....

What will I chase besides my tail? Hmmm?

Today is Easter Sunday. Resurrection Sunday. The first day of a brighter future. How will I make this personal to me today?

Is it Magic? Is it Badassery?

Badassery 101: "Growth ain't for weenies, but it's nowhere near as painful as living the life you're living right now if you're not really going for it. If you want to take control of your life and turn it into something spectacularly "you"... stop at nothing. Have faith. Trust that your new life is already here and is far better than the old....Whatever happens, stay the course, because there's nothing cooler than watching your entire reality shift into one that is the perfect expression of you." -You are a Badass daily calendar 2020.

Today's reading, while good, was not awe-inspiring. It pairs nicely with this one though. Today's reading says "Our thoughts are the most powerful tools we've got."

So if I am wallowing in my depression, I am not thrilled to think that my thoughts are a tool or that they are powerful and especially not "the most powerful." But if I first read the previous quote (it is from April 1st, by the way), not only do I want to REALLY go for it, but I also know my thoughts are my most powerful tool in the toolbox. This is kind of like the current thought of changing your perspective from "stuck at home" to "safe at home." Change one little word and everything is different. Well, in the case of the badass quotes, it's not one little word, but more of a stand alone theory. When I read "our thoughts are the most powerful tools we've got" by itself, it is completely subjective to my current state of mind as to how encouraging or motivational it really is. But if I first find something (in this case a previous reading that struck a deep chord) inspiring and motivating, then these words give courage and are a respected measuring stick. It's not that they don't ring true when I am not positive, motivated, and going for it, they are still very true. But it's about just how true and powerful my thoughts are when I am already held captive by them.  It is this knowledge that terrifies and paralyzes. I hate mental paralysis. I live with a lot of it though. A LOT.

So when my thoughts are held captive by depression or despair, it is an important step to first acknowledge it, But then I need to search for the gentle encouragement that will unlock my mind and my soul. And persist. Much badassery happens for those who do not give up.

This is where the magic happens.

This Damn Virus

So yesterday I wore a bandanna to the store. Can you say.... "awkward"? Weird. Uncomfortable. Did I say awkward? Even embarrassing. And when I went to the pharmacy, the person at the register wouldn't even make eye contact. More awkwardness. And neither would other shoppers. Except the ones that laughed. Even people I know. *sigh* I like to think I beat to my own drum and do what I think is right and good and appropriate. But it was overwhelming.

Here's the deal people. The mask really isn't about me. It's about a lot of allergy drainage, a slight cough, sneezes. I've had this going on for a week now. Probably no biggie. I mean, it is Kansas, and I get allergy/pollen alerts all the freakin' time. But what about how my daughter also has these allergy symptoms. And how her intimate circle (her socially isolated circle) included some friends who have one who is extremely vulnerable and would not have what it takes to beat the Coronavirus. Or, as I have taken to saying-- "This Damn Virus." What about when the sore throat and cough started and we tell our friends about it and we were all fear stricken. What about my 78 year old mother who says she's not scared of this virus because she is "pretty tough." Yes, I know, you are a tough old bird Mom. But we just planted my dad in the ground. We lost him less than a month ago. And he really WAS the toughest person I have ever come in contact with. My Dad fought his way back to the world of the living from more different tragedies than anyone I have ever heard of. And he did not get this damn virus, he died from another poison in his brain. But to think that I could have possibly contracted and passed along THIS damn virus to my mother, who is grieving, and therefore doesn't have as resilient of an immune system as she would otherwise, and we could lose her. Well, that is downright scary. And sickening. It is heavy. HEAVY. Because just selfishly speaking, my sister and I cannot face another loss right now.

But this morning I went to retrieve the items that we failed to pick up yesterday. And I went to the store knowing that I am a possible threat to others and that I should cover my mouth and nose. But I didn't. I just wanted to duck in and duck out. Under the radar. And no one snickering.

I found myself extremely irritated with those who didn't bother with the 6' guideline. Like the vendor with the tea and such for the coolers by the self-checkout. She stood there, chatting with the self-checkout person and blocking the entrance. She says, "Oh, you can go around me, they are all open." I held my tongue. But why. Why did I do that? What didn't I ask her to give me 6 feet?

I want to tell you now brave and noble I am. But I am driven by other people and the need to be accepted. Even though I am still beating to my own drum. *sigh*

P.S. I hate. I hate. I HATE this DAMN VIRUS! I hate it. Almost as much as I hate that damn Nocardia bacteria that murdered my Dad.

It only takes a spark

This morning I am thinking about ALL the things. I woke up NOT encouraged and no glimmers of hope pulsing through my veins as it was yesterday. But I also have "Here Comes the Sun" going through my head. This overcast sky is killing my vibe. Ugh. But I have believed since this began that this tragedy/stand-still was an opportunity for me. A glorious opportunity. To write, to read, to craft, to discover, to clean, to sell, to move, to gain (and I am gaining, but just pounds, I am not gaining on the demons who lurk in the shadows). So there. In all of this lies a flicker. A tiny glimmer of the hope. Hope that today I will push onward. I will not give in the compulsion to sit in the chair and just watch life pass me by. I will be a participant. A reluctantly willing participant. I feel a kindling now. That spark seems to have lit something. A glowing swell of hope, anticipation and optimism.

Oh, THERE you are Mr. Sunshine

Today the gray and shapeless drab that is this March weather-- even though April has begun-- is beating me down. Today I woke and thought, today is the day that I beat the funk back into submission. But it has not happened yet. You see, I have this allergy drainage in my throat and the fear of COVID in my heart. Please don't comment or message me about how if I have faith I don't need to fear. I don't say this because I don't believe it, but because sometimes believing something in theory doesn't help the issue in real time. How do I live without fear? Without feeling panic stricken? I do know someone my age who didn't make it through this COVID-19 thing. But I also am not in a high risk age group and I don't have an allergy diagnosis, so I should probably be able to slog my way through it. That isn't even what strikes fear in my heart. Even though, lets be honest, I am a big chicken and I hate being sick, I whine and carry on, and don't forget, I also moan and I groan. What strikes actual bone-chilling, reason-killing, panic-inducing fear is my kid who is vulnerable to every freaking respiratory illness that comes down the pike. And she has that cough too. THAT. That is what makes my blood run cold. And I don't want to fear. But I'm also not okay. Which makes it harder to focus on the good, the great, the beautiful. Because those things are still there. In spite of my current sense of being out of control. There is still a lot of good in the world. I find it interesting that I feel compelled to focus on this. I wanted to just pound out a ton of sadness and grief and purge my soul. But my heart and my head are determined to say, "yes, you are going through the shit at this moment, but did you notice...." This is a piece of my Dad. I never really noticed this before... that we each had this quality. But he focused on the things that made him happiest. And it was people. Family. Blood-related family, step-family, heart family, heavenly family, spiritual family. The list was long. So I have to give a pause and think, what are the things that make me happy.

These are the things that make me happy:

• Piddling around on projects: art projects, crafty stuff, drawing and painting.
• Tie-dye
• Writing
• Family
• immediate family
• "step" family (not really, there are no steps to our family, if you're in, you're in)
• "adopted" family (maybe not in the legal sense)
• family of friends
• fellowship friends
• extended family/family of origin 
• Pets
• guinea pigs
• puppy dogs (yes, they are forever puppies, just like my children are my babies)
• chicks 
• Coffee and dessert

Whacked out Wednesday

Today is Wednesday. Today does not feel like the first day of the rest of my life. Although the optimism that usually wakes in me in the mornings would say that. But morning is almost over and I'm ready to declare an extended Spring Break and a day of "rest." I think that is called "letting the depression win." Ugh.

So why is today so whacked? Well, let's start with how I had a cough last night. And it hasn't shone its ugly face since I got up, but it shook me up as well as it made my chest hurt. I'd like to say I'm not living in fear, but...

Today we ventured out. We bought some baby chicks. I wonder if it was the dumbest thing I have ever done. But surely not. I have wanted chickens for a long time now. So today we are committed to raising chickens. Because it is bad form to just bring the sweet little chickies home and ditch them in a week or two, or a month. So now we're farmers. Or are we ranchers? I dunno. But we have plenty of livestock. lol. Dogs, and guinea pigs and chickens. So here's the brood.

All 4 of them.

Goldie, Stripes (aka Duck), and Fluffer Nutter.

                             

  

This little layer is Goldie Hawn.

      

This chickie is That's So Raven

This is Stripes (also currently known as Duck)

    So today I put a frame on my facebook profile picture that says, "Staying home saves lives."And I feel bad about posting it. Because I still go to the store. And I go to places. I venture out to get things. Like chicks. So am I really staying home then? And I am so, so grateful for essential workers. I am super grateful for people who run the grocery store, run the curbside pick up, the pharmacy, the drive-thru at the fast food places. Thank you. Thank you for keeping me somewhat sane. Retail, grocery, Medical. Thanks for keeping me alive. You rock. So my profile frame, it's for idiots like me who go out in this pandemic and who expose themselves to you, the essential workers. So I know it is important to stay home, and I know that not everyone has the option. But for people who could stay home, please just stay home. If those of us who can stay home, do stay home, fewer of our essential workers get hit with this. And so that we don't pass it to anyone else. Or everyone else. We can be transmittable for 7-10 days before we show symptoms. The fewer times we venture out, the better. Essential or non-essential.

Terrific Tuesday?

I'm trying to find some inspiration, encouragement, motivation. Because the first day of new normal sucked. I mean, I did achieve some things, Hallelujah. But one of the things I am working toward is keeping the kitchen up and running. To do this, I cannot have sinks piled with dishes. Which leads to a frustration with my resolve to do more cooking/baking. Um, yeah. I made muffins (from scratch, not a mix) yesterday and we had a home-cooked meal from our meal delivery service. There are dishes everywhere. And I have been working hard to try and keep up. *sigh* Today I feel like yesterday was a lot of running on my hamster wheel. Running, with intent, until I'm tired, to get off the wheel and find that I am still exactly where I started. Actually, no. Because I lost ground yesterday. I can't quite figure out a fitting comparison. (Which is weird, because I live my life in a world of movie clips, song clips, and analogies). Anyway, yesterday was a huge disappointment and today's challenge (should I choose to accept it), will be to be the example my kid needs and to try, try again, and never give up. Because if yesterday was any sort of example of what life is going to be like when I work from home, I quit. Wait, no. I can't. Ugh.

I am loving the daily writing.

Today's thoughts about hope and the good in life... I love the beautiful plants that I brought home that were gifts from significant people in Dad's life. Today's goal includes finding a place for them that is NOT the kitchen table. I am inspired by the birds that sing and provide daily hope and inspiration. I love open-window season. I will focus on the things I can change today. And let go of the rest.

Slippery Slopes and the edge of hell

Today, the first day, of the rest of my life. Or at least the new normal. What does that even mean?! Well, I guess for one thing, I means.... work. Except I don't have any. Work. To speak of. But the past two weeks of "Spring Break" are over and at the very least, Punky has school. But we all know languishing in a limbo state is not productive. And I have a million dreams to accomplish before summer's end. So here I go. I sit here with my coffee and my sleepiness and my computer. And I dream of the things I could accomplish today. The endless possibilities. But dreams don't pay bills and sitting here scheming won't push me past the finish line. Hell, it won't even force me past the starting line. So I am up, my brain still full of cobwebs and a misty sort of fog. And I am preparing to prepare. This is where I get lost in a hellish sort of detail-oriented organization. This is my morning mental exercise, writing. After this, I'll make a list, which will, in turn, mentally and emotionally drain me. I'll probably be too overwhelmed to find a starting point. Often this is the end of the journey. But I need to press on. For me. For my Punky. For my other daughters. For my students, who are not my students anymore. But a part of my life.

My life changed 3 weeks ago. The day my dad moved on and went from one life to the next. The day that my heartache became a part of every heartbeat. The day the sun stopped shining. For a full 10 days. Until the day of his funeral when the clouds broke and the sun shone through and God's promise showed up in the form of a rainbow.

I know they say that it will get better. And there are those times when I am quite functional. I would almost say, fully functional. But I've been sliding down a slippery slope for a while now. For much longer than my Dad has dominated my life, my thoughts, my every move. For over two years. I have been sliding down the there's-not-enough-of-me-to-do-all-the-things slope. And when you are on this slope, not only is this a very real realization, but you are helpless to conquer the beasts of every day life. And I didn't really go down in a glorious fashion, a landslide or an avalanche. I just kept sliding. Further and further from the ability to juggle everyday life. So my life has been on a slippery slope for much longer than 3 weeks. And if I am going to find some sort of new normal, some sane way to overcome where I am at, I am going to have to keep going. Pushing forward with my grief-stricken soul and my sadness and my inadequacy and find a new balance and some way to feel at ease in this new life. I have to be me. The new me. The sad me. The authentic me. And I have to be a parent and an artist. I have to. For me. For my kids. For the sake of life and it's need to keep going.

Possibilities vs. Obstacles

I feel the inkling of hope in my bones. I am coming around to where I was at some earlier point in this FMLA/loss-of-my-daddy/funeral/Coronavirus/no-more-teaching kind of life. Because what if...

What if....

• Today I started exploring all the artsy things that make up my happy place?
• Today I took advantage of this time at home to develop boundaries?
• During this unprecedented time with no commitment to a job I just healed myself?
• I took time to garden?
• I did the self-care of developing and sticking to a home routine. 
• The Punkin and I started sharing responsibilities and taking up our cross without malice? 
• I just allowed myself to tiedye? 
• I started to cook and bake again? 
• I painted and drew and colored and restored those broken places?
• I trusted in my higher power to lead me 
• I would seek out God and whatever gifts that might bring me

The what if's are never-ending. And I can come up with a long column of "what if's" that are scary and negative and down-trodden if I want to. But what if I just focus on the possibilities today?

Isolation = Restoration

Today I am enjoying joint isolation with a friend. I know, that's not quite the deal, right? I'm aware. I pray neither of us gets sick. But I was floundering. And the Punkin was going stir crazy and we sure were not stirring up the best in each other.  And said friend had already ventured out in these uncertain times to encounter less than isolated circumstances to help lay my dad to rest. Because that is what friends do. They do the next right thing, within reason, whenever it is needed. And she offered her home for a refuge. So refuge I will.

Today I am basking in the sunshine on the cozy space of the back deck at chateau de Mark&Elaine's. And I indulged in too many tacos from a small town taco shop and even splurged and had a fountain soda. And I sit here, listening to the sounds of Spring and enjoying the feel of the sun on my bare feet, and I pound away at these keys. Because we all know writing is cathartic. And sometimes it feels pressured. Damn you writer's block! But mostly writing is simply a gift.

When I write (type) I feel connected. With you my dear reader. And of course with myself. The self I am right now. The self of my scarred youth. The self that I don't know yet. My soul. It's a connection with my inner being. So in a way, it is my hour of prayer. When I connect with my own soul, I connect with God and engage in a spiritual interaction. Cuz I was told that prayer is just a conversation. And my soul communicates with God when I write. But once again, I digress....

And my wise friend asked what I needed from her. Not much. I mean, much. But not much. She's opened her home and taken care of my needs. She has offered to entertain me but I am feeling the need to just be. Just be sad. Just be depressed. Just be low-key. Just be doing my part to fight a pandemic and stay in. So she is doing her thing out here on the deck and I am doing mine. And it's quiet, and unencumbered, and peaceful.

Today I rejoice that we can isolate and rejuvenate. It restores my soul.

        

                                                                                                                                                         
                                                                                                     



    

It's the Little Things

My Dad was a man of his faith. And this was a good thing, it really was. But one thing he believed was that we should not color our skin. He was not a fan of my tattoos. But he came to a place of acceptance. And about three weeks before he left us, he and I were holding hands (as we've done so many times in the last months), and his poor hand was all discolored from blood beneath the skin. And he said, "Look, now we match!" It was a small thing. But today as I share this, it brings me a smile. These so called "small things" are so very cherished today.

Dad's funny stories and his big heart and his fierce determination. He was a fighter. And he was an earth lover. He would say that he loved the One who created this all. And that is also true for me. But I know that when I am in nature, when my bare feet can touch the ground, when my face can be kissed by the sun, that is when I am truly grounded. And I know simply from knowing my Dad and being in his presence, that this would be true for him as well. He was not a barefoot guy. But his heart and soul belonged in the great outdoors.

Some stories are not meant to be shared by me. Because even though they mean so much to me, they aren't actually my story to tell. So in due time, when those who own the stories, are in a place to be willing to share them, then I will share them from where I sit.

So in all of this, my dad showed his true colors, his true love, and how to be the love of a lifetime. He showed how much he needed my Mom, how much he loved her, and he was a perfect example of a loving husband. This was not always so. And this is something that goes both ways. I have never before said that I would like a marriage like the one my parents shared. But now, here, in the end, I can say that. I can say, at the end of my life, I want to be so deeply engrossed in the love of another human being that I become calm at the sound of their voice, that I feel safe when they are near, that I ask for them when they are not with me. Someone that I know so well, that I can accept their differences, their quirky faults, those things that are shortcomings and so unique to the person that it would be easy to grow impatient. I can now say, my Dad was an example of what I do want. Is this a small thing? It is no small thing. It is big really. It is a transformation. I am swelled with pride for him (and mom too) that they have come into their marriage at long last (they were 57 years into it).

So my Dad's love for the outdoors and his avid interest in hunting, was in the end, the thing that killed him. On the opening day of rifle season for deer, December 4, my dad was in a serious 4 wheeler accident. He wrecked the 4 wheeler, on his way to the deer blind, and the 4 wheeler landed on his left side. He lay in the road for a time. It's not actually known how long he lay there. But when the ambulance came, they realized that all his ribs were broken on that left side, as well as his collarbone on the left side and a punctured lung and a brain bleed. The paramedics didn't even believe he would live to the ER, let alone survive his transfer to the trauma unit at the hospital in Wichita. One of the times I visited Dad in the ICU after this wreck, he said to me, "I know Mom thinks I'm going to sell my 4 wheeler, but I don't think so!" This brought some laughter to the situation. This is one of those "little things" that isn't actually a little thing, because it totally describes my Dad.

Today I have so many "little things" that I cling to.

Today's Slice of Life

Today the sun finally came out again. The sun was gone both literally and metaphorically. Overcast, dreary, wet, cold. But after the sky cried tears this morning for the loss of my father, the clouds broke, the sun shone through, and the wind blew the clouds out of the Kansas sky. It was so refreshing. But then the swell of emotion and the roller coaster that is my life started up again. Ping! My girl is not okay. Ping! The dogs need me. Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping! Now the storm of emotion is out of control again. The pounding of stressors on my conscience is loud, constant, over-whelming. I am begging for my turn. My turn to grieve, my turn to cry, my turn to withdraw into myself and just be. Just be sad. Just be tired. Just be. I'm begging, if there's a god in heaven, please grant me some peace and some sort of reprieve. The pain is too much. Too much. Today, the day we stop counting down to Spring, we placed my father in the ground. Laid him to rest. What a horrible thing. It sounds hollow. It sounds shallow. It doesn't give me comfort. I am heartbroken. I am tired. I am wrapped in grief. Today was some kind of passage and opportunity to move on, but it is also just the beginning of a long journey through my grief. I know there is an abundance of new life, new creations, rest of my life adventures waiting out there. But I also know that my life will never be the same.

Murderer

My dad is being killed from the inside. There's a nasty monster growing inside his brain. It's not cancer. That is supposed to be good. Right? But we had to do an invasive surgery to even find out what was the culprit and what possible options might be. Brain surgery is a bitch. It just is. Dad had a brain bleed which essentially took him from us. He deteriorated quickly. But this sneaky, dastardly, underhanded beast kept on growing, taking, stealing more and more of my Dad on top of the damage from the brain bleed. The name of the beast is: Nocardia cyriacigeorgica. A slow-growing bacteria and a slow-responding bacteria. We didn't even have the correct name of the beast until last week. So the abscesses on my Dad's brain continued to feed on him and grow while his brain bleed was not healing. And we are left in utter devastation. To say we feel helpless is such an understatement it's not even funny. We just have to stand by while he cries out for help and no help is available. Hurt and helpless and not able to meet his needs. I am shaking my fist at this unseen evil. This murderer.

Coming to Terms.... other wise known as acceptance

Today is a new kind of normal for me. Today I am still a teacher, I am just not a teacher of my class. My littles now belong to a new teacher. Yes, it's hard to fathom. And my heart is broken. I got what I asked for, but it is a painful wrenching of my soul anyway. I'm heartbroken. Sad. Misplaced. There's a bitter taste in my mouth. And a sour feeling in my stomach.

But I am also free. Tonight I am not writing lesson plans, nor struggling with the guilt of not being prepared for the new week or with not being with my school children.  This evening I am free to be my Dad's companion, champion, caregiver, overseer, and fierce protector. Which makes me so sad and tired just to know that he needs protected. But I've seen it over and over in these days since he's been incarcerated, um..., I mean incapacitated/hospitalized/bed-bound.

So here I sit, protector of the sleeping. Listening to his snores. Choosing to believe he has peace tonight. Choosing to believe that he is not in pain tonight. And not really needing to be in protector mode. And that's okay. Because I have to believe that the times he needs protection are fewer than those when he is well-cared for and has his needs met and dignity respected. I need these times when every little need is met. It buffers my soul for the times he cries in pain, the times he treated like his feelings/pain don't matter, his needs are only wishes. I just love him so. And he has loved me for so long and shaped my world view and given me everything a girl could want from her dad. Well, maybe not everything. He's not perfect. But he has always loved me. That is enough today.

I feel a new day dawning. There is a small shimmer of hope in the rising sun.

Oh. And for the record. I think this just might be the beginning of acceptance. Acceptance that although there are many things I don't like in this current situation, this is the situation. And given what I'm facing, needing time to be present, it is probably a good solution.

The acceptance of my Dad's condition, uncertainty, and lack of immortality (okay, yes, he's mortal), that is still a road that I often veer off of. I come to terms, then I barter with God again, then I start to believe he's going to rally. Then I accept the fact that it is simply unknown. He may rally. He may not. I do not know. Accepting this uncertainty is a moment by moment venture. And there are times I have it covered, and times when I do not. But hope is still rising like the morning sun. There is still a large dose of melancholy interspersed, but the hope is growing.

Emotional mush

I know this will come as a shock but my brain is pure mush lately. Emotional roller coasters are mush-inducing for the brain. The last couple weeks have been crazy. My Dad was sent to the hospital a couple weeks ago. Suspicious scans. He was having trouble seeing, trouble with depth perception, trouble with balance. No bueno. They tested and tested. It's not bacterial. Must be cancer. Maybe it's cancer. Yes. It is definitely some kind of cancer. Wait. We don't really know. Not sure. Let's do more tests. Oh, yes, it is cancer. I am devastated. dev. Uh. stated. distraught. Not put together. Undone. Oh wait. It is definitely not cancer. No idea what it is. So here we sit. His family. On the roller coaster of emotional distress. And dad. Enduring MRIs, spinal tap, and now a brain biopsy. Yes. Today they cut my Dad's skull open so they could look at his brain and snip some of it out to biopsy and test for all sorts of infection. Today I got up thinking that my Dad will probably die before they can figure out what is going on. But now.... We just got updated about thirty minutes ago. And the neurosurgeon said that the abscesses look like infection and that it is most likely treatable. Relief. Elation. Ecstatic. light as a feather. Oh look. optimism. There you are. I missed you. I have been wrapped up in a warm blanket of pity and grief. For over a week already. And it is exhausting. But guess what? What happens when you have a dump of adreneline? You come down. and down. and down. So currently I'm still "flying high" but soon I will be exhausted. Good news is exhausting. Bad news is exhausting. I'm longing for a little bit of boring. Boring is good. I'd take a whole lotta boring about now.