We all tell ourselves stories about our childhood. Whether they are mostly true and a little embellished, or a little true and mostly embellished, our stories tend to reflect a skewed perception that we adopted in our adolescence. I don’t know about people that grew up in a healthy environment, but for me, my perception of my childhood hasn’t changed all that much from when I lived it. Maybe kids with healthy emotional development outgrow their egocentric thinking and it’s only us misfits that can’t look back at the past and chuckle.
One of my stories, one that I tell myself, is that I had no friends in high school. I hated school. I hated how people looked at me. It sounds so cliche, but I really felt like people could see the filth on me. I sat quitely in class, hardly interacting with anyone. I used to imagine that I could shrink into a tiny person like Fred Flintstone and I would jump out of my seat and scurry under the door and run away. I literally did not want people to see me. I tried to fade into the background. It took me 25 years to realize that I didn’t hate them, nor did they hate me, I HATED MYSELF.
I would look around my classroom and wonder, “what would she think if she knew what I did last night? would she think I was gross? disgusting?” I didn’t have to wait for an answer, I already knew that I was icky and disgusting. And I didn’t know that I deserved to be anything else. My abuser had me convinced that he was all I had. Even my parents hated me, he would say. He was sure to remind me often that although no one else liked me, he did. “I don’t know why, but your mom sure hates you” He simply confirmed what I had believed for so long (of course, I now know that wasn’t true, but at the time I thought it was).
So, back to the title of this post. As I said, I always thought that I had no friends. And then Facebook exploded. Before I knew it, all kinds of old high school “aquaintences” came out of the woodwork. I didn’t think much of it. In fact, it brought back some fond memories of what I will call exceptions to the norm. I wouldn’t say that I really had long-lasting friendships with these people, but they were nice to me and I had forgotten that. I mostly chalked it up to nostalgia.
So I left high school after my sophmore year expecting a baby (at 16). Although I continued to live in the same town, I only stayed in touch with one person from high school (at least for about two years). Back then teen parents were not very common. Having a baby alienated me even farther from my peers, which is exactly what my abuser wanted.
Back to the topic of Facebook. So my husband tells me that a childhood friend of mine had sent him a friend request (we all grew up in the same small community). The two of them were friends in high school, long after I had dropped out. He says, “did she send you one? I wouldn’t be surprised if she did any minute”. I shrugged it off, maybe a tad bit jealous that he had friends and I didn’t. I smirked and shook my head, “I seriously doubt it” He didn’t know what to think of that, after all the two of us had been close friends in elementary school. But I had absolutely convinced myself, for 25 years, that NO ONE liked me and that I was probably the center of a lot of school-girl gossip after I dropped out.
You can see where this is going, a few minutes later I received a friend request from the person we were talking about. I was almost embarrased because it surprised me so much. I accepted the request and checked out her profile. She looked great and I was happy for her. I noticed that she had just joined facebook and my husband and I were among her first friends. Later that evening, she sent me an email. I’ll never forget…. she said out of everyone that she was reconnecting with, she was most happy to find me and that her most fond memories of childhood were of the times we spent together.
Needless to say I was very touched AND enlightened. I told myself for so many years that no one liked me, and in fact, people probably thought that I was disgusting. And here this friend was, telling me that she was most happiest to connect with me and to see that I had a happy life. She may never know how that one email changed my life forever. (Then again, I will probably tell her some day).
That day I realized that if I was so wrong about her, that I might be just as wrong about so many others; that the ick wasn’t visible to the naked eye. They didn’t know how dirty I was. In fact, friends like her were out there wondering, hoping, that my life turned out well.
And it did.
To love means loving
the unlovable.
To forgive means
pardoning the
unpardonable.
Faith means believing
the unbelievable.
Hope means hoping
when everything
seems hopeless.
- Gilbert K. Chesterton
I try not to make this blog all about pain and suffering, but then stuff like this lands on my paper and I have no where else to put it…
Until
I had him wrapped around my finger.
When I called, he came running
until
he snapped, and I ran to hide
I would sneak around to be with him,
until
I had to sneak away from him.
He put me on a pedastal,
until
He chained me in shackles
It hurt so bad to go
until
it hurt too bad to stay.
I had him wrapped around my finger
until
I didn’t.
Today is much better. My hubs and I spent a lot of time talking and reminding ourselves (and each other) why we decided to stay together in the first place. I am feeling good about our commitment to stay the course. I never really intended to cover this in my blog. I originally thought I would be writing about the past, but then, shit happens and here I am. I am reminded that we are complex human beings and that we don’t fit nicely into one box. My life is many things, I play many roles and I am not defined by any single one of them alone. If I allowed myself to be defined in singular terms like that, I would have forever been the victim. One of the things I think that set us (women) apart is our ability to be so many different things to so many different people all at the same time. Anyway, I am wandering, so back to the topic at hand.
We’ve been in counseling and although we haven’t abandoned it all together, the person we chose wasn’t a good fit. We”re back to the drawing board there. I’ve also been thinking about joining a church. We’ve talked about it for years and years, but it’s hard starting when everyone else there is already established. It’s like being the new kid in class, everyone wondering about you and you don’t know who is who. Who are the friendly ones, who are the snobby ones, who are the gossipers? I’m talking myself out of it before I’ve even given it a try.
It’s been 2 and 1/2 years. I went away, emotionally and, yes, physically. I will never go there again, but that was one extreme and now I find myself at the opposite end of the spectrum.
Then I felt like I was starting to figure me out, and then things went terribly wrong, so I recoiled. But now i feel so out of touch with myself. I have a history of trying too hard to please my partner to the exclusion of my own needs. He can’t be blamed for that, I do it to myself. I guess I figure if I love him enough he will love me enough.
He said that he DOES love me, he just isn’t IN love with me. I can’t blame him, but I just thought that we would be past this by now. He wasn’t being mean when he said it, that makes it even harder to hear. He doesn’t want to end it, he wants to keep trying and so do I, but he wasn’t very hopeful that he will ever move forward. My own hope is starting to wane. One day I thought things were good and the next, it all came tumbling down again. “I want to be in love with you again, I want to feel the way I felt before but I just don’t know if I can ever open my heart like that again, for anyone.” Is want going to be enough to make it true? Can we “fake it til we make it?”
I thought about what my life would be like without him. How would it be worse? Better? Would I be lonely(er)?
This is my third marriage, I don’t want to divorce again. We’ve been together for 10 years. We’ve raised our kids together (we have none together). Our grandkids are OUR grandkids, that is, as long as we are together. If we part, what’s mine is mine and what’s his is his.
I didn’t do it because I stopped loving him. I didn’t do it to hurt him or to spite him or just for fun. I did it because I was desperate. I gave up on him. By the time I realized the mistake I was making, I had already crossed the line. From that moment on, I have never looked back, never regretted staying with my husband. If I could turn back the hands of time I would never do it over. But none of that matters, what’s done is done.
My best friend is not a friend at all, it’s a bottle that I turn to for comfort. My sister used to be my best friend, all my life in fact. How does a person replace someone that’s been there for 40 years? She didn’t die, she just isn’t that person to me anymore. She is my sister. I don’t hate her, I’m not angry at her. She just isn’t that person anymore.
She sent me an email a few weeks ago, simply, “I wish you could be here today.” She didn’t need to say any more than that. Last month was my birthday and two months before it was hers. It was probably the hardest day I spent without her ever.
I tried to tell her that things would never be the same again. Birthdays, holidays, celebrations, they will never be the same. We used to tie the family together, we were the glue and now it feels like everyone is spinning out of control without us there to reign everyone in. But now, there is no order, no heirarchy, no influence. With the two of us divided, there is no force within the family that speaks loud enough to be heard.
I know very well what we used to be. We were the sisters that could finish each other’s sentences. We were the Pictionary parters that could read each other’s minds. We were the friends that would drop everything to offer a shoulder to cry on. She was the one that loved and accepted me, ALL of me, the good and the not-so-good. The one that understood my need for control, my fears and insecurities. She let me be the boss, or at least let me think that I was.
But I don’t know who we are anymore. I can’t construct an image of what our relationship is, I only know what it isn’t. And that leaves a huge whole in the image that used to be my family.
The colors of my life paint a very powerful picture, full of vibrant colors, pastel hues and muted greys. From scene to scene there is a marked contrast in my reality; an up here, a down there. When I color it I see joy, beauty. I paint over the pain. Like an onion, peeling back the layers reveals my essence. A timeline of sorts.
The timeline of my life is not a straight line. It is not represented by a beginning and an end. It is a multi-dimensional sphere of connections, many of which are unknown to me. If I were never born, those connections wouldn’t exist. My Bedford Falls would become Pottersville, Joe the Pharmacist would kill the kid and my little brother would drown in the ice skating pond.
I’ve touched people in this way, I’m sure of it, but I don’t have a Clarence and I don’t get to see for myself the lives that I’ve changed. All I can do is believe that I’ve made a difference to someone.
I really want to keep up my writing, but sometimes I am just not sure what to write about. I have an ocean worth of stories to tell, yet, I sit at the computer and nothing comes to mind.
Tomorrow is my grandson Aiden’s birthday. He is 5 years old. Yep, I’m a grandma! Actually, I’m a Nana. Aiden came along when I was only 37 years old! Of course, I had my daughter when I was only 16, so I expected to be a young grandma. She was almost 21 when he was born and while some people may think that is too young, I was just thankful that she wasn’t 16. Aiden has a new baby brother, just one month old, and my other daughter has a little girl who is almost 3. They are both wonderful mothers and I am very thankful that they live close by (less than 2 miles) and that I can play an integral role in my grandkid’s lives.
Good parenting certainly doesn’t come with age anyway, I’ve known lots of older parents that have no clue. That’s the thing, we all start out without a clue, regardless of when we start. There isn’t anything that can prepare you for the enormity of parental responsibility.
I’m not saying that teen parents are a good idea, heavens no. Neither am I saying that it is ideal to become a parent before you’ve had a chance to get an education and financial security. That said, there really is NO ideal time to have a family. There is always something that isn’t quite perfect.
My motto is, take the situation you are in and make the very best of it. Take a dose of humility, learn from your mistakes and allow others to make their own without judgement from you.
My heart aches,
and my friend consoles me.
My memories escape,
and my friend shields me.
My mind wanders,
and my friend gathers me.
My friend never fails,
never betrays.
I need a new best friend.
It’s hard to think logically when you are faced with illogical circumstances.
Overcome with grief, I knew I couldn’t blame the police but who could I blame? I could make a case for and a case against. The truth is, “officer-involved shootings” are rarely black and white. At the time I felt obligated to temper the mood, de-escalate the hostility. Acquaintances, strangers and family members were quick to judge, but they didn’t see what I saw. They didn’t know what I knew.
Grieving the loss of a loved one isn’t my strong suit. Marty was the first person close to me to die since my dad in 1977. I was only 9 years old and my mom didn’t know how to help me grieve. She lost her own mother when she was 14 and carries that pain with her to this day. When she lost her mother, she lost everything; her “father” abandoned her, her older siblings struck out on their own and her younger brother was adopted by grandparents, leaving her to float between relatives until she was 17. I digress.
For most of my adult life I viewed death as merely another step in the process, you live…you die. We all go sometime. Sure, I was sad when my step-brother died in an auto accident, but I was sad for my younger siblings, for my parents, but not for myself. When my step- grandfather died, I reasoned that he had lived a long, good life.
But then it happened. I was driving home from work on Halloween, 2005 when I received a phone call from a friend, “There’s something going on with your cousin, Marty. All I know is that he was attempting to elude the authorities and shots were fired but I don’t know anything else.” I caught my breath and refused to let myself think the worst. Trying to bring order to chaos, I did what I do well, I reasoned. I figured that being injured might be just what he needed to get some help and get back on the right track. I figured a stay in the hospital and then in jail would do him good. I didn’t figure that he was lying in the front seat of a car, slumped over the steering wheel devoid his last breath.
I rushed straight to the hospital to check his status. “No, we don’t have anyone here by that name, are you sure they brought him here?” I wondered, maybe they had to transport him to Portland via LifeFlight? Yeah, that’s probably it. Nevertheless, he wasn’t there and they weren’t in any position to help me find him, so I left for home. The rest of the night is a blur; phone calls, TV news reports, sheriff’s deputies. Conflicting messages that eventually resulted in the ultimate truth: HE WAS DEAD.
Marty was more than a cousin to me, he was my little brother. My mom helped to raise him, so my childhood memories are filled with his boyish antics. At the time I only had two sisters, so he was a breath of fresh air. He was playful and fun. He teased us and he tackled us and he told scary stories. Then one day, his mom and dad took him back, just like that. I’m not sure how many years he lived with us, as a preschooler I had no sense of time.
Ever since then we weaved in an out of each other’s lives. Mostly ‘in’ when he was clean and sober, ‘out’ when he wasn’t. The last five years of his life we were ‘in’. People saw him for the gentle, compassionate man that I knew as a child. He went to college. He held a job and he developed a relationship with his kids for the first time. He took care of his mom and dad and treated them with great love and respect regardless of their shortcomings as parents.
Marty was no saint, but he wasn’t the Son of Satan, either. He was more like Jekyll and Hyde, polar opposites within one body. As bad as he was when he was using, he was equally great when he wasn’t. People that met him during the last five years of his life could not imagine the Marty depicted in the news reports. They only knew the soft-spoken Marty, the one that opened the door for his elders and hugged you when you parted ways. He was a far cry from the delusional Marty I encountered on his front lawn just weeks before his death.
So, I started this post with a reference to “what I knew’, and you are probably wondering what that might have been. It’s hard to explain, because it wasn’t just the hard-and-fast fact that he was in fact delusional, or the fact that he said for weeks, “They won’t ever take me alive.” No, it was more than that. It was what I saw, or didn’t see, the last time that I encountered him. I DIDN’T see Marty at all, he wasn’t there. There was no sign of recognition whatsoever as he flashed that Bible at me and commanded me to leave “Him”. Not, “Get away from me”, but, “I command you to leave me”, like I was Satan himself, standing in the way of his mission.
Do I agree with the actions of the deputies that shot him dead? No, how could I? But do I blame them… How could I?
I'm just a woman trying to make sense of life's ups and downs. Nothing is ever black and white, so I find myself stuck in the greyness, trying to apply logic to the world we live in. Please feel free to join me and to invite me on your journey as well. 
