September 14, 2002
she shoots, she scores
Well, after we got washed out in the rain today, the first rain in forever, Jenna decided to put on some lipstick--what a better time to get a mother/daughter self portrait. ha! Anyone want to make a trading card for me? I got left out of the "great blogger" trading cards that went around the first time. And, well, I think it's time. Remember those trading cards when you were a kid--baseball, or the ones in those big packs of gum? I used to think about the players, how much more valuable those cards would get when a player got traded. Funny how that works. So, if ya make me one, will you send one on over? May make us rich someday. ;-)
September 12, 2002
I'm with Marek
Nothing's really funny anymore. I used to feel funny, but not today, not anymore. More work to do. More soul searching. Drained and pained. A commercial-free break is in order. Read the people on my blogroll for a while. They're pretty funny.
Redneck Neighbor
As someone who actually lived next door to a *worse* redneck neighbor than this one, I can sympathize. Another one of Georgia's finest. You have to click through on some of the pictures to get the full flavor--chickenwire fence, torched lawn, burned down deck, and various "building projects" this fine southern gentlemen has subjected his neighbors to. heee heee.
September 11, 2002
wanna hear it? here it go...
steamroller
New day, sky goes gray
Unearth some roots of pain
Think I’m moving aside without a fight
Means you better think again
Fade away, not today
So much stronger than you know
Getting what you bargained for
Means you better lie real low
Got my eye on you while your eye’s on him
Got the hurt planned out as the gear slips in
Got some demolition plans for you, baby….
The steamroller’s rollin’ on in.
Watch your back, sneak attack
No warning for a thief of hearts
Dust kicks up you might think twice
Think I’ll smile while you fall apart
Talk real sweet, teeth grind meat
For a better game you’d disappear
Kick your pumps off girl and get a head start
‘cause my aim’s always been real clear
Got my eye on you while your eye’s on him
Got the hurt planned out as the gear slips in
Got some demolition plans for you, baby….
The steamroller’s rollin’ on in.
Got my eye on you while your eye’s on him
Got the hurt planned out as the gear slips in
Got some demolition plans for you, baby….
The steamroller’s rollin’ on in.
The steamroller’s rollin’ on in.
The steamroller's rollin' on -- you.
September 07, 2002
More on Dr. Real
One quote that I should have included in the post below from Terrence Real's interview is this one:
"I'd like to see the culture change. I'd like to see more people like you doing interviews like this. When you think of the support that a young woman has, in breaking out of roles, Ms. Magazine and all the consciousness-raising groups, and you contrast that to the almost total aloneness a young man has in trying to break out of these roles, I think it's time for us to help a young man like that by creating some kind of a counter-movement or counter-wave that he can feel at home in. That's partly why I'm here."
To a great extent, that's what I think many men are doing through weblogging. The brave ones. You guys ARE the counter-culture movement among men. Men like Mike Golby, Marek, George S., George P., Ray, Tom S., Tom M., Craig Jensen, AKMA, Euan, Frank Paynter, Gary Turner, and of course the father of male truth bloggers and post 40s depression, RageBoy.
If Real is right, and cultural edicts are largely responsible for disconnecting men--under the guise of a survival mechanism for their very gender--then this is why so many men are "coming out" and reconnecting as bloggers. I know that Mike and Tom and Gary and George Partington go to work each day and do their thing--their semi-connected, make-the-best-of-it role which is necessary for their survival, to provide for the well-being of their families. I also know that they unleash parts of themselves in a very real and necessary way within their weblogs that the folks at work--sometimes even at home--don't get to see.
Men ARE reconnecting through weblogging. Not in the same way that women are--more subtle, more slowly--but perhaps in an even more important way. Somehow Real's notion that cultural edicts have taken power away from women and connections away from men seems just right when it comes to what we're doing here in Blogaria. Women are gaining power and voice in a way that's never been before, and men are connecting in ways that are rare and special and human.
Food for thought. And you guys are braver than I knew.
"I'd like to see the culture change. I'd like to see more people like you doing interviews like this. When you think of the support that a young woman has, in breaking out of roles, Ms. Magazine and all the consciousness-raising groups, and you contrast that to the almost total aloneness a young man has in trying to break out of these roles, I think it's time for us to help a young man like that by creating some kind of a counter-movement or counter-wave that he can feel at home in. That's partly why I'm here."
To a great extent, that's what I think many men are doing through weblogging. The brave ones. You guys ARE the counter-culture movement among men. Men like Mike Golby, Marek, George S., George P., Ray, Tom S., Tom M., Craig Jensen, AKMA, Euan, Frank Paynter, Gary Turner, and of course the father of male truth bloggers and post 40s depression, RageBoy.
If Real is right, and cultural edicts are largely responsible for disconnecting men--under the guise of a survival mechanism for their very gender--then this is why so many men are "coming out" and reconnecting as bloggers. I know that Mike and Tom and Gary and George Partington go to work each day and do their thing--their semi-connected, make-the-best-of-it role which is necessary for their survival, to provide for the well-being of their families. I also know that they unleash parts of themselves in a very real and necessary way within their weblogs that the folks at work--sometimes even at home--don't get to see.
Men ARE reconnecting through weblogging. Not in the same way that women are--more subtle, more slowly--but perhaps in an even more important way. Somehow Real's notion that cultural edicts have taken power away from women and connections away from men seems just right when it comes to what we're doing here in Blogaria. Women are gaining power and voice in a way that's never been before, and men are connecting in ways that are rare and special and human.
Food for thought. And you guys are braver than I knew.
the night that the lights went out in georgia?
Well it seems as though my state of personal reflection of late has taken me away from some---uh---fundamental responsibilities---uh--like paying bills. Or, well, like not bouncing checks. Much to my dismay and without any sort of my typical panic, I realized today, after reading some unopened mail, that I have bounced two checks to Cobb EMC, the lovely power fuckers that provide our gas and electric service.
ooops.
It all started when work cut me a paper check, after four years of direct deposits, without me knowing it. The check got here three days late, and needless to say, my checking account -- shakey on a good day -- danced itself into an amazing downward spiral that I, given my current detached emotional state, have watch like a made-for-tv movie. I wonder at it. Mainly, that's what I express. Everything is full of wonder for me now. Even things that used to scare me. Like fiscal mismanagement.
Which is to say, the letter from Cobb EMC also said if the redeposit of the check bounced, which it did last night, I would be subject to an immediate disconnect. I hope to straighten it out on Monday, but if I go dark for a while, literally, you know why.
Doesn't help that all my phones are cordless.... which is to say... cordfull, as they all "plug in."
Send energy. And maybe Quicken.
-me
ooops.
It all started when work cut me a paper check, after four years of direct deposits, without me knowing it. The check got here three days late, and needless to say, my checking account -- shakey on a good day -- danced itself into an amazing downward spiral that I, given my current detached emotional state, have watch like a made-for-tv movie. I wonder at it. Mainly, that's what I express. Everything is full of wonder for me now. Even things that used to scare me. Like fiscal mismanagement.
Which is to say, the letter from Cobb EMC also said if the redeposit of the check bounced, which it did last night, I would be subject to an immediate disconnect. I hope to straighten it out on Monday, but if I go dark for a while, literally, you know why.
Doesn't help that all my phones are cordless.... which is to say... cordfull, as they all "plug in."
Send energy. And maybe Quicken.
-me
Depression: the word of the day
Marek isn't the only one feeling it. George isn't the only one writing about it. You guys know who you are. Read this 1998 interview with Dr. Terry Real who tackles the whys and wherefores of male depression in a way that's incredibly new, refreshing, and I think accurate. Dr. Real's book, I Don't Want to Talk About It: Overcoming The Secret Legacy of Male Depression, is worth reading, for both men and women.
Some of what he says in the interview I've pulled out and posted here:
"Here's what it boils down to. As a culture, it's like we've taken a piece of paper and drawn a line down the center, saying that everything on this side of the line is feminine and everything on the other side is masculine, and woe unto that little boy or little girl who dares to cross that line. Women have been complaining for the last generation about the forces that have brought to bear on women to stay on their side of the line and the consequences of that. My work is about the reciprocal story for the boy. The half of the humanity that girls have been pressured out of has to do with power. The part that boys have been pressured out of has to do with connection."
"Let me say something about the idea of depression as an auto-aggressive disease. I wish I could take credit for it, but Sigmund Freud is the one. He didn't use that phrase, but he talked about depression as aggression turned against one's self. The thing that's important about that is understanding that the root of male depression is violence. And the core of gender socialization for little boys is violence. The way that we "turn boys into men" in this culture is through severance. We turn boys away from their mothers, from their hearts, from other people. The cost of this is disconnection, a disconnection I call the normal traumatization of boys. What happens is that men have overt depression take this violence and turn it in on themselves. Men who have covert depression don't want to bear this violence. I don't blame them. They either try to run from it through intoxication or burying themselves, or they inflict it on other people."
"Once you start to hit the geyser of those raw feelings, it's very tempting to act out. I've been there. You're in a rage, you're hurt. You don't want to feel the pain. Somebody walks into our face and crosses you, and you're not a very pleasant person to be around. The other thing is that a person can be in touch their wounds until they're blue in the face. I know a lot of guys who are working their wounds, but they're still creeps to be around. In the work that I do, I talk about two inner children. I learned this from Pia Mellody. There's the wounded child, who was young, who was on the receiving end of the abuse. But there's also the adaptive child, which is the part of you that took on the mores, the privileges, the false empowerment and the point of view of the perpetrator."
"The very phrase 'be a man' means 'disconnect.' Disconnect from your own feelings and play through the pain. The thing that people are tumbling onto is that the other word for these transactions is violence, trauma. Men walk around with these deep, deep wounds, coupled with an entitlement to mishandle these wounds by irresponsible addictive or violent measures. When you have a hurt little boy walking around in a big, grown man's body, with centuries of male prerogative, that's a pretty volatile combination."
There's lots more. And it's worth reading.
Some of what he says in the interview I've pulled out and posted here:
"Here's what it boils down to. As a culture, it's like we've taken a piece of paper and drawn a line down the center, saying that everything on this side of the line is feminine and everything on the other side is masculine, and woe unto that little boy or little girl who dares to cross that line. Women have been complaining for the last generation about the forces that have brought to bear on women to stay on their side of the line and the consequences of that. My work is about the reciprocal story for the boy. The half of the humanity that girls have been pressured out of has to do with power. The part that boys have been pressured out of has to do with connection."
"Let me say something about the idea of depression as an auto-aggressive disease. I wish I could take credit for it, but Sigmund Freud is the one. He didn't use that phrase, but he talked about depression as aggression turned against one's self. The thing that's important about that is understanding that the root of male depression is violence. And the core of gender socialization for little boys is violence. The way that we "turn boys into men" in this culture is through severance. We turn boys away from their mothers, from their hearts, from other people. The cost of this is disconnection, a disconnection I call the normal traumatization of boys. What happens is that men have overt depression take this violence and turn it in on themselves. Men who have covert depression don't want to bear this violence. I don't blame them. They either try to run from it through intoxication or burying themselves, or they inflict it on other people."
"Once you start to hit the geyser of those raw feelings, it's very tempting to act out. I've been there. You're in a rage, you're hurt. You don't want to feel the pain. Somebody walks into our face and crosses you, and you're not a very pleasant person to be around. The other thing is that a person can be in touch their wounds until they're blue in the face. I know a lot of guys who are working their wounds, but they're still creeps to be around. In the work that I do, I talk about two inner children. I learned this from Pia Mellody. There's the wounded child, who was young, who was on the receiving end of the abuse. But there's also the adaptive child, which is the part of you that took on the mores, the privileges, the false empowerment and the point of view of the perpetrator."
"The very phrase 'be a man' means 'disconnect.' Disconnect from your own feelings and play through the pain. The thing that people are tumbling onto is that the other word for these transactions is violence, trauma. Men walk around with these deep, deep wounds, coupled with an entitlement to mishandle these wounds by irresponsible addictive or violent measures. When you have a hurt little boy walking around in a big, grown man's body, with centuries of male prerogative, that's a pretty volatile combination."
There's lots more. And it's worth reading.
willow
Silence paints
memories of you
on me
like leaves
from the willow,
majestic shade,
now
even the stump
is gone.
never enough
to drink,
roots
sought something
from the concrete
and gave up.
Fresh water was there
all along.
But then.
Not knowing
what you know
only me knowing
I love you.
Numbness
tries to find a
way in,
to erase us,
but can't.
waiting.
memories of you
on me
like leaves
from the willow,
majestic shade,
now
even the stump
is gone.
never enough
to drink,
roots
sought something
from the concrete
and gave up.
Fresh water was there
all along.
But then.
Not knowing
what you know
only me knowing
I love you.
Numbness
tries to find a
way in,
to erase us,
but can't.
waiting.
pathos
So I called her, for the first time in over a month. Me at 40, detached. Finally. And she wept and apologized and begged. Asked forgiveness. I listened. Did not follow her down that ruinous path. I said this instead:
"Every interaction I've had with you
has been affected by your drinking.
I cannot have that in my life anymore."
waited. hoping for I don't know what.
"I understand."
Acknowledgement without excuses. My fears true. A year ago I didn't know what was false; now I know so much is false--and maybe I understand one truth: the fundamental truth in addiction is the need/compulsion to do something--sometimes anything--to mask incredible pain. Without getting to the pain, the addiction remains. And in some cases, when the addiction is so entrenched, the addiction has to go first, before you can touch the pain.
So many people in pain. So much ruin. An endless circle of tragedy.
Breaking the cycle.
She tells me she's at the end of her journey, that something better awaits her. In other words, I've been doing this too long to change now. I wish I understood that. But I'm not 70. She tells me that if I'm alright, she's alright. And again I want to scream, stop living through me. It is an incredible weight, that need to be okay for you. I am no longer willing to carry it.
With this knowledge, an amazing burden has been lifted. I try not to let sadness replace it.
I used to tell her "When you get little and I get big," and whatever followed that was a reflection of my illusion that we would one day trade places. She'd be the little girl, I'd be the mother. That was even after I knew that parents die, because my father had. But somehow, I thought with her: "When you get little and I get big, I'll take care of you." But you see, I already *was* taking care of her at a great cost to me. No more. I've known that for months. But I said it. My voice. Strong.
Underneath it all I am alone.
Through my window concrete pain.
Rippling with the heat off my driveway, whisps of joy.
Beginning to discern which is which.
"Every interaction I've had with you
has been affected by your drinking.
I cannot have that in my life anymore."
waited. hoping for I don't know what.
"I understand."
Acknowledgement without excuses. My fears true. A year ago I didn't know what was false; now I know so much is false--and maybe I understand one truth: the fundamental truth in addiction is the need/compulsion to do something--sometimes anything--to mask incredible pain. Without getting to the pain, the addiction remains. And in some cases, when the addiction is so entrenched, the addiction has to go first, before you can touch the pain.
So many people in pain. So much ruin. An endless circle of tragedy.
Breaking the cycle.
She tells me she's at the end of her journey, that something better awaits her. In other words, I've been doing this too long to change now. I wish I understood that. But I'm not 70. She tells me that if I'm alright, she's alright. And again I want to scream, stop living through me. It is an incredible weight, that need to be okay for you. I am no longer willing to carry it.
With this knowledge, an amazing burden has been lifted. I try not to let sadness replace it.
I used to tell her "When you get little and I get big," and whatever followed that was a reflection of my illusion that we would one day trade places. She'd be the little girl, I'd be the mother. That was even after I knew that parents die, because my father had. But somehow, I thought with her: "When you get little and I get big, I'll take care of you." But you see, I already *was* taking care of her at a great cost to me. No more. I've known that for months. But I said it. My voice. Strong.
Underneath it all I am alone.
Through my window concrete pain.
Rippling with the heat off my driveway, whisps of joy.
Beginning to discern which is which.
September 03, 2002
undie
the scream is real.
come out
come to be
visible
from behind
for
the first
time
see you/me
breaking
thawing cracking
I'm in my father's skin
I'm in my father's skin
looking out
seeing her
for the first time
needing
pleasing
undoing of
me
seeking
regretting
forgetting
getting
to remembering
no net
no skin
begin
unfold
behold what
you fear
understand
it's more than
real
it's more than
alive
electric
static
pain
bend the frame
twist and knott
untie.
come out
come to be
visible
from behind
for
the first
time
see you/me
breaking
thawing cracking
I'm in my father's skin
I'm in my father's skin
looking out
seeing her
for the first time
needing
pleasing
undoing of
me
seeking
regretting
forgetting
getting
to remembering
no net
no skin
begin
unfold
behold what
you fear
understand
it's more than
real
it's more than
alive
electric
static
pain
bend the frame
twist and knott
untie.
September 02, 2002
Be who I need you to be or I'll cease to exist, and so will you.
When you're face to face with a time of complete undoing, you know it. Not any one thing--everything. Not depression, revelation. Not maturity, rebirth. Not pleasant, painful. Agony. I've been writing for a while now about feeling that everything I ever thought was so wasn't. But I didn't know what I meant. I just knew that the thread of me was weakening, fraying. Now, the flashes hit several times a day, make me scream out, oh no oh yes I see.
I can't get the words out without sounding trite, blaming, petty. Blame your mother--so cliche. So I'm quiet. You would have to be able to see the thousands of pieces assembled to understand the power each piece had on me individually while I was growing up (the first time around). What you don't know about is the neurotic need she fostered in me because she needed it, had to have it to live herself, how she replaced my father with me as her feeding ground after he gave up and died. That is the little girl who prayed every night in terror well into her teenage years that if her mother were to die, please God take me too. The 17 year old who tried to open the door of a moving car and jump out upon news that she'd be going away for two weeks. The adolescent and college girl obsessed with confessing, asking absolution, trying to drive her away--test her--do you love me still?
But it was never love because it was conditional on her layering and devouring of me. Her love was based on me feeding her exactly what she needed, her then feeding me everything I didn't need, and I was so good at keeping the cycle going. It was all I ever knew. Her light on me, nothing felt as good. And yet, she undermined me--set out to ruin my beauty as it threatened her spotlight. Set out to ruin me emotionally so I would need her always. Keep me. Eat me. Drink my blood. This is narcisism. Now, add alcoholism on top of that, and you see my wall of denial build itself.
When you have a child, you begin to see your parents for who they really are. In my case, the lifting curtain reveals monsters--pitiful monsters. Having removed my mother's voice from my head for the first time in my life--not speaking or hearing a word in well over a month--I know why she kept up the constant drone, the noise. When the noise falls away, the truth creeps in.
It's not like this is a huge revalation. It's been happening since Jenna was born, and intensely over this past year. But for the first time I'm embracing this loss and using it to heal ME to build ME.
I can't tell you all about it because there is too much to tell. I do not want to write "about" the place I'm in right now, but from it. But I thought you deserved to know where I was, kind blog friends; you continue to give me the gifts of wonder and hope.
I can't get the words out without sounding trite, blaming, petty. Blame your mother--so cliche. So I'm quiet. You would have to be able to see the thousands of pieces assembled to understand the power each piece had on me individually while I was growing up (the first time around). What you don't know about is the neurotic need she fostered in me because she needed it, had to have it to live herself, how she replaced my father with me as her feeding ground after he gave up and died. That is the little girl who prayed every night in terror well into her teenage years that if her mother were to die, please God take me too. The 17 year old who tried to open the door of a moving car and jump out upon news that she'd be going away for two weeks. The adolescent and college girl obsessed with confessing, asking absolution, trying to drive her away--test her--do you love me still?
But it was never love because it was conditional on her layering and devouring of me. Her love was based on me feeding her exactly what she needed, her then feeding me everything I didn't need, and I was so good at keeping the cycle going. It was all I ever knew. Her light on me, nothing felt as good. And yet, she undermined me--set out to ruin my beauty as it threatened her spotlight. Set out to ruin me emotionally so I would need her always. Keep me. Eat me. Drink my blood. This is narcisism. Now, add alcoholism on top of that, and you see my wall of denial build itself.
When you have a child, you begin to see your parents for who they really are. In my case, the lifting curtain reveals monsters--pitiful monsters. Having removed my mother's voice from my head for the first time in my life--not speaking or hearing a word in well over a month--I know why she kept up the constant drone, the noise. When the noise falls away, the truth creeps in.
It's not like this is a huge revalation. It's been happening since Jenna was born, and intensely over this past year. But for the first time I'm embracing this loss and using it to heal ME to build ME.
I can't tell you all about it because there is too much to tell. I do not want to write "about" the place I'm in right now, but from it. But I thought you deserved to know where I was, kind blog friends; you continue to give me the gifts of wonder and hope.
August 30, 2002
Theory: The Critical Mass of Therapy
"When you are working more on yourself than you have self to work on." --jeneane sessum
thank you very much.
Elvis has left the building.
thank you very much.
Elvis has left the building.
August 27, 2002
one more for the road
He was mostly a pest. He showed up on my doorstep while George was in Hong Kong, you remember, an interlude between all those love poems and self-exploration I was doing. I didn't need a tom cat around. He was needy and bit when he didn't get just what he wanted. I'd have to fill his food dish on the outside step three times a day just to keep him from nipping at my heel when I stepped outside for a smoke.
Still...
He hasn't been around in three or four days. Not like him--he usually shows up a few times a day -- coming from wherever he came from. I never did figure out if he was someone's cat just looking for an extra bowl of food, or a stray, or just a lost little cat soul.
I saw him today, not on my step, but on the main road. I didn't look closely as I approached the run-of-the-mill roadkill that seems to haunt these streets. I knew though, not from the guts and innards I saw first, but from the unusual tiger grey fur that had opened up to let his life force go, it was him. My wheels straddled him as I continued on -- had to get Jenna to school in time for french toast sticks. I blocked it for most of the day. But tonight, when the little sister cats next door had the courage to come up my steps like they used to--before him--and see what was left in his food bowl, I said good bye to Ashes.
Glad I could give you a bowl of cat chow and fresh water when you were in need. Sorry I couldn't do more.
Ashes to ashes...
Still...
He hasn't been around in three or four days. Not like him--he usually shows up a few times a day -- coming from wherever he came from. I never did figure out if he was someone's cat just looking for an extra bowl of food, or a stray, or just a lost little cat soul.
I saw him today, not on my step, but on the main road. I didn't look closely as I approached the run-of-the-mill roadkill that seems to haunt these streets. I knew though, not from the guts and innards I saw first, but from the unusual tiger grey fur that had opened up to let his life force go, it was him. My wheels straddled him as I continued on -- had to get Jenna to school in time for french toast sticks. I blocked it for most of the day. But tonight, when the little sister cats next door had the courage to come up my steps like they used to--before him--and see what was left in his food bowl, I said good bye to Ashes.
Glad I could give you a bowl of cat chow and fresh water when you were in need. Sorry I couldn't do more.
Ashes to ashes...
August 26, 2002
Taking time
Still not well -- taking some time to re-focus energies and spirit on the positive, the truly meaningful. Above all, do no harm.
Peace, y'all.
Peace, y'all.
August 23, 2002
Or then...
Well, I felt fine. But now I'm getting sick--catching Jenna's cough and head cold. I'm worn out. It sure felt good to feel good for a minute! Remind me about that in a couple days, will ya?
Going to rest.
Going to rest.
August 21, 2002
if someone had ever told me
I wouldn't have believed them. If they told me I'd be here at 40 at this very odd place on the precipice of losing nearly everything I've held dear--rewind, replay, repeat--I wouldn't have believed them. My family, my self, my future--all resting on unsteady ground.
I thought I had the biggest loss once upon a time, when I was very young, and I thought no other empty space would ever compare to that. With my dad dead, the only loss I could imagine being greater than that, at six, was my mother. Things would get bad, very bad, and I had my mantra: at least my mother's alive. I would watch others die, move away, go away, and I would repeat the mantra: I still have my mother.
At the same time, I watched my mother and step-father drink, retreated from the odd and uncomfortable situations that resulted from their nightly insobriety, and my mantra became just as uncomfortable to me. It was starting to not work. I wasn't hers; I wasn't mine. I was just incomplete. I tried to complete myself with my worthy spouse, then a deacde later with a child. But, big surprise, that doesn't work. Not for long. At least not forever. Joke's on me.
I did not come to this mother mantra all alone, I now realize. It's something that she nurtured in me--she needed me to be hers. She herself had been through great trauma. And so, it was fed to me. An unhealthy diet of "love" by control, and me willing to eat and repeat, knowing no other way.
It's not all her fault. And I love her still. But I hate what she's done. She takes no responsibility--she won't look at this.
Not won't. Can't.
Did I mention I haven't spoken to my mother in nearly a month now? Yes. Well. To you that may seem like no big deal. To me, it's nothing short of miraculous. I have never gone more than a week--two during a particularly nasty family blow up--without hearing her voice. We were once so close. The problem was, we were mostly always way too close. I let myself subsist on her. And she let me. To the detriment of all other relationships.
And so I've asked her for space, now--time to be with me. And I've gotten it, and a month has ticked by.
George away. Jenna in school. No mother to direct and intercept my feelings. I'm here with me. Really here with me.
And I've discovered why I never tried this before: The movies that play backward in my head are not very comforting. I'm seeing them for the first time. They are unraveling what I thought was so, a little at a time, and in their place I'm left with what really was. Freeze frame:
He's behind the wheel for the hundredth time in a condition that by any account, even in the 70s, is illegal. And she is in the front seat, staring straight ahead, no seat belt--her role is not to challenge him, only to control him through her reactions. I whisper to her, "Why don't YOU drive?" Even I know, from car rides past, weaving in and out of his lane of choice, me gripping the side door, that it will be a dicey ride home. She doesn't ever take the keys from him.
This is the part of this backwards movie I'd like to remember a different way: A police car pulls us over, he blows, he goes to jail, something. Something to change what was. But that never happened. We always made it home. See, she was right to let him drive. Everything turned out fine.
Nothing was ever fine.
But me, I am going to be fine.
I am going to be FUCKING fine because I'm finding me, and I'm finding out.
I thought I had the biggest loss once upon a time, when I was very young, and I thought no other empty space would ever compare to that. With my dad dead, the only loss I could imagine being greater than that, at six, was my mother. Things would get bad, very bad, and I had my mantra: at least my mother's alive. I would watch others die, move away, go away, and I would repeat the mantra: I still have my mother.
At the same time, I watched my mother and step-father drink, retreated from the odd and uncomfortable situations that resulted from their nightly insobriety, and my mantra became just as uncomfortable to me. It was starting to not work. I wasn't hers; I wasn't mine. I was just incomplete. I tried to complete myself with my worthy spouse, then a deacde later with a child. But, big surprise, that doesn't work. Not for long. At least not forever. Joke's on me.
I did not come to this mother mantra all alone, I now realize. It's something that she nurtured in me--she needed me to be hers. She herself had been through great trauma. And so, it was fed to me. An unhealthy diet of "love" by control, and me willing to eat and repeat, knowing no other way.
It's not all her fault. And I love her still. But I hate what she's done. She takes no responsibility--she won't look at this.
Not won't. Can't.
Did I mention I haven't spoken to my mother in nearly a month now? Yes. Well. To you that may seem like no big deal. To me, it's nothing short of miraculous. I have never gone more than a week--two during a particularly nasty family blow up--without hearing her voice. We were once so close. The problem was, we were mostly always way too close. I let myself subsist on her. And she let me. To the detriment of all other relationships.
And so I've asked her for space, now--time to be with me. And I've gotten it, and a month has ticked by.
George away. Jenna in school. No mother to direct and intercept my feelings. I'm here with me. Really here with me.
And I've discovered why I never tried this before: The movies that play backward in my head are not very comforting. I'm seeing them for the first time. They are unraveling what I thought was so, a little at a time, and in their place I'm left with what really was. Freeze frame:
He's behind the wheel for the hundredth time in a condition that by any account, even in the 70s, is illegal. And she is in the front seat, staring straight ahead, no seat belt--her role is not to challenge him, only to control him through her reactions. I whisper to her, "Why don't YOU drive?" Even I know, from car rides past, weaving in and out of his lane of choice, me gripping the side door, that it will be a dicey ride home. She doesn't ever take the keys from him.
This is the part of this backwards movie I'd like to remember a different way: A police car pulls us over, he blows, he goes to jail, something. Something to change what was. But that never happened. We always made it home. See, she was right to let him drive. Everything turned out fine.
Nothing was ever fine.
But me, I am going to be fine.
I am going to be FUCKING fine because I'm finding me, and I'm finding out.
August 20, 2002
deux intervieux
See if you can follow this--not sure I've gotten it down yet: Sandhill's Frank Paynter interviews the barely downloadable Mike Golby (not once, but a couple of times), and Blogaria's quickest study George Partington interviews Frank Paynter, who has earned my respect for his ability to churn out these great interviews, for just being Frank, and for quoting Alphonso Johnson--a great guy and colleague of George's.
August 19, 2002
Backstage Riders
I've seen backstage/tour riders before and have heard some amazing stories from George, but these are pretty interesting.
Like, Ozzy Osbourn and Frank Sinatra required Decadron (a steroid); Aerosmith says no alcohol backstage at any time; Black Crows say LOTS of alcohol backstage; Busta Rhymes says NO to pork and beef, yes to KFC, and bring it on to the obligatory box of Rough Rider or Lifestyle ribbed condoms. Busta, with all that dough, you can't supply your own rubbers?
Like, Ozzy Osbourn and Frank Sinatra required Decadron (a steroid); Aerosmith says no alcohol backstage at any time; Black Crows say LOTS of alcohol backstage; Busta Rhymes says NO to pork and beef, yes to KFC, and bring it on to the obligatory box of Rough Rider or Lifestyle ribbed condoms. Busta, with all that dough, you can't supply your own rubbers?
August 18, 2002
My Mother Needed No One
Here's the thing about my mother. Married at 19, three kids by 28, and a dead husband by 35, followed two weeks afterward by her own father's surprise death (today they would call it negligent homocide), a widow raising 3 kids alone for six years in the 60s and 70s, where, in suburban Irondequoit, that made her a freak and us the "freak" family--she didn't have it easy. The whole time, me as the youngest, looked at how she did it and thought: She doesn't need anyone. She is so strong.
But that strength went awry somewhere. If someone made her angry, or looked to be contradicting how she was raising us, she'd cut them out of her life like most people slice cheese. They were there one minute, gone the next. Relatives, friends, no one dared mess with my mom. They all knew the consequences.
So, I'm finding out, did I.
She was and is in the eyes of most who know her one of the strongest, most together woman walking the planet. Then the undercurrent rushes in. Me the mirror. And I remember so vividly my thought process that went: Maternal Strength = Mother loves X + X made Mother mad + bye bye X.
What I saw as great strength then, I now see as a weakness, and a life lesson that has left me a little skewed. Turning people on and off like light switches isn't a strength--it's cruel, it's selfish, and it's false. It was a way for her to avoid confronting the things she should have been and should still be confronting. It was her way of hiding.
And so I learn little things about who I am and why--these snags in me that are caught on the rough edges of my insides.
One thing is for sure: this apple has begun her roll.
But that strength went awry somewhere. If someone made her angry, or looked to be contradicting how she was raising us, she'd cut them out of her life like most people slice cheese. They were there one minute, gone the next. Relatives, friends, no one dared mess with my mom. They all knew the consequences.
So, I'm finding out, did I.
She was and is in the eyes of most who know her one of the strongest, most together woman walking the planet. Then the undercurrent rushes in. Me the mirror. And I remember so vividly my thought process that went: Maternal Strength = Mother loves X + X made Mother mad + bye bye X.
What I saw as great strength then, I now see as a weakness, and a life lesson that has left me a little skewed. Turning people on and off like light switches isn't a strength--it's cruel, it's selfish, and it's false. It was a way for her to avoid confronting the things she should have been and should still be confronting. It was her way of hiding.
And so I learn little things about who I am and why--these snags in me that are caught on the rough edges of my insides.
One thing is for sure: this apple has begun her roll.
No Deposit, No Return
Today was a delightful day. Believe me? Consider this: A good two hours of it, on and off, was spent with my daughter sobbing for her daddy. "Two more days--that's all I can do! Daddy, please come back nooooooow. DaaaDeee! DAAADEEE!"
Having sat with this for what is now close to five months with him out of the U.S., my nerves are wilted, not frayed. I have no more tears to cry in the bathroom, alone, hoping she won't hear me--that I won't feed that need in her that is usually just south of the surface in me. So I have no more tears for it now. I'm fine. I hold her and say, "I know. I know. Soon, baby. Soon. Way sooner than last time." And she says, "Not soon, Now!" And I wipe tears away some more, wishing I had some to give her, let me cry instead of her. But they don't come.
I took her to my sister's house for a cookout, which brightened her mood some, until it was time to leave, and leaving reminded her, and again all the way home, more tears.
Then I went about the business of trying to get a $500 tuition deposit back from a school she's not going to. Mind you, I raised the flag right after I gave them the check--before the deadline for admission. Also asked if this money was a deposit or if it was part of the tuition. I was assured this went toward the tuition. It's a new school, so they weren't bothering with admission fees. They needed bodies. If I'm right no tuition, no attendance, withdrawl before the August 1st deposit deadline--I should get the money back, right? I know most schools keep the $75 admission fee if you don't attend, but $500???
And to think, around the end of July, I had a flash that I should put a stop payment on that check. Why didn't I? I thought it was unnecessary. People are ethical. People live up to their agreements. I'm such a stupid fuck.
Two days ago, I called the administrator again--he said his checkbook was at home and that I should finish talking it over with the directress. So today, I call the teacher/directress, whom I really do love (she is not the administrator--i.e. money man), and she is still trying to get me to enroll Jenna there, but we can't afford it. And I say what George said to the administrator: "Let's get the money back in my hands--then we can talk about it--maybe for January. But right now we can't do it."
So SHE says that according to what she was told, the $500 is non-refundable. There go my ears, filling up with blood again. Ouch, that was my neck. I'm about go balistic. Then I back off, thinking of my sister's lawyer who will write a letter for $90 if I want her to. At this point, the teacher offers me another deal (discounted tuition) that I said I'd talk with George about, but I can't really, because he's not here, so there I am. Back where I started from.
No deposit, no return, a grieving daughter, and only me-myself-I and the blog universe to whine to about it.
Here's to Monday!
Having sat with this for what is now close to five months with him out of the U.S., my nerves are wilted, not frayed. I have no more tears to cry in the bathroom, alone, hoping she won't hear me--that I won't feed that need in her that is usually just south of the surface in me. So I have no more tears for it now. I'm fine. I hold her and say, "I know. I know. Soon, baby. Soon. Way sooner than last time." And she says, "Not soon, Now!" And I wipe tears away some more, wishing I had some to give her, let me cry instead of her. But they don't come.
I took her to my sister's house for a cookout, which brightened her mood some, until it was time to leave, and leaving reminded her, and again all the way home, more tears.
Then I went about the business of trying to get a $500 tuition deposit back from a school she's not going to. Mind you, I raised the flag right after I gave them the check--before the deadline for admission. Also asked if this money was a deposit or if it was part of the tuition. I was assured this went toward the tuition. It's a new school, so they weren't bothering with admission fees. They needed bodies. If I'm right no tuition, no attendance, withdrawl before the August 1st deposit deadline--I should get the money back, right? I know most schools keep the $75 admission fee if you don't attend, but $500???
And to think, around the end of July, I had a flash that I should put a stop payment on that check. Why didn't I? I thought it was unnecessary. People are ethical. People live up to their agreements. I'm such a stupid fuck.
Two days ago, I called the administrator again--he said his checkbook was at home and that I should finish talking it over with the directress. So today, I call the teacher/directress, whom I really do love (she is not the administrator--i.e. money man), and she is still trying to get me to enroll Jenna there, but we can't afford it. And I say what George said to the administrator: "Let's get the money back in my hands--then we can talk about it--maybe for January. But right now we can't do it."
So SHE says that according to what she was told, the $500 is non-refundable. There go my ears, filling up with blood again. Ouch, that was my neck. I'm about go balistic. Then I back off, thinking of my sister's lawyer who will write a letter for $90 if I want her to. At this point, the teacher offers me another deal (discounted tuition) that I said I'd talk with George about, but I can't really, because he's not here, so there I am. Back where I started from.
No deposit, no return, a grieving daughter, and only me-myself-I and the blog universe to whine to about it.
Here's to Monday!
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