Christmas is such a beautiful holiday, full of meaning and tradition. At least, that's how I picture it. Tonight at dinner, I was asked what traditions I grew up with. Interestingly, I had been thinking about that very question this morning. I answered as truthfully as I could: I don't know that I remember real traditions from my childhood. Instead I told about some of the things we did when the boys were small, but even then I wondered if they really count as traditions.
As a kid, I do remember watching Dad and my brothers putting lights on the pine tree in front of the house - or rather, I remember the year they tried, but it had gotten too tall for the ladder and amount of lights. I remember going with Dad to pick out a tree to cut down, and the time the tree had to wait in the garage for a few days because the stand needed to be rebuilt. And the year we had a Christmas Bush - a cube of evergreen that overtook the room because it hadn't looked quite so big growing in the back yard.
Every year we had opłatki before dinner, but I didn't know where it came from. I think Grammy brought it. Gramma Katie always supplied a summer sausage. Dad always left a candle burning in the front window to welcome weary or wayward travelers. (If any had ever come to our door, I don't know what we would have done with them!)
What I remember most, though, and was never able to talk about (because who would believe me?) was my feeling that something was missing; that I was missing something. Who would ever believe that in our Christmas celebration, with boxes and paper and bows, something else could ever be needed? I realized this week that what I most wanted - what I still most crave - is time, along with a little knowledge of who I am. As a result, many of my memories of Christmases past are tinged with sadness, or tension. Sort of like a pebble in my soul's shoe. It has slowly and steadily chipped away at my Christmas spirit, until a few days ago when I thought perhaps it was gone form me completely.
Last night before Mass, I asked for the grace to be guided, to start fresh, as a baby myself. I thought of it as the beginning, my beginning. After Mass we ate, laughed, and visited with friends - family, really. Most of today we spent together with some good old-fashioned family time, and tonight we sat in on traditions of more friends who feel like family. The best part about this Christmas? It did not feel like anything at all was missing. There are people we missed, for sure, but the day felt complete.
Beautifully so.
Merry Christmas. Joy to the World!
Showing posts with label loneliness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loneliness. Show all posts
Thursday, December 25, 2014
ghosts of the past
Thursday, July 24, 2014
with me, always
This morning, as I drove to work (where thoughts waft and blow on the wind through the sunroof and the windows), I got to thinking about hugs. My husband is out of town, and I missed our morning hug that sometimes amounts to just a quick arm across shoulders, but still stamps the day official. That shoulder thought made me remember that a friend whose shoulder I can always count on is also out of town. Just as I was about to make what usually looks the next logical connection--that I would just have to wait for those particular interactions for a few days and deal with that particular loneliness--I remembered.
I am never alone.
Never. I smiled and said, "I was quick today! I know you are here for me. Thank you, Lord, for being my friend." The lonely feeling eased, my heart rate actually slowed a bit, and I felt the warmth of my heart opening. Where I had been missing a physical hug and an emotional shoulder, I began to feel a hug in my soul.
A really nice way to start the day.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
fears: part 1 : a corollary
A dear friend reminded me that there is a distinction between being "alone" and being "lonely," and that "it's not uncommon for people to feel lonely when surrounded by others." My response: "I have been lonely, and I did not like it one bit--that's when I decided I needed to be me enough to like being around me. It's made a world of difference. And I no longer feel like I need to make excuses about being alone."
The fact of the matter is, I have been so lonely at times that I have been concerned about my own behavior. I remember the times growing up when I felt so lonely, I didn't know what could possibly make me feel like I belong anywhere. The friend I just mentioned was actually one of the reasons I could decide to like myself. Thanks to her, and a few other key people in my life when I've hit those lonely times, I have the strength to be happy today.
Loneliness is inevitable. We all get lonely for various reasons, some of which seem real and important to others, and some which seem trivial. Even if the fear of being alone is really a fear of loneliness, I do not fear it. I can face it. Head on. I do not use loneliness, or the fear of it, as an excuse for my behavior--or misbehavior--in any given situation. Feeling lonely in a group, whether a crowd or a couple, happens, and hurts. A lot or a little is irrelevant; hurt is hurt, and sometimes is accidental and can't be helped. (I seem to remember discussing this in one of my classes.....) I tend to use that loneliness to learn about myself, and to determine what's important to me.
However, feeling loneliness, and having no idea how to cope with it, is a sign that you need to find some help. Seek out a friend, a confidante, a bartender, a stranger at a bus stop, and talk to them. Get a referral for therapy. Something and someone to help you be better able to handle those times. But for heaven's sake, choose someone appropriate--someone who does not become something to hide behind, someone you use to just plain prevent loneliness or being alone. Please, get some real help with overcoming, or at the very least, dealing with, that debilitating fear.
The fact of the matter is, I have been so lonely at times that I have been concerned about my own behavior. I remember the times growing up when I felt so lonely, I didn't know what could possibly make me feel like I belong anywhere. The friend I just mentioned was actually one of the reasons I could decide to like myself. Thanks to her, and a few other key people in my life when I've hit those lonely times, I have the strength to be happy today.
Loneliness is inevitable. We all get lonely for various reasons, some of which seem real and important to others, and some which seem trivial. Even if the fear of being alone is really a fear of loneliness, I do not fear it. I can face it. Head on. I do not use loneliness, or the fear of it, as an excuse for my behavior--or misbehavior--in any given situation. Feeling lonely in a group, whether a crowd or a couple, happens, and hurts. A lot or a little is irrelevant; hurt is hurt, and sometimes is accidental and can't be helped. (I seem to remember discussing this in one of my classes.....) I tend to use that loneliness to learn about myself, and to determine what's important to me.
However, feeling loneliness, and having no idea how to cope with it, is a sign that you need to find some help. Seek out a friend, a confidante, a bartender, a stranger at a bus stop, and talk to them. Get a referral for therapy. Something and someone to help you be better able to handle those times. But for heaven's sake, choose someone appropriate--someone who does not become something to hide behind, someone you use to just plain prevent loneliness or being alone. Please, get some real help with overcoming, or at the very least, dealing with, that debilitating fear.
Monday, August 27, 2012
fears: pt 1
I've had a couple of people tell me somewhat recently that what they are most afraid of is being alone. While I try to be sympathetic, I simply do not share this fear at all. I don't remember ever having this particular fear--I've always been perfectly happy to be on my own; a trait that seems to make other people crazy from time to time. Interestingly, most of these same people are those who do not enjoy my company. I've often wondered why it matters to them that I would rather sit by myself and read a book than make small talk about nothing in particular.
There have been some who have tried to call me "anti-social," but it's not that at all. I just prefer to get to know people on my own terms. Observation and intuition are my tools, and have not lead me astray often. Many times, I have told my husband or my kids, "Watch out for that one....." Not once have I been wrong when I've made that warning. Occasionally, I have been fooled by "the sociopath next door," but in that, few of us are alone. Really, if I want to get to know you, I will, but most likely it'll be because you don't bug me.
Some situations make it especially difficult for me to want to be chatty and social. My husband is a rather public figure, and as such, people tend to think they know him when they only know one side of him. When they see me, they frequently have made assumptions about what I must be like, and the fact that I generally defy those expectations doesn't really sit well. For the most part, when I consider my good friends, I see that they are the type that don't postulate in advance; rather, they take in what they see, and piece others together based upon that substance. My friends are people I admire for that practice.
Back to being alone.....
Rather than fear the silence around me or within my being, I relish it! When I am alone in my home or car, I blast the music, sing along, and dance when I can. I realize that what people fear is the greater Alone. The one that we can capitalize because it means "with no one," and uses the greater "with." For that, I take my cue from my Gramma Katie. She was a widow for as long as my siblings and I knew her. She never missed anything! She went places, listened to Paul Harvey (and debated with him in her kitchen!), made me promise when I left for college never to get old. She invited herself to the weddings and funerals held at the church a few blocks from her home--she didn't know anyone, but she had a wonderful time witnessing the joy, and managed to soothe herself sharing in the sorrow. Once I asked her why she never had a boyfriend or got married after Grampa Henry died. She told me there were two reasons: "I never needed to; never felt like I was alone. And besides, when I told him that if anything ever happened to me, I thought he should remarry, he said, 'Thanks,' and never told me the same!" She believed in ghosts, you see...
Not only have I tried to live up to my promise, I have also made sure that I am a person I like to be around. If there comes a time when I find myself alone, I am confident that I will not feel Alone. I have fantastic friends (and plenty of them!) to help me through whatever sorrow may come my way, but I would be fine on my own. And, as I learned from Gramma Katie, I have also 'given permission' to my husband, should he need to thwart the feared Alone, to move forward and find someone else. [He assures me of statistics, which appeal to my logical mind! haha]
There have been some who have tried to call me "anti-social," but it's not that at all. I just prefer to get to know people on my own terms. Observation and intuition are my tools, and have not lead me astray often. Many times, I have told my husband or my kids, "Watch out for that one....." Not once have I been wrong when I've made that warning. Occasionally, I have been fooled by "the sociopath next door," but in that, few of us are alone. Really, if I want to get to know you, I will, but most likely it'll be because you don't bug me.
Some situations make it especially difficult for me to want to be chatty and social. My husband is a rather public figure, and as such, people tend to think they know him when they only know one side of him. When they see me, they frequently have made assumptions about what I must be like, and the fact that I generally defy those expectations doesn't really sit well. For the most part, when I consider my good friends, I see that they are the type that don't postulate in advance; rather, they take in what they see, and piece others together based upon that substance. My friends are people I admire for that practice.
Back to being alone.....
Rather than fear the silence around me or within my being, I relish it! When I am alone in my home or car, I blast the music, sing along, and dance when I can. I realize that what people fear is the greater Alone. The one that we can capitalize because it means "with no one," and uses the greater "with." For that, I take my cue from my Gramma Katie. She was a widow for as long as my siblings and I knew her. She never missed anything! She went places, listened to Paul Harvey (and debated with him in her kitchen!), made me promise when I left for college never to get old. She invited herself to the weddings and funerals held at the church a few blocks from her home--she didn't know anyone, but she had a wonderful time witnessing the joy, and managed to soothe herself sharing in the sorrow. Once I asked her why she never had a boyfriend or got married after Grampa Henry died. She told me there were two reasons: "I never needed to; never felt like I was alone. And besides, when I told him that if anything ever happened to me, I thought he should remarry, he said, 'Thanks,' and never told me the same!" She believed in ghosts, you see...
Not only have I tried to live up to my promise, I have also made sure that I am a person I like to be around. If there comes a time when I find myself alone, I am confident that I will not feel Alone. I have fantastic friends (and plenty of them!) to help me through whatever sorrow may come my way, but I would be fine on my own. And, as I learned from Gramma Katie, I have also 'given permission' to my husband, should he need to thwart the feared Alone, to move forward and find someone else. [He assures me of statistics, which appeal to my logical mind! haha]
Thursday, August 2, 2012
with a little help
Sometimes, what we need most in life is to know who our friends are. And sometimes, the realization is surprising, to say the least. In the past few weeks, I have learned that real, true friends never judge the decisions we make, even if we are feeling judgemental of ourselves. I've learned that sometimes friendship and the love that comes with it can come from the least expected place. And I've learned that sometimes, someone we thought had surprised us with friendship, really is the chameleon we originally thought.
I've also learned that the truest friends will not necessarily ask or even need to know what's going on, but might just be there, heart and soul, as a distraction, if that's all you need. Distance, as I've always known, matters little in true friendship, but it sure makes shoulder-leaning tough.
Perhaps I shouldn't be too surprised. I have a litmus test right here inside me. A few years ago, I graduated from college as our son was Confirmed. In planning the party, I found myself so excited for my friends to meet my friends. I kept saying to myself, "Oh, she will really like her! They will be so much fun together!" Then I realized, my best friends, the ones I can share my ups and downs with, are pieces of me. Yes, they have wildly varied interests, occupations, lifestyles--but deep inside each of my friends lies a small piece of who I am, just as I lie inside them.
Recently, I've been going through a rough patch. Some people have noticed in my demeanor or my Facebook posts. Some have heard, one way or another. Some have reached out, and some have simply called to chat about nothing. I am truly blessed by the love and understanding with which I have been showered. For a time, I couldn't even breathe, and didn't know where to turn, but with each word I spoke to a friend, I was reassured, calmed, uplifted.
I'm not publishing these thoughts because I want or need to be inundated with inquiries. If I want or need to tell you, I will, in good time. Rather, I needed to share these thoughts because you need to know there is someone who will listen. Someone who will understand. Probably multiple someones--but unless the words are spoken aloud, the darkness could consume you. It almost did me, until I reached out, hard as it was, to someone I was afraid to lose.
Thank you to my friends, many of whom really do not know what I've been going through, but that I know are there, because I know I would be there for them. In a heartbeat.
I've also learned that the truest friends will not necessarily ask or even need to know what's going on, but might just be there, heart and soul, as a distraction, if that's all you need. Distance, as I've always known, matters little in true friendship, but it sure makes shoulder-leaning tough.
Perhaps I shouldn't be too surprised. I have a litmus test right here inside me. A few years ago, I graduated from college as our son was Confirmed. In planning the party, I found myself so excited for my friends to meet my friends. I kept saying to myself, "Oh, she will really like her! They will be so much fun together!" Then I realized, my best friends, the ones I can share my ups and downs with, are pieces of me. Yes, they have wildly varied interests, occupations, lifestyles--but deep inside each of my friends lies a small piece of who I am, just as I lie inside them.
Recently, I've been going through a rough patch. Some people have noticed in my demeanor or my Facebook posts. Some have heard, one way or another. Some have reached out, and some have simply called to chat about nothing. I am truly blessed by the love and understanding with which I have been showered. For a time, I couldn't even breathe, and didn't know where to turn, but with each word I spoke to a friend, I was reassured, calmed, uplifted.
I'm not publishing these thoughts because I want or need to be inundated with inquiries. If I want or need to tell you, I will, in good time. Rather, I needed to share these thoughts because you need to know there is someone who will listen. Someone who will understand. Probably multiple someones--but unless the words are spoken aloud, the darkness could consume you. It almost did me, until I reached out, hard as it was, to someone I was afraid to lose.
Thank you to my friends, many of whom really do not know what I've been going through, but that I know are there, because I know I would be there for them. In a heartbeat.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
on a day like today
Some days I miss you more than others. And often, on those days, I also feel guilt for not truly appreciating you when you were here. I mean, I did appreciate you, but I probably should have told you more often, called you more often. Talked with you about nothing more often. Then I wonder: how often could possibly have been often enough to make up for now?
I know you are there, watching, as part of the night sky--in the stars and the moon.......but I do wonder at times where I am to find you in the daylight. In the times when I am supposed to be cleaning the house, making the bed, brushing my teeth. It's not just you I miss; it's what you represent. A safe haven when I'm scared, angry, confused. Never did you make me tell you what was on my mind, good or bad. We would, and could, talk about anything else to distract, clarify, connect. How many years? How many yesterdays? How many heartaches, headaches?
What I need now, what I crave at this moment, is to hear you tell me, yet again, about the day I climbed into your lap and told you that I didn't ever want to grow up, and you replying that I would always be your little girl, no matter what. No matter what.
No matter what.
You taught me strength, and you probably didn't even know it. Strength of character, forgiveness and love. Honestly, there are some times when I wish I didn't have that strength, but, again, thanks to you, I recognize those times as moments of weakness. And then I recall the lessons in humor and lightness of spirit. That is where I find my true self; my true strength.
I find myself missing you today, because I know I'm not the only one missing you. Look in on me, please, but focus your attention on who needs it most. I'm strong. And I'll find some lightness in today, I know I will.
No matter what.
I know you are there, watching, as part of the night sky--in the stars and the moon.......but I do wonder at times where I am to find you in the daylight. In the times when I am supposed to be cleaning the house, making the bed, brushing my teeth. It's not just you I miss; it's what you represent. A safe haven when I'm scared, angry, confused. Never did you make me tell you what was on my mind, good or bad. We would, and could, talk about anything else to distract, clarify, connect. How many years? How many yesterdays? How many heartaches, headaches?
What I need now, what I crave at this moment, is to hear you tell me, yet again, about the day I climbed into your lap and told you that I didn't ever want to grow up, and you replying that I would always be your little girl, no matter what. No matter what.
No matter what.
You taught me strength, and you probably didn't even know it. Strength of character, forgiveness and love. Honestly, there are some times when I wish I didn't have that strength, but, again, thanks to you, I recognize those times as moments of weakness. And then I recall the lessons in humor and lightness of spirit. That is where I find my true self; my true strength.
I find myself missing you today, because I know I'm not the only one missing you. Look in on me, please, but focus your attention on who needs it most. I'm strong. And I'll find some lightness in today, I know I will.
No matter what.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
standing up
I have a confession to make: when I was a kid, I was bullied. Funny it should be that I feel like saying so is a "confession," and I don't mean the ha-ha kind of funny. Why should I feel as though being bullied is something that should be hidden? Why do I feel as though it diminishes the strength I have now? Today's headstrong woman is not related much to that beaten down girl. Not really.
What happened back then? Specifics, I cannot tell you. I have simply chosen for so long not to remember the details, that I really, truly don't know them. What I can tell you is that for at least one school year, "J" called me fat. On a regular basis. The fact is, I was fat. Not babyfat chubby, but more on the round side. The thing is, though, that was around 2nd or 3rd grade, and by the time she started saying it, I was dancing twice a week, and had thinned out quite a bit. I do remember that when I saw a picture of myself wearing my new green knit dress, I was horrified at the little girl I had been. And between that and "J" saying it over and over, I was convinced.
Somehow, though, I think there must have been more to the story, though maybe not. Our neighborhood was a circle, and my sister and I would usually walk to the corner to catch the bus before it went around picking up kids; when we first started school, we were ostracized because we went to a parochial school and wore uniforms--the only ones on the morning bus. It was hell. There were never any seats for kids "like us." Finally, the bus driver got fed up and assigned seats to the other kids so there would be an empty seat when we got on. Soon after that, we started walking to the corner, although the route had changed slightly by then, the bus less crowded, and things started to look up.
Yet I remember clearly the day I stood at our front door, straining to see the bus lights around the circle, hoping against hope that my mother would wave the bus on when it got to our driveway. I, the kid who loved school, books, classes, even homework, did not want to go to school. I didn't want to face "J" or the other kids who would stare, or worse, laugh, when "J" would call me fat names. I wanted to stay home, curl up in a corner, and hide forever. When I told my mother that morning, through tears of fear and frustration, all she said to me was, "She's just jealous. Now stop crying, don't let her get to you, and go to school." Even now I'm stunned. Jealous of what?
"J's" bullying affected me for a very, very long time. Through the rest of Junior High, High School, and into college, I was unable to handle (read: trust) more than one or two friends at a time. Every time I left the room, I was sure someone was talking about me. I never knew what to do or say to fit in. Until I bought my Senior Ball gown, with my own money, and heard the saleswoman tell me that it "fit like a glove," I honestly thought I was fat. (I still fight that self-image, and have a very hard time accepting when people tell me I "look great.") My first boyfriend dragged my heart through the mud--repeatedly--because I had no idea that it wasn't right. More than once, I berated myself for not having the guts to run away from home.
A few months ago, while visiting with one of my oldest friends, I learned that she, too, had been bullied by "J," as well as another dear friend of ours. In fact, she told me that just about everyone she had mentioned it to in our class had been. I was amazed. And wondered what the deal was.
When my son, who enjoyed school as much for the social aspect as the educational, refused to get out of bed one morning, and told me he'd rather die than go to school again, I panicked. He told me about a classmate verbally jabbing at him, daily. I felt like a failure for not picking up on it, for not nipping it in the bud. He was in elementary school--younger than I had been. I stormed into school, and demanded to see the principal and the guidance counselor, both of whom proceeded to tell me they just couldn't see that boy doing something like that. They reassured me that they did not think my son was lying, but again said that it couldn't have been that bad, because someone would have seen or heard something. I felt like a helpless 13-year-old again: no one had seen or heard anything "J" said, except me--and her other victims, or potential victims. Nothing of significance was done, and between that incident and what I now think was bullying by the teacher he had that year, it took a good three years before he really wanted to go to school again.
The other day, someone asked a friend why bullying is considered a crisis now, after all, it's been around forever. After quite a bit of what I think was really good discussion, someone pointed out that it's not that there is more prevalence today; rather, our tolerance has reached its limit, as it had with other social "norms" that are now considered other than normal. I think that's a very good way to concisely say what so many of us who deal with kids are feeling. The causes, in my opinion, are very involved, but he was exactly right: I, for one, am fed up.
College saved me. I finally learned to be someone I could be proud of, ironically related to an incident of a teacher bullying a classmate, and she stood up to the teacher. When I later took a class in which the instructor tried to intimidate me, I proudly stood up to him, and came out with both my pride and an A.
Shortly before I left for college, looking through my old pictures, I realized that all that time when "J" was telling me how fat I was, she was always much heavier than I was. If only that realization could have erased the damage done, perhaps having been a victim wouldn't feel so dirty. Maybe it's because I know people who have been through much worse at the hands of someone else; I don't feel worthy or something. All I know is that a part of me did run away, I just didn't know it.
What happened back then? Specifics, I cannot tell you. I have simply chosen for so long not to remember the details, that I really, truly don't know them. What I can tell you is that for at least one school year, "J" called me fat. On a regular basis. The fact is, I was fat. Not babyfat chubby, but more on the round side. The thing is, though, that was around 2nd or 3rd grade, and by the time she started saying it, I was dancing twice a week, and had thinned out quite a bit. I do remember that when I saw a picture of myself wearing my new green knit dress, I was horrified at the little girl I had been. And between that and "J" saying it over and over, I was convinced.
Somehow, though, I think there must have been more to the story, though maybe not. Our neighborhood was a circle, and my sister and I would usually walk to the corner to catch the bus before it went around picking up kids; when we first started school, we were ostracized because we went to a parochial school and wore uniforms--the only ones on the morning bus. It was hell. There were never any seats for kids "like us." Finally, the bus driver got fed up and assigned seats to the other kids so there would be an empty seat when we got on. Soon after that, we started walking to the corner, although the route had changed slightly by then, the bus less crowded, and things started to look up.
Yet I remember clearly the day I stood at our front door, straining to see the bus lights around the circle, hoping against hope that my mother would wave the bus on when it got to our driveway. I, the kid who loved school, books, classes, even homework, did not want to go to school. I didn't want to face "J" or the other kids who would stare, or worse, laugh, when "J" would call me fat names. I wanted to stay home, curl up in a corner, and hide forever. When I told my mother that morning, through tears of fear and frustration, all she said to me was, "She's just jealous. Now stop crying, don't let her get to you, and go to school." Even now I'm stunned. Jealous of what?
"J's" bullying affected me for a very, very long time. Through the rest of Junior High, High School, and into college, I was unable to handle (read: trust) more than one or two friends at a time. Every time I left the room, I was sure someone was talking about me. I never knew what to do or say to fit in. Until I bought my Senior Ball gown, with my own money, and heard the saleswoman tell me that it "fit like a glove," I honestly thought I was fat. (I still fight that self-image, and have a very hard time accepting when people tell me I "look great.") My first boyfriend dragged my heart through the mud--repeatedly--because I had no idea that it wasn't right. More than once, I berated myself for not having the guts to run away from home.
A few months ago, while visiting with one of my oldest friends, I learned that she, too, had been bullied by "J," as well as another dear friend of ours. In fact, she told me that just about everyone she had mentioned it to in our class had been. I was amazed. And wondered what the deal was.
When my son, who enjoyed school as much for the social aspect as the educational, refused to get out of bed one morning, and told me he'd rather die than go to school again, I panicked. He told me about a classmate verbally jabbing at him, daily. I felt like a failure for not picking up on it, for not nipping it in the bud. He was in elementary school--younger than I had been. I stormed into school, and demanded to see the principal and the guidance counselor, both of whom proceeded to tell me they just couldn't see that boy doing something like that. They reassured me that they did not think my son was lying, but again said that it couldn't have been that bad, because someone would have seen or heard something. I felt like a helpless 13-year-old again: no one had seen or heard anything "J" said, except me--and her other victims, or potential victims. Nothing of significance was done, and between that incident and what I now think was bullying by the teacher he had that year, it took a good three years before he really wanted to go to school again.
The other day, someone asked a friend why bullying is considered a crisis now, after all, it's been around forever. After quite a bit of what I think was really good discussion, someone pointed out that it's not that there is more prevalence today; rather, our tolerance has reached its limit, as it had with other social "norms" that are now considered other than normal. I think that's a very good way to concisely say what so many of us who deal with kids are feeling. The causes, in my opinion, are very involved, but he was exactly right: I, for one, am fed up.
College saved me. I finally learned to be someone I could be proud of, ironically related to an incident of a teacher bullying a classmate, and she stood up to the teacher. When I later took a class in which the instructor tried to intimidate me, I proudly stood up to him, and came out with both my pride and an A.
Shortly before I left for college, looking through my old pictures, I realized that all that time when "J" was telling me how fat I was, she was always much heavier than I was. If only that realization could have erased the damage done, perhaps having been a victim wouldn't feel so dirty. Maybe it's because I know people who have been through much worse at the hands of someone else; I don't feel worthy or something. All I know is that a part of me did run away, I just didn't know it.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
looking back
Cold days. Long nights.
Darktime.
I don't remember it ever bothering me as much as it has the past two winters. Probably prior to that, I was better able to cocoon myself into ignoring the darkness--working, baking, reading, dancing--but now I have more running around I need to do. That's why I see the darkness so much. I used to see it as an old friend; one I could visit with as I enjoyed a mug of cocoa or a glass of wine while curled up on the couch under one of Grammy's afghans when I was living at home, or one of my quilts when we bought our own home. Watching TV, reading a book, snuggling with the kids, it was all so much easier to do during the darktime.
The boys are grown now. Not completely grown; after all, they are all still in school and living here and all that, but they are grown enough to not want to snuggle and cuddle anymore, although I do still read to Drew and Joseph when we can carve out the time. They are old enough to make more choices about what we see on TV, and when the majority rules me out, I find myself reading in my bed, all alone, which only adds to the effect darktime has.
I can't tell if the change happened suddenly, or over time; whether it was related to an event, or not. I do know that Dad's death in the winter made that winter harder, and that very well may have been the beginning, but I can't say that it was the turning point. The winter that Guy coached at a pool further away from home was also tough--he was gone more, it was a miserable winter, and I was truly lonely. Again, a possible contributing factor, but not the "one thing" that changed winter for me. There's also my theory that working outside at the pool for two summers has reset my personal rhythms (I'd never really been what one would call "outdoorsy" and the first summer was a real shock to my system!) making the darktime all the darker. This theory of mine has started to feed a sub-theory that we humans are fueled to a certain extent by solar energy--but that's another topic for another time.
What I do know is that I am really having a hard time. As I look out the window in front of me, I can still see a lightness to the sky at 4:57pm, but it's hard to be thankful for it some days. Perhaps if it were not so cold and dreary, the dark would be more bearable. The best thing about recognizing this pain (and it is painful--my heart aches at times) is that I can try things to make it manageable. I've thought often about what has carried me through before, and as a result, I've turned back to baking and cooking, using more intricate and challenging recipes; recipes that will, essentially, take longer to prepare. Focusing on what is right in front of me takes my eyes off the dark sky. I do feel better.
This winter has been a bit milder. Still cold, but no snow, really. Guy and I have been able to run outside more than last winter, and I think that may help a bit, although getting back at 5:40am, getting ready for work, and leaving around 6:40 when it's still dark may rewind some of the benefit. Whether it's the cold or the darktime feelings, running in the winter seems to be harder, and I struggle with distances that in the summer were easier.
At any rate, the days are getting longer, little by little. And I've also been talking more about how hard this has been, which has led me to the realization, or confirmation, that I am not alone at all. I no longer feel as though I am 'confiding;' rather, I am sharing, and of all things, I think this helps the most. The darktime had always been my thinking time, my alone time, my introspection/retrospection time. Somewhere in there a little pain got mixed in, and it needs to be expunged.
I'm working on it.
Darktime.
I don't remember it ever bothering me as much as it has the past two winters. Probably prior to that, I was better able to cocoon myself into ignoring the darkness--working, baking, reading, dancing--but now I have more running around I need to do. That's why I see the darkness so much. I used to see it as an old friend; one I could visit with as I enjoyed a mug of cocoa or a glass of wine while curled up on the couch under one of Grammy's afghans when I was living at home, or one of my quilts when we bought our own home. Watching TV, reading a book, snuggling with the kids, it was all so much easier to do during the darktime.
The boys are grown now. Not completely grown; after all, they are all still in school and living here and all that, but they are grown enough to not want to snuggle and cuddle anymore, although I do still read to Drew and Joseph when we can carve out the time. They are old enough to make more choices about what we see on TV, and when the majority rules me out, I find myself reading in my bed, all alone, which only adds to the effect darktime has.
I can't tell if the change happened suddenly, or over time; whether it was related to an event, or not. I do know that Dad's death in the winter made that winter harder, and that very well may have been the beginning, but I can't say that it was the turning point. The winter that Guy coached at a pool further away from home was also tough--he was gone more, it was a miserable winter, and I was truly lonely. Again, a possible contributing factor, but not the "one thing" that changed winter for me. There's also my theory that working outside at the pool for two summers has reset my personal rhythms (I'd never really been what one would call "outdoorsy" and the first summer was a real shock to my system!) making the darktime all the darker. This theory of mine has started to feed a sub-theory that we humans are fueled to a certain extent by solar energy--but that's another topic for another time.
What I do know is that I am really having a hard time. As I look out the window in front of me, I can still see a lightness to the sky at 4:57pm, but it's hard to be thankful for it some days. Perhaps if it were not so cold and dreary, the dark would be more bearable. The best thing about recognizing this pain (and it is painful--my heart aches at times) is that I can try things to make it manageable. I've thought often about what has carried me through before, and as a result, I've turned back to baking and cooking, using more intricate and challenging recipes; recipes that will, essentially, take longer to prepare. Focusing on what is right in front of me takes my eyes off the dark sky. I do feel better.
This winter has been a bit milder. Still cold, but no snow, really. Guy and I have been able to run outside more than last winter, and I think that may help a bit, although getting back at 5:40am, getting ready for work, and leaving around 6:40 when it's still dark may rewind some of the benefit. Whether it's the cold or the darktime feelings, running in the winter seems to be harder, and I struggle with distances that in the summer were easier.
At any rate, the days are getting longer, little by little. And I've also been talking more about how hard this has been, which has led me to the realization, or confirmation, that I am not alone at all. I no longer feel as though I am 'confiding;' rather, I am sharing, and of all things, I think this helps the most. The darktime had always been my thinking time, my alone time, my introspection/retrospection time. Somewhere in there a little pain got mixed in, and it needs to be expunged.
I'm working on it.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
(loss of) clarity and vision
Helping my aging mother is hard. "Handling" her has always been difficult for me; we clash on everything, beginning with personality, and ranging all the way to lettuce. This is really nothing new, and I am truly not surprised, and I find myself--often--wishing.
Her sight has deteriorated, and with it her feeling that life is worth living. Time and again, she has told us that there is nothing without seeing. She alternately tells strangers that she is legally blind (which may or may not be the case) and wonders why people think she can't see (because she doesn't attempt to focus on people's voices at times).
Guy asked her one evening if she believes sight is the most important of the senses. "Of course!!" she responded. "What other sense is?" She went on to say that it is the most important because it's the only one that makes everything possible: with out perfect vision, she won't be able to cook, or to read, or to talk to people. No one else except blind people have trouble with these things, she said. So we started asking her questions.....So, if you are missing a hand, and therefore some sense of touch, you can cook? Oh, yes, she said. It's hard, but you could do it. So people who are deaf can converse anywhere? Oh, yes, they can learn to read lips, or do sign language. They can overcome that loss.
And so it went, with her "proving" that no sense was as "important" as sight. No "handicap" was as bad.
Why and how, then, can people who are blind from birth live full and productive lives. "They probably can't," she said, " because they can't see." Nothing has made me so sad as hearing that sentiment. In the conversation, the question finally came up--
"Don't you think that acceptance plays a part in dealing with any handicap?"
Her reply: "Probably. But I am not accepting of much."
Ain't that the truth! She has not yet accepted my father's death, nearly 5 years ago. (I'm not happy about his death, and I miss him terribly, and talk to him often, but I have accepted it, and am able to live my life without him) In their relationship, he was the hunter/gatherer, and she was the gardener; even when it came to friendships. She does not do well in new situations, or in groups of strangers, no matter how big or small. My father, on the other hand, shone in a room full of strangers. I always marvelled, and still do, at his ability to befriend anyone, and put them at ease in any situation--even when afterwards he might say that he couldn't stand them. Somewhere in my mind, I always knew that he was the light who attracted people like moths, and Mom was the one who maintained, somehow. He was the icebreaker. Because I'd known this my whole life, I mistakenly assumed that she knew, too. When she moved here and insisted on meeting her own friends, rather than getting to know any of ours, I thought perhaps she was hoping to transform herself; to go outside her comfort zone, and reach out to others.
Instead, she expected others to reach out to her.
She would come home from Church, and tell me that the people were so unfriendly. No one had asked her if she was new in town. None of her new neighbors had come to her door and introduced themselves (except for the ones on this side of the house, and on that side, and the two across the street....). No one had invited her to come over (again, except for the ones across the street, and those ones there...). At the grocery store, no one came up to her and asked about the melons. When I pointed out that she had not engaged anyone else, either, she told me, time and again, that she shouldn't have to; that she should be approached. And still, she did not want to meet any of our friends' parents, or spend any time conversing with our friends. Why? She didn't want to have to explain where Dad is. That's what she's told me. As if, at 74, there is some kind of shame in being a widow, or it's not "normal."
And now, with failing sight, she sees little value in talking to others. She has difficulty reading, but won't just say, "Please use a bigger and bolder font when you email me." (something my godmother asked me to do once when responding to one of my 12-font emails.) "Please use a bold marker to write to me, instead of a pen." "Please use black ink on unlined white paper." She wants no one to accommodate for her, and she does not want to accommodate.
And, as always, there is little I can say that is "right." When I last told her that she should do something other than sit by herself, she told me that I expect too much. I expect too much that my perfectly healthy, yet somewhat vision-impaired, only 74-year-old mother should live her life, instead of sitting around waiting to die?? Yes, she said.
And so, I take her to the grocery store, and do it wrong. We take her to Church each week, but she feels isolated there. I take her to doctor appointments, and she complains that I am not keeping track of the mileage. She thanks me now, and tells me she appreciates all that I do, but I still am wincing from the gentleman who asked how my grandmother is, and was stunned to learn she is my mother. (I tried to believe it was because I looked young, but I know I don't look that young!)
The other day, she told me she keeps praying for courage and strength, and doesn't understand why God won't give it to her, and keeps making this so hard; and that she'd read that one cannot pay for their sins by suffering here on earth. I asked her, once again, what makes this "suffering." She can still listen--to the books on tape that the Association for the Blind sends her, or to books on tape we could get her from the Library; she can still talk with the boys, on the phone with her children and far-off friends and relatives. She can still live, and that, perhaps, God would like her to rejoice in the things she could still do. And she responded that she does, all the time, think about all the things she could do, at one time, but can't do now. I could only bite my tongue and grieve silently.
After all, I had already told her, when you pray for strength and courage, what you get are challenges to make yourself stronger and face your fears. Prayers of Thanksgiving are so much more effective.
Her sight has deteriorated, and with it her feeling that life is worth living. Time and again, she has told us that there is nothing without seeing. She alternately tells strangers that she is legally blind (which may or may not be the case) and wonders why people think she can't see (because she doesn't attempt to focus on people's voices at times).
Guy asked her one evening if she believes sight is the most important of the senses. "Of course!!" she responded. "What other sense is?" She went on to say that it is the most important because it's the only one that makes everything possible: with out perfect vision, she won't be able to cook, or to read, or to talk to people. No one else except blind people have trouble with these things, she said. So we started asking her questions.....So, if you are missing a hand, and therefore some sense of touch, you can cook? Oh, yes, she said. It's hard, but you could do it. So people who are deaf can converse anywhere? Oh, yes, they can learn to read lips, or do sign language. They can overcome that loss.
And so it went, with her "proving" that no sense was as "important" as sight. No "handicap" was as bad.
Why and how, then, can people who are blind from birth live full and productive lives. "They probably can't," she said, " because they can't see." Nothing has made me so sad as hearing that sentiment. In the conversation, the question finally came up--
"Don't you think that acceptance plays a part in dealing with any handicap?"
Her reply: "Probably. But I am not accepting of much."
Ain't that the truth! She has not yet accepted my father's death, nearly 5 years ago. (I'm not happy about his death, and I miss him terribly, and talk to him often, but I have accepted it, and am able to live my life without him) In their relationship, he was the hunter/gatherer, and she was the gardener; even when it came to friendships. She does not do well in new situations, or in groups of strangers, no matter how big or small. My father, on the other hand, shone in a room full of strangers. I always marvelled, and still do, at his ability to befriend anyone, and put them at ease in any situation--even when afterwards he might say that he couldn't stand them. Somewhere in my mind, I always knew that he was the light who attracted people like moths, and Mom was the one who maintained, somehow. He was the icebreaker. Because I'd known this my whole life, I mistakenly assumed that she knew, too. When she moved here and insisted on meeting her own friends, rather than getting to know any of ours, I thought perhaps she was hoping to transform herself; to go outside her comfort zone, and reach out to others.
Instead, she expected others to reach out to her.
She would come home from Church, and tell me that the people were so unfriendly. No one had asked her if she was new in town. None of her new neighbors had come to her door and introduced themselves (except for the ones on this side of the house, and on that side, and the two across the street....). No one had invited her to come over (again, except for the ones across the street, and those ones there...). At the grocery store, no one came up to her and asked about the melons. When I pointed out that she had not engaged anyone else, either, she told me, time and again, that she shouldn't have to; that she should be approached. And still, she did not want to meet any of our friends' parents, or spend any time conversing with our friends. Why? She didn't want to have to explain where Dad is. That's what she's told me. As if, at 74, there is some kind of shame in being a widow, or it's not "normal."
And now, with failing sight, she sees little value in talking to others. She has difficulty reading, but won't just say, "Please use a bigger and bolder font when you email me." (something my godmother asked me to do once when responding to one of my 12-font emails.) "Please use a bold marker to write to me, instead of a pen." "Please use black ink on unlined white paper." She wants no one to accommodate for her, and she does not want to accommodate.
And, as always, there is little I can say that is "right." When I last told her that she should do something other than sit by herself, she told me that I expect too much. I expect too much that my perfectly healthy, yet somewhat vision-impaired, only 74-year-old mother should live her life, instead of sitting around waiting to die?? Yes, she said.
And so, I take her to the grocery store, and do it wrong. We take her to Church each week, but she feels isolated there. I take her to doctor appointments, and she complains that I am not keeping track of the mileage. She thanks me now, and tells me she appreciates all that I do, but I still am wincing from the gentleman who asked how my grandmother is, and was stunned to learn she is my mother. (I tried to believe it was because I looked young, but I know I don't look that young!)
The other day, she told me she keeps praying for courage and strength, and doesn't understand why God won't give it to her, and keeps making this so hard; and that she'd read that one cannot pay for their sins by suffering here on earth. I asked her, once again, what makes this "suffering." She can still listen--to the books on tape that the Association for the Blind sends her, or to books on tape we could get her from the Library; she can still talk with the boys, on the phone with her children and far-off friends and relatives. She can still live, and that, perhaps, God would like her to rejoice in the things she could still do. And she responded that she does, all the time, think about all the things she could do, at one time, but can't do now. I could only bite my tongue and grieve silently.
After all, I had already told her, when you pray for strength and courage, what you get are challenges to make yourself stronger and face your fears. Prayers of Thanksgiving are so much more effective.
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