How do you Measure, Measure a Year (RENT) ?

01 May 2022 Leave a comment

by cindythea in thoughts, Uncategorized Tags: , , ,

It is no secret that musicals tend to run on auto play in my head-well just about any song lyrics from my various playlists flood my brain at any given moment of the day. This time as I reflect on this of all days, RENT seems the most apropos.

The above picture is the exact same day 1 year later- In one picture I am posing for an award nomination that I received, and the other one, I was fresh out of a salon afternoon. Both instances I was in the same salon-doing my thing and letting them do theirs. The differences are stark- and they have not left me alone since I saw it. The fact that it was April Fool’s Day is also not lost on me. Huh.

Today, May 1st marks the 1 year anniversary that I moved out on my own, left a place that I had known for well over 2 decades. A place that I had helped create-fostered-thought was a haven–it was simply a location. 1 year ago, I packed what I was taking to my new home and set forth to create something new. My youngest son was with me-numerous trips had already been made and the furnishings were coming together. One of my besties accompanied me, loading what could not fit in my car-a car that my youngest now drives daily (that’ll mess with your head), and followed me out into the country.

I remember driving away with such a mixture of feelings. I knew that I would never return to this location as a family member-part of a unit. I knew that I had no right to expect that and out of respect I have maintained those boundaries. Knowing that I would be there as a guest of the home hurt. I knew what went on in those four walls-I knew the people inside, knew their habits, their schedules, their idiosyncrasies. I knew I was leaving the comfort of what was known and starting something new. I was scared, I was terrified, I doubted my decision, I doubted me.

I felt massive levels of shame- and guilt. Mostly I felt ashamed. I felt that way for so many reasons. I was walking out-walking away from something that I knew was imperfect, but it was known. I was leaving 2 sons that I had seen day in-day out for the last 17 years…I felt like part of me was ripping apart at the seams as I contemplated life without their noise and mess around me 24-7. I felt so much shame at not being able to piece something back together-to give it one more shot. To be honest, I didn’t have 1 more shot left in me-my physical body and my emotional well being were screaming at me that is was time do something or others may be left holding the pieces. The heart scare was enough to awaken me to time. It is oh, so short. Having to go through those tests, hearing the doctors tell me that if I was going to have a problem, this was the one to have-enduring episode after episode until resolution happened was terrifying. But, it woke me up. I remember being the in ER and the lead Dr, ( I had worked with her often as a chaplain), look at me and ask, “A little Ativan to take the edge off? Our pulse is still 175, you’re not leaving here until I see it at 100 at least.” I actually told her no, that I could do it on my own-that I had this in complete control. OBVIOUSLY I didn’t-I had been brought in with a pulse rate of 255 ( I guess that’s a little fast). Obviously I could not get this under control on my own-but damn I was bound and determined to maintain that stubborn, stiff upper lip, ask no one for anything attitude that has bound me in titanium for 47 years. I was not going to break for anything-I vowed that I would never break.

I broke.

In fact, I have been breaking for a year.

I drove away from the house, steeped in shame, doubt, fear, and unconfident.

I look at the 2 pictures posted above and I am shocked by the difference in them. They are like 2 totally different people. Sure, the smile is the same shape, the eyes too, still gots good hair (thank you to my amazing stylists). There are other elements that exist in the picture on the right. The woman on the left looks ok, but it appears like she is going through the motions-the eyes have no luster, no life in them. The face is strained-what emotion is in there is for show-to let people on the outside know that NOTHING is wrong and NOTHING will penetrate titanium-that I can do all the things on my own.

The woman on the right-the smile is open-engaging-dare I say happy? The eyes are more alive, they contain more energy, they invite a person to come along for whatever ride we’re about to take-together. The face-albeit with more wrinkles than I would like, is relaxed, contains some character. You may wanna hang with this one- For the first time I am willing to admit that I DO hang with this one.

I never wanted anything to do with the many facets that are me. Driving out to my new home a year ago, I knew that I would be left alone with one person and one person only-me (well me, and my best boy OLIVER, the PUG). Did I have the courage to sit with her, dine with her, care for her, and rest with her night after night, alone? Did I want to? Could I stand to be with her and all her stuff?

As I watched people unpack my home, placing items in cupboards and re-arranging furniture, I felt such immense sadness at what I had left. I felt horrible that I could not give my children a perfect story, a fairy tale ending where no one got hurt. I knew others would be left in the house, dealing with their own stuff and it hurt to know that I had caused part of that.

People left, the house in the country got quiet, really quiet. Out in the country, you have space and time does seem to stand still. My son went in to the other house in town and I was left to my own vices-and to discover where he had put most of my kitchenware. I was alone, with only my thoughts, emotions, and days to fill on my own.

That first night was so quiet-so was the next one, and the next, and so on. A year later it is still so quiet. But I do not fear that quiet as much as I did those first couple weeks. Weekends, when they aren’t jam packed are solitary and often inspire me to feel a certain amount of loneliness. And, not gonna lie, the nights are the roughest-when you are working on something (in my case writing or reading) and you have a thought and you lift your head to share it-there is no one there to hear it. I used to visit my son’s rooms each night, hug them tight, and whisper, “You are beautifully and wonderfully made. And I love you.” It was our thing-my way of connecting with them and I no longer had that. That gutted me-still does. I often watch, search, yearn to see on my phone that moment of connection and often have to choke back a moment when it doesn’t come-and then the joyous smile I have when I see the opposite happen!! They remembered! They read my text! I matter! I AM important to them!

Even though I would tell them good night, I would then walk down the hallway, into my room, sit on my bed and be there- alone. You see, you can be surrounded by people and still feel alone. I was feeling that and my face and my demeanor and my room showed it. My room was a scattering of mess. In fact, I rarely entered the living room for any length of time-unless it was to pick up or whatever and I often remarked that there was not one thing of mine in that room-nothing in it that indicated that I was there-I had never noticed it-never noticed how small I had made myself–how many layers of titanium I had built to wall me off from the rest of the world. I had never noticed how many bricks I had added- I had not broken because I couldn’t feel anything. And no one could get to me-but I dearly wanted people to come in-I just wouldn’t let them.

Today, a year later-and it’s been a year. The boys come and go-sharing time in and out of town. That is still hard to get used to-but I know they are ok. I miss hearing their commotion-dearly miss talking to them in the morning-I did not realize how much I needed or wanted those connections at night and in the morning. But, they matter. They matter because they make me feel like I belong to someone, that there is a tether between me and them and though the outside world exists and still turns, there is a home base for all of us. They matter because it’s important to tell the people in your world that they are important to you-it is something I am teaching them–when it happens, I am on cloud 9 (whatever that means). When it doesn’t and I go holidays or weekends without hearing from them, I feel this immense void-like a part of me is hollow. I know that will subside, that there will be days, weeks, and months in the future that I will not hear from them. Today, though, I need that connection that lets me know that for now, we’re ok-maybe even more than ok.

Today, a year later, I can honestly say the process of melting titanium is taking place-it is painstakingly arduous. It hurts worse than any pain I have ever experienced. There have been issues and situations that have come about in this last year that have driven me to my knees-knocked the breath from me, and catapulted me into memories I thought I had boxed neatly and shelved. I can say that I am breaking-breaking molds that I hid behind-narratives that I play ad nauseum, theories that I have fostered, beliefs that I held onto with everything that I had. Those are breaking free and it often leaves me feeling naked and vulnerable and that screams at me that that is weak. Vulnerability isn’t weak-it’s hella strong! I am learning that and I am admitting to you, dear reader, that I suck at it. I am constantly asking myself if I am doing it right so that I don’t mess up-OMG it is exhausting. It means looking at situations head on and asking myself why I am having the reaction I am- (enter CPE training here) and what can I own versus what is for others to own. That is hard, especially for this people pleasing, over functioning, empath.

Today, a year later, I have discovered a village of people who are FAMILY! I may have been part of separating one family unit ( and I miss those relatives dearly), and motivated a new definition of how we do it, but it’s being done. I have learned that despite my smart kid in the class mentality (and I LIKE it that way!), that I DON’T KNOW JACK….I am coming to grips with that knowledge and I can’t say I revel in it. I have seen incredible acts of love and kindness and I have seen people and situations ripped apart-and each level me as I feel them intensely. I have experienced love and acceptance from people who barely know me, but convey such care, love, and regard for me that it often brings me to tears. I am recognizing so much that was never on my radar-so many ways of doing and looking at things, that I am often left baffled and wondering if I am doing it right. That’s where grace enters. There’s always grace-I am learning to extend that my way-there’s lots of layers to this writer that have yet to be uncovered and each of them needs TLC and a whole lot of grace.

On my counselor’s floor a week ago, I uttered some of the most honest words I had ever said in her office, ” I don’t know how to do this.” I really don’t.

Today, a year later, while breaking up is hard to do, time heals and new ways of relating take shape-or not in some cases. What is happening is the chinks in the titanium armor are elongating, giving way to revealing the squishy-the smooshy. I am not always sure I like that and I often retreat back in, hide out, and deflect to concentrate on others-to love on them, to compliment who and what they are-to build them, because it’s easier to do. It’s easier to flip a compliment than to say thank you and let others know how much their insight means to me-it’s easier to believe that they are lying-that they don’t mean what they said, that they’re just being nice-that’s BS! And, I am learning that.

So.

Today, a year later, I continue to break.

Shalom,

cah

18 and Life to Go~

22 Mar 2022 2 Comments

by cindythea in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , ,

ENHANCE_NONE

” This time no one’s gonna say goodbye
I keep you in this heart of mine
This time I know it’s never over
No matter who or what I am
I’ll carry where we all began
This time that we had, I will hold forever” Criss Darren Everett

These lyrics came back to me yesterday, on my son’s 18th birthday-as he stands on the precipice of a new chapter beginning in a few months, I felt all the feels at his most recent med check appointment with his psych Dr. My son signed off on a medical release which allows his father and I the right to still be involved in his care as he moves into adulthood. It was a bittersweet moment as I sat, listening and planning my son’s future-a future where I can no longer call the shots-a future where I loosen control and see if he can fly.

I am terrified. I am terrified to let go-terrified to loosen a grip-terrified to step back, and terrified to feel. For the last 18 years a little boy has depended on me to supply so many of his needs and as he ages these instances he needs me are fewer, but are more important- they are bigger. For the past 12 years, since the summer he was 6 years old and my deepest feared suspicions were confirmed, I have lived and breathed in the midst of what is best for him-his needs and his future.

I remember clearly the moment when I knew something was amiss-I knew that my son was hurting in ways that I could not reach. Something had gone terribly wrong at his summer care environment-so wrong that I had to file a report at the behest of mandatory reporters-so wrong that, to this day, he cannot remember, and that’s ok. At the height of the most turmoil, he snapped. His anger, hurt, and rage spewed forth in a temper tantrum of mammoth proportions. At one point I peeled him off the wall as he climbed up to tear down the blinds in his room and wrapped him in my arms. Stumbling backward toward his bed, I held him as he growled at me, hit me as hard as he could, and screamed obscenities. As I held him, with his back against my chest, he pulled his head forward, reared back, and threw his head backward, square in my face. He heard the thud and saw the blood from my nose on my arm and he laughed a low, guttural sneer of derision. I wrapped my arms tighter around him, rocked him back and forth, and sang quietly to him. His body was so rigid, hot, and sweat covered-and slowly relaxed into my arms. Mocking gave way to soft sobs as the energy drained from him-I knew. I knew my son needed help that I could not provide.

Weeks later the long road to tests, appointments, and questions began. It culminated in the moment that my baby boy, 6 years old, took off after his father because the DVR had cut off part of a program without him being able to watch the ending-moments later he stood in my bathroom, laughing over a container of pudding-and a spoon.

I loaded him in a borrowed jeep-braved some treacherous weather and walked him into the admittance floor of Avera Behavioral. A week later, a triple diagnosis and then some was reached-the ADHD was obvious-the cycling mood and TIC disorder co-morphed with high generalized anxiety added to an emotional cocktail of crap. This is the first time I have ever typed that it was a complete cocktail of crap–it sucked- it still does. I remember that week so distinctly-I remember him calling me in tears because his floor was watching Old Yeller and he couldn’t take the heartache.

My baby, my first grader, embarked on a med journey that was a roller coaster of stops and starts-of iep meetings and accommodations, of countless emotional outbursts, and dreams dashed. He had wanted, from Day 1, to serve in the Air Force and fly the planes. It was all he talked about-his nearly savant like memory could (and still can) recall every detail of every fighter plane, book, documentary, and article and he had to let that go-and I had to watch him do so.

I watched as classmates called him every name in the book-listened to his anguish as locker partners kicked his books down the hall and laughed as he crawled to pick them up- heard others tell him he was unwanted-weird, that he didn’t belong-and that the world and his school would be a better place if he were not in it. The emotions rose to the surface so many times-and there were instances when I intercepted veiled and obvious threats which meant additional trips to his counselor. No one knew the nights I sat outside his door-listening to the sound of silence, no one knew how many times I snuck into his room to check to make sure he was still breathing-making sure that none of the tears that stung just behind my eyes landed on his pillow or his cheek as I leaned down to hold him every hour. No one knew the prayers I uttered.

And, no one knew the rage that I fostered in my own heart-rage fueled by guilt, fear, and regret. I wanted my healthy, vibrant, engaging little boy that had captured my heart the moment he locked eyes on mine, seconds after he was born. And, there were times that my rage got the better of me-when words spewed forth like so much verbal vomit unleashing the venom at these diseases and its impacts on his life. I wanted so much more for him. I still do.

There were so so so many times that I didn’t know if we would get him through-I didn’t know if the meds, the counseling sessions, the outpourings of love would be enough. I didn’t know as we sat through meeting after meeting, whether the grades would be there-if the scores would reflect his ability-if college was even a possibility.

And yet–he did it! 18 and yesterday on his birthday he sat opposite his psych Dr., the same one who has been with us since the beginning-called him on some of his crap and held him accountable. He placed the ball in my son’s court and challenged him to get his head out of his ass. He’s gone to Prom-qualified for Nationals in Speech events multiple times, is the go-to percussionist on the school’s drum set. Now I watch as he drives back into town to pick up his girlfriend, clad in outfits that he chooses complete with a black fedora and a smile. I marveled at his poise when, on his birthday, he toured the university he will attend in a few short months and met the highest leadership people on campus. He was confident, articulate, engaging, and real-he was my Bug. I choked back tears most of the day, observing my baby boy walk into manhood right before my eyes as he caught a glimpse of a future awaiting him. All of this exists as I gaze at above picture-taken just before we went in for his last and first med check appointment-his last boy and his first adult visit simultaneously. And, I am proud of my son.

And yet, I continue to choke back sobs as I bat down the fear that eats at my guts-fear that I have not done enough, that I have not prepared him for the next chapter, that I have not filled his toolbox with enough tools to do the job. I choke back regret for words and fights where I could have damaged his psyche in ways from which he would not recover-I choke back my own impatience-my loss of dreams for him-for the anger at having to accept my baby boy’s condition as lifelong- he will always have to take meds-he will always battle the demons, the statics, the interferences, and the lapses in observation and emotion. I can’t take any of it away-and that hurts something terrible. I want to give him the world and I can’t. I want to restore to him the dreams he’s put away, to rewind the clock and give him the friendships, party invitations, and connections that could have been his-but I can’t. And accepting that is so so hard-and relinquishing the reigns to him is doubly difficult. But, I have to have faith in this wonder boy of mine-and he is, wonder-filled.

I have to have faith that he is in the right place at the right time doing the next right thing. I have to believe in the work we’ve done and his own tenacity to carry him through to the next chapter. I have to let go-and that, well, those words are the toughest ones to write-and to see on the screen as I swipe at the tears I don’t want to fall. Luna, the cat, just heard me sniff and hopped down off her perch to stand on the couch next to me and trill- I think she knows. Because in the midst of all this wonder and goodness-I feel alone-and small and scared and hopeful and confused and a little like a piece of me is disappearing and I don’t know what to do. I feel old and a little girl all at once with no real answers to the pile of questions on my heart.

As I look at the lyrics above, my son, his smile, his heart, his spirit fills my mind-I know that I will carry these experiences for a lifetime and that they have shaped the woman I am today in countless ways- Never in my dreams did I think I would parent a special needs child-one so gifted and conflicted at the same time-Never did I think I could do it- but here we are-

With his 18 and LIFE to go…..(the journey continues)

At it Again

05 Jan 2022 1 Comment

by cindythea in thoughts, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , ,

It has been almost a year since I have written anything publicly-a year in which so many changes took place it is overwhelming to consider. Yesterday, January 4th, I felt compelled to write but didn’t necessarily felt justified to do so. Wound up in a fit of uncertainty about why I was writing, the purpose, & whether anyone would actually read my words had me questioning. Then I realized that, for a writer, the goal is to write–to let the words tumble forth and see what becomes of them.

Today, I endeavor.

A year ago unmistakable physical signs appeared that dictated I take action to ensure my health & safety. I had had instances of similar physical signs before this particular day, but I downplayed them-offered an excuse as to why they were happening, ignored them & told myself that they did not matter. In doing so, I also told myself that I did not matter & had never had the guts to admit that I felt that way.

As I sat atop a stretcher, an ambulance ready to receive me, I talked with my oldest son who was 16 at the time. I told him what was going on, (to the best of my knowledge) instructed him as to next steps at home, & assured him that I was ok. ( I was in great hands and I knew it) He later remarked that, “You were so calm, I could see the pulse rate in the mid 200’s on the monitor, and you were so calm in what you were telling me….how did you do that?” Well, that’s part autopilot, part mom protect son moment, & chaplain non anxious presence all wrapped into one. The fact is, I was scared.

The ride, the ER visit, the care I received was top notch, but what I discovered in the ER procedure room was what changed my life drastically.

As the ER Dr., a middle aged, talented, smart, articulate woman checked my vitals and noted that my pulse rate was still not coming down into manageable range, looked me dead in the eyes and offered some “Ativan to bring this down, yes?” I responded with a, “no-I can take care of it on my own”–I am strong, capable, smart-dammit, I have been taught to be independent & resilient. We don’t depend on anyone-we sojourn on-on our own. Oh the stories we tell ourselves. I could no more resolve this SVT episode than I can do physics (or much of any math for that matter). She recognized a problem, knew a solution, & was offering assistance-not offering, directing my path so that I could be in a better position physically than I currently was (it seems pulse rates of 175 are not good either). Why would I not listen? The stories.

Over my shoulder, the person I had spent almost the last 25 years with, sat in a chair, masked, & quiet. Instantly, something in me broke. Quiet-I’ve never been described as that-(I’ve been described as many other things-but not quiet- Incidentally, I CAN be quiet-serene). I am a take charge, get things accomplished, rally the troops, & rise to the occasion kind of woman. I look at problems & situations, asking myself what in the status quo fits, what doesn’t, & what is to be my response? (Sometimes no response IS the response). To see a situation unfolding in an ER room, with Dr.’s & nurses rapidly responding, my heart rate racing & anxiety climbing, then seeing quiet equated unresponsive in my mind & the lies I had been telling myself came into clear focus.

Just as I had ignored physical symptoms for almost 2 months prior, I had ignored who I had become, forgotten what I wanted-(or never really explored what I wanted), & completely disregarded what I needed. I had made myself small-shrunk my needs ( if I had any) & dreams into a tiny ball & shoved it aside. I was hiding in my room, hiding in my work, hiding in focusing on everyone else around me. The quiet I observed was the loudest sound in the room-it eclipsed the monitors, the vocalized directives, the voices in my head, trying to make heads & tails of the situation. Now it is true that I am a strong personality with a headstrong resolve that can be intimidating & hard to come up against-I admit that. And, it is also true that I tend to shove help & assistance away the second it is offered, or I thwart the offer before it even happens. Here, I needed someone to be stronger than me- & it didn’t happen. Truth be told, it hadn’t happened for decades.

The rest of the month was a whirlwind of tests & preparations for an upcoming procedure, & the quietness of what I had experienced in the ER thundered in my head–I looked for signs that things were changing, that I had missed something-that I was misreading what my heart was telling me. I wasn’t. Early afternoon towards the middle of January, I calmly drove to the county courthouse & filed my petition to end my 20+ year marriage. This is the first time I have written those words-the first time I have seen them in print- & it hurts.

Irreconcilable differences-no fault really-no fighting-just nothing. I thought that no fighting was a good thing-that it meant that no one was hurling angry words at one another, that no physical damage was being done-that others were not being hurt by seeing or hearing it. This is not to say that there were not fights where people were hurt-but those were actually pretty infrequent. No fighting-that concept took on a whole different meaning to me. When I finally got the nerve to serve the papers to the recipient-I ugly cried, it tore my heart out to do this to anyone, let alone someone I had committed to building a future with—(ugh I ended that sentence with a preposition), it hurt to hurt someone, & it still does. But one comment stuck with me, “I hope you’ll change your mind.”

“I hope you’ll change your mind.” Matter of fact, calm, quiet,-it told me all I needed to know. Just like in the ER chair moment, hearing that, something else in me broke. NO NO NO!!!! Fight for ME! Fight WITH me! Throw down & rail–do SOMETHING! But, for some, it’s not in their nature & I cannot hold them to that expectation–I am learning that. I realized immediately that as a partner, this no longer worked for me. I don’t think it ever did, & I pretended that I was ok with being super strong Cindy. I needed, wanted, & desired more- (yes I referenced a word in here that I loathe using). I admitted to myself that just as I had ignored physical heart symptoms for 2 months, I had also ignored what I had allowed my relationship to myself & my marriage to become. I told myself that my symptoms & I did not matter.

I do matter. So do the people with whom I am in relationship–my children matter-. The decision to leave-to move out on my own, to dissolve a commitment did not come easily. I walked away from a known situation (whether it was healthy or not) & struck out on my own. I walked away from a status quo that was not uplifting to anyone- in fact, dismantling was a piece of cake because nothing had been built. I asked for nothing on the way out. I realized we were 2 people individually functioning-not growing, not building, not learning or challenging each other-together. I am not sure when it happened-maybe it was never there, I don’t know. I blamed myself for much of it ( still do to some degree), but ideas are changing in my head. Like tectonic shifts, my mindset is moving from one of complete blame to acknowledging simple reality. These 2 people are better colleagues than lifelong partners & maybe always were. Let me be clear that the 2 boys resulting in this partnership are THE best 2 boys I could ever know & I am eternally grateful to be their mom & that they have a father who is committed to them! I chose to pay attention to the symptoms, pointing me in the direction of the bigger problem-I chose to, as I tell my students in English classes- “Go Below the Surface, Don’t just Skim the Top!” What I found below the surface revealed so much more than I ever thought.

What I discovered was decades of lies, decades of behavior that I thought was normal–I discovered that in all areas of my life I had settled-I was content to remain in the status quo even though I felt the discomfort, even though I was chomping at the bit for something more. While wanting something more I also fostered an immense guilt & a feeling that I did not deserve something more. I believed I had no right to want something more-that there was something wrong with me for wanting more.

I found that I can stand on my own-I had always been independent-but I found that I could lean into the confidence that I can do hard things on my own, but that there was a village of people waiting to walk with me. I had not allowed people to do that before this year.

I learned the impact of decades of tapes playing in my head, & am learning how to reframe or flip the narrative of my story. I am learning that I am in charge of my own story & I have the right to write that story in a way that honors me. What a learning edge-I knew others were people of sacred worth, I am beginning to embrace, I too, am a person of sacred worth.

I realized not paying attention to the signals my body was sending was causing more damage than anything-explaining them away did not remedy the problem, it only placed a faulty band-aid over top. The same theory applies to my personal & emotional life. I had explained away, justified, excused, analyzed, guilted, & flat out ignored almost all of what I was feeling. I negated my internal intuition ( i have a strong spidey sense) which told me to pay attention-I thought the heaviness, the misery, the loneliness was normal. I figured every woman in their mid 40’s feels like they don’t belong, aren’t seen, & don’t matter. I was wrong.

So, now a year later, I ask myself where do I go from here? Well, I move from realizations to doing the hard heart work that I’ve dabbled in for so many years. It means that as I sit in my counselor’s office she rejoices because for the first time, she sees authentic emotion & reaction come from me. It means that maybe I don’t have to rehearse all my answers ensuring that they sound perfect so as not to offend anyone. It means dismantling layers of lies, stacks of stories, & bundles of baggage. It means that I work to embrace people & situations that, up until now, have been foreign concepts to me. Concepts like accepting blanket invitations to supper-(I can JUST drop in, what?!?!?!), or watching families gather for times of celebration & leaning in to being included in those celebrations-or simply included as a member of the family. There is much being revealed that is foreign to me & much of the time I don’t know how to handle it. See, the decision to divorce was one hurdle to jump, ( and I am pretty darn short-I miss the hurdle most of the time) now new realities are staring me in the face, forcing me to deal with long held philosophies about who I am, what I know to be true, & what is mine to carry. This, now, is the hardest part of the whole break. Who am I on the other side of it all? What does healing look like & am I brave enough to walk boldly into that reality? Do I have the guts to accept the people & relationships in front of me & embrace what and who is healthy, beautiful, & giving -do I have the smarts to lean in & celebrate them? Do I think enough of me to treat myself as a person of sacred worth, which in turn, impacts how I treat others? Am I brave enough to turn off the tapes & reframe the narrative?

I don’t know. I know, for once, I can’t do it alone. It’s incredibly difficult to pen that statement-that I can’t do it alone. I was taught that you don’t ask anyone for anything, you don’t accept anything either because that’s charity & no one wants that….(uhhhh I work non profit….) you work your a** off & mind your own business, you shoulder all of it alone. Drilled into my head is perfection, performance, & persuasion. If I am perfectly performing, you are persuaded to love & esteem me. That constant perfect performance is exhausting & unattainable. So maybe in 2022, I put away perfect performance. And maybe, just maybe, I humble myself, accept grace, & ask for help.

Standing Worlds Apart.

08 Aug 2018 Leave a comment

by cindythea in thoughts Tags: , , , , , , ,

There is a scene in the movie, I Can Only Imagine, where the antagonist is seen tossing trophies and mementos of a former football career into a burning barrel and setting them on fire.  You can feel the pain and disappointment in his movements, the charred remains of the barrel hold the soot seared reminders of a life they hoped would be theirs, and never was.  You can almost taste the dreams that now lay in ashes at the bottom of the rubble.  The hurt is real.

Moments later that same antagonist comes face-to-face with the story’s protagonist, a  young boy intent on dreaming his own flights of fancy.  He is a bright-eyed, optimistic, creative, boy- youthful exuberance bubbles out of him as he proudly shows his mother the make-shift helmet he has constructed out of trash heaps he’s ruffled through that day.  It’s a fighter helmet for use in an epic space battle he knows he’ll engage in someday.  As his father asks about it, he shrugs it off explaining that it’s really nothing-just junk.  We know it’s not true-we had just seen him describe it to his mother and heard her remark how hard he had worked on it.  In a swift moment, his father reminds him that, “Dreams don’t pay the bills.  They keep you from all this, from knowing what’s real.” With that he snatches up the helmet, walks to the lit burning barrel, and tosses it in without so much as a glance.  The flames lick at the drawn designs on the cardboard before it too, becomes the same ash as his father’s football trophies at the bottom of the barrel.

“Dreams keep you from knowing what’s real.”  I understand that statement and I wrestle with it daily.  You see, I am a dreamer.  I am a 100%, head in the clouds, fanciful idealist, who has long envisioned a life somewhere else, living out the dreams I have entertained since I was a little girl sitting at the end of a dock, hashing them out with the fish swimming below me.   I’ve known for decades what those dreams look like, I can taste them-hear them, I know them as intimately as an actor knows the character they play on stage.

Many of my dreams do not involve material goods. I want to be comfortable, to have a few nicer things, provide an education for my children and enough to enjoy trips and treats every now and then.  Most of mine are centered on cycles that I want to end, of relationships tattered that I want mended, of perceptions smashed and reputations restored.  I dream of truth and forgiveness and love unconditional.

I know what it feels like to watch those dreams burn to ashes.  Recently, I realized a dream that was singed 25 years ago.  The day I watched,  I Can Only Imagine, with my oldest son, I recall how gut punched I felt viewing that burning barrel scene.  I sat there with tears streaming down my cheeks and it took my son pointing them out to realize how long I had been crying.  I understood the anguish in that scene.

I had a hero growing up.  That hero happened to live in my house, and the sun rose and set on the opinions and actions of him.  When I was in their good graces, I floated.  When I fell from grace, I crashed and burned.  There was a moment my senior year of high school-some 25 years ago where I fell from his favor.  In that moment, all of their pent up frustration, anger, resentment, drama and ego spewed forth and I, like Icarus, flew too close to the sun, melted my wings, and plunged to the earth.  I’ve yet to repair those wings.

That moment shattered the image of my hero and sent them crashing to the earth too.  In all fairness, it is unrealistic to idolize someone that much.   There is no way they can maintain that expectation, nor should they have to.   That kind of pressure, self inflicted or other, is dangerous and often leads to heartache.  I knew that and yet naively believed that after such a fall, I could piece things together and go back to before it happened.  Icarus died mid flight.

I was embarking on a new adventure the summer after this fall out and my hero and I would be attending the same college, situated in the same dorm complex.  I knew I would see them.  I knew many of the same people and I wanted desperately to restore my former standing.  I wanted to matter.  I wanted to fix it.  So, I set about doing so.

This was the time in the fashion world where button down silk shirts were all the rage-my hero had seen one, remarked they wanted one and I knew it.  In fact, that same year we had been at a store together and I promised him his first silk shirt would come from me.  So, I devised what I thought was a fool proof plan.  I saved up my money from the grocery store job I had, marched into the local men’s boutique and purchased the nicest, button down, silk shirt I could find, $60 some dollars later.  I asked the salesperson to wrap the gift because if anyone knows me, they know that I can’t wrap my way through a Christmas present.  They gave me the box and it was full of color and ribbon and festivity.  I beamed with pride, nearly skipping my way to the car.  I knew this would be “the moment”!

I brought it into the house, excited to have something to gift to my hero for their birthday.  I just knew that this would heal all the cracks that had developed in the past few months.  I gave it to my mother for safe keeping and requested that  she not tell my hero what it was or who it was from.  I was convinced that when they opened it, saw what was inside and recalled the conversation where I had promised  this gift, that the ice would melt and all past transgressions would be forgiven!  I couldn’t wait to see the reaction and  hear the lifetime music that would swell in the background as a moment of heartfelt sibling connection was re-established.  I could walk into my college dorm feeling whole again.

Knowing that my presence would be unwelcome during the birthday celebration, I ran to the only sanctuary I had available at the time.  I ran to the water’s edge.  I ran, with a black , cassette tape,  headphone player,  complete with a worn copy of REO Speedwagon in its case.  At the edge of the rocky boat ramp, I climbed into my hidden refuge, hugged my knees to my chin, and hit play.  The swells of familiar music filled my ears as the lyrics to, “Time for Me to Fly” washed over me.

I’ve been around for you
Been up and down for you
But I just can’t get any relief
I’ve swallowed my pride for you
I’ve lived and lied for you
But you still make me feel like a thief
You got me stealing your love away
‘Cause you never give it
Peeling the years away
And we can’t relive it
Oh, I make you laugh
And you make me cry
I believe it’s time for me to fly
You said we’d work it out
You said that you had no doubt
That deep down we were really in love
Oh, but I’m tired of holding on
To a feeling I know is gone
I do believe that I’ve had enough
I’ve had enough of the falseness
Of a worn-out relation
Enough of the jealousy
And the intoleration
Oh, I make you laugh
And you make me cry
I believe it’s time for me to fly  Songwriters: Kevin Patrick Cronin
     Over and over I hit Rewind and played that song, singing to the bullhead, to the algae, to the boats across the lake, to anyone that would hear the lament.  the desire to move beyond this obstacle, to be freed of the guilt, the shame, and the worthless feeling of being unloved was stronger than an anchor at that boat ramp.   I wanted to rail against the pain that walled me in, caged growth and left me clamoring for identity.  I wanted to fly.
     After what I thought was a safe time frame, I ventured back up to house, taking care to watch for signs that the family was not still celebrating.  All appeared calm and I trekked up the gravel driveway as dust and wind from the August swelter settled and the cicadas sang their lullaby.  Pausing at the front of the garage, I looked up the quarter mile drive at the setting sun, reminiscing the many walks to the bus I had done over the years.  Coming to terms that this year my feet would be walking a college campus and hopefully finding themselves center stage in a theatre production every now and again, I closed my eyes and uttered a whispered “I wish…”   “Time for me to fly,” I kept thinking to myself as I walked into the garage, prepared to step into the house.  I stopped at the top of the stairs leading to the door and noticed a figure trooping across the lawn.
     With a determined step that mimicked a march and with a ramrod, straight back, the hero of my childhood stepped into focus from the back of the house that faced the lake.  Eyes trained forward, mouth set like stone, he carried a box in his hands.  I watched, fascinated with his resolute attitude.  The box, gaily adorned in muted pastel wrapping paper and purple curled ribbon was on full display.  Keeping in perfect step he marched to the burning barrel, set the unopened box in it, pulled a match from his pocket, struck the flint against the ragged, rusted, iron edge and tossed in the spark.  Instantly the barrel was flooded with flames that shot a full foot into the air.  The paper, once so carefully folded and taped, curled, sending inky smoke heavenward.  The ribbon turned on itself and caved to the heat. The box holding the silken treasure never saw the light of day.  In seconds hours of work and months of hope was destroyed.  The lid of the box had never been opened, the contents never revealed, a promise fulfilled, never realized.
      It was in those moments of watchful horror that I noticed the matriarch of our clan standing at the top of the stairs also watching my hero’s action with intense interest.  In a voice heavy and choked I turned to her and croaked, “You told him who it was from, didn’t you?”
“I did.” They confirmed.
“Why? I begged you not to.  You knew why I had done this-you knew.  You knew what I was trying to do here.  You knew!”
     Sobs wracked my throat, causing strong resolve to crumble as tears streaked my cheeks.
“I did tell him it was from you.  You have said horrible things to him-I think he’s completely within his right to do this.  So, yes.  I told him.  And now you know.”
Appalled, I stood, watching bits of paper float to the grass across the yard. Smoke settled, and the flames died.   The hero I had loved, and yes, worshiped, turned on his heel and marched back to his refuge to celebrate the rest of his day.  Glancing up to catch her eyes, I waited for something to tell me this was not happening, for arms to encircle me, taking away the pain.  Instead my mother shrugged her shoulders, grabbed the door handle and walked back inside the house.

Standing there, 3 days before a new chapter in my life would begin on a college campus, I knew.  I knew how Icarus felt.  I knew what it felt like to be imprisoned, desperately clamoring to be free.  I also knew the sting of flames that claimed life for its own, snuffing out dreams and suffocating breath.  With tears still streaming, I sniffed my way down the hallway to my bedroom, closed the door, climbed on my bed.  With chin on knees, head down, I mourned the childhood hero that had plummeted to the depths below, leaving a pair of wings, tattered and scorched at my feet.

Addendum:
https://youtu.be/NFj17GYJEj0  Jars of Clay’s “Worlds Apart” gripped me while writing this and motivated the Icarus metaphor.  Thus, I am sharing the lyrics to that song, which oddly fits perfectly in this midst of this whole piece.  Interesting how a Creator magically makes those pieces fit.

Cause I Don’t Believe in You Anymore.

06 Mar 2016 1 Comment

by cindythea in Uncategorized Tags: , ,

It’s amazing when you come face-to-face with your hero.  I wonder if there is anything like having that person who seems larger than life right in front of you.  You can see them, feel their presence, absorb their realness.  I think there is a comfortable infatuation that exists in that moment.

I know I had one that I entertained.  This person was, (and still is) bigger than life.  Their energy  overwhelming, their capability far beyond what most people could ever conceive.  Interestingly, I lived with my hero.  I saw them everyday.  I watched them rise the social scale in school.  I stood in awe as they traveled the world, increased their awareness and education at some of the most prestigious places of learning.  I saw talent ooze out of every pore. I loved them, adored them, and hated them at the same time. And, I wanted what they had.  I figured that if I lived with it, I could emulate it and the world would be at my feet, just like it was for them.

Much of the time, I was tolerated.  Then, I was annoying—-yes, just like any lil sister would be.  Like the puppy that sleeps at my side, I followed and copied and noted all that was done.  I told myself everyday, “If only” then the rest would fall into place and I would have found my niche.

Oddly enough, I did discover along the path that many of the same activities I had seen them perform, I also had  the innate talent.  After all, it was me up in front of a classroom debating the impacts of the social contract on American values–not them.  I remember the first time I qualified for a State competition ( I was a freshman in high school).  I was performing in humor and as a first year student, I nabbed a state superior.  Not the most common thing to do especially since I came from small town SD and was up against seasoned big dogs.  I bopped up to the front when my name was called to accept my trophy and the head of the activities association shook my hand and commented how nice it was to see someone following in their amazingly talented sibling’s footsteps.  Was I ready to repeat all that success?  You bet.

Bullshit.

I never once claimed that success for myself.  Instead, I told myself it was never enough, never big enough, never enough trophies on my shelf.  (there is not one in my home).  There are 2 moments that stand out to me and weirdly, an Adam Levine song, “Wonder” came into play this weekend.

I remember distinctly being at a major tournament my junior year, a tournament where if I did well, I could qualify for nationals.  I was in top form.  My hero was in attendance and we had a tradition of a “walk and talk” before pivotal rounds, this tournament was no different.  Back and forth between speaking event and debate I ran….I walked into finals ready to take it.  I did.  I claimed top spot in my individual event.  BAM!!!  I recall standing in the line of other finalists, waiting for my name to be called….as soon as third place was announced, I knew I had done it (they take the 2 top spots).  Second was called, it wasn’t me.  I had taken first.  I had arrived.  I gathered the plaque and mug in my hand and through tears I looked toward the back of the lunchroom to see my hero standing there, clapping, nodding their head in approval.  I had done it–I had gained the respect of the one who had alluded me. They later said to me, “I had people tell me you were good.  I didn’t believe it until I saw it for myself.  You are incredible—damn, you’re really good.” I basked in that–and it kills me to type that memory because tears of loss stream down my face with each word I eek out.

Exactly a year later the tables turned and I was ousted. Lyrics flood my head,

“I still don’t have the reason
And you don’t have the time
And it really makes me wonder
If I ever gave a fuck about you”

http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/maroon5/makesmewonder.html

Instead the last line plays in my head: “And it really makes me wonder if you ever gave a F about me.”  At the same tournament a year later, my hero looked me straight in the face, sneered, “I qualified in 2 events my senior year.  Can you do that?  Hell no.  No, you won’t be able to do that, will you?”  These words pounded my brain as I walked into another final round, in a position to repeat my win from the year before….I didn’t qualify in either event.  I was damn close and I lost.  I recall standing in the same line up as the previous year, with the same person in the back of the room…..instead they gloated and shot me the most condescending look I’ve ever received and gave me 2 thumbs down. I was crushed–part of me died in that moment and it will never be resurrected.

I’ve watched the actions of my hero the last few years.  Watched them age, grow into themselves, fumble a bit, fight their way back to where they want to be.  I’ve witnessed them in real life situations and now I shake my head.  I don’t know this person–I wonder if I ever really did–if any of us did.  It really makes me wonder if this is their true nature, to disregard and toss aside human lives like so much discarded trash.  If this is true, did they ever give a F about me?

I have to wrestle with that.  Yet, something stops me.  I looked back down the lyrics list to discover,

“Give me something to believe in
Cause I don’t believe in you anymore
Anymore
I wonder if it even makes a difference,
It even makes a difference to cry. So this is goodbye”

I look at their actions now, listen to speeches they make, glean from what they type–searching for that piece==that peace.  I implore those typed words to give me something to believe in–cause I don’t believe in them anymore.  I don’t believe in that hero anymore.

Maybe after almost 25 years estranged, admitting that I don’t believe in them anymore is the most important first step.  Maybe I don’t have to give a F about them…it’s obvious they do not give a damn about me.  Maybe admitting that allows me a glimpse of what walking away looks like.

I hate this.  I hate looking back at those words, those sentiments seem so detached, so void of the unconditional love I advocate.  I’m not sure I care today.  I might tomorrow, but today, I’ve muddled through so many years locked in silent battle, trying to win the acknowledgment of someone who once held so much of my devotion.  And, it kills me to realize that maybe they never deserved it in the first place.

So, what do you do when you meet your hero face-to-face and they turn out to be not only human, but a rather stinky one at that? What do you do when you discover that their apathy and my reaction to it has almost destroyed me?  How do you say good bye?

Cause I can’t believe in you anymore–Cause I can’t love you anymore.  And today it makes no difference to cry.

 

shalom,

 

 

23 years, wow.

15 Jan 2016 1 Comment

by cindythea in thoughts, Uncategorized Tags:

23 years ago I was walking into the last semester of high school—I was a senior with a whole set of goals, the last 18 weeks of my scholastic career spread before me, but I could never anticipate what those weeks held.

23 years ago my parents received a phone call on Wednesday January 13, 1993 that my grandfather had passed away at the local nursing home.  We had seen him that afternoon and by the time my parents had walked into the house after visiting him, he was gone.  It was quiet and peaceful and I had a sense of finality because he had spent a number of years living with us as we grew up in the country.  Time that my extended family did not necessarily have due to distance and schedules was a gift that my siblings and I shared.  I had had moments fishing and boating with my grandpa, and he was the only grandparent I grew up ever knowing.  He taught me to listen to the tone and sound of the turn signal on a car.  Every one of them has a certain tone that says something, my grandpa’s old rust-colored car said, “Tooth paste, Tooth paste.”  I’ll never forget that and each time that I’m in a new car, I pause and listen to the turn signal, and I smile, remembering my grandpa.  I smile remembering him.

There were other things that took place during that week that have shaped some of my outlooks and relationships since that time, situations that to this day impact my life.

I was involved in competitive speech activities and had been all 3 1/2 half years leading up to this point.  I traveled every weekend to all parts of the state and met incredible people,–teachers and colleagues with whom I have established solid relationships today.  I had some great friends, and maybe some friends who tolerated me more than they should have had to–but I had amazing connections to people and I remain forever grateful for them.  Many have no clue that it was my connection to them and the activity itself that saved my life and I do not say that lightly.  These were people who I could see every weekend, people who whether they liked me or not, at least respected what it was that I did.  I even had a connection to a family member that was tight, it was a relationship  that I trusted and took great pride in having.  Someone thought I was important enough to invest time and energy in me and I was thrilled to have the attention–thrilled that someone like them was willing to spend time with me and thought I had talent and potential.

23 years ago, I lost that connection.

Having the natural dramatic bent that I did (and sometimes still do), I tended to make bigger deals of situations than I necessarily had to–sometimes that can be a win, sometimes it can cost everything.  As the news was revealed that my grandfather had passed, I reached out to a friend who also knew members of my family and speech team.  I revealed the information and requested that if they came across family members that they be kind and aware of the loss.  That one conversation affirmed a loss that proved devastating.

As the week wore on and the weekend of the funeral took place, I opted to travel to the speech competition out-of-town rather than attend the services.  I felt ok about the decision because I knew I had spent time with my grandpa and had seen him often during his years in the nursing home.  I also knew that I would have a family member that I would see.  I saw them, I approached them, I tried to speak to them….I received a brush off.  More than that, I was ignored.  Throughout the whole weekend I attempted to connect and was ignored.  The situation came to a head when I finally confronted them and demanded to know what was going on….I was decimated.  Their words, their obvious contempt and hatred for my existence was spewed forth as they, in full viewing and hearing of passers-by heard them renounce my relation with them.  In anger and rage they ended their connection, respect, relationship, and family link.  To them, I no longer existed.  The reason?  I had vocalized to a mutual friend my grandpa’s death and funeral.  They felt I crossed a line by revealing that information to a person who would have no relation to us.  To them, I was no longer fit to be called a relative.
From that moment on there was no conversation, there was no acknowledging that I existed, there was no admission that I was alive or related to them.  That behavior lasts today.  23 years later, to the random onlooker, if they happened upon us in the same area, there would be no indication that we were related at all.  Those who know us have simply accepted the situation and do not comment.

That moment sent forth a spiral of crap that continued the whole rest of the year.  I had applied to state university and the night of a major speech competition where I narrowly missed a trip to nationals (i had qualified as a junior and was expected to do so again.), I received a letter from that college telling me that I was not accepted.

What?  But, I had a theatre scholarship waiting for me…What do I do now?  I had not gotten into college?  How is that possible?  It was true.  You see, even though my ACT  science and language scores were in the 27-28 range, my math score was a 12.  The disparity in scores was too great for the college to admit me.  I had failed.  I was a failure.

Within 2 months of each other I had lost a grandfather, a brother, my national qualifying award, my college acceptance, and a scholarship.  I was done.  It was one of the hardest few months of my life.  No one knew the full brunt of the blows I had received.  No one knew on my graduation day that I had to go to the college  and talk to the theatre department who then had to talk to the admissions department to admit me.  I squeaked in on a scholarship.  No one knew that as I walked across that stage to accept my diploma that members of my immediate family were not attending my graduation or my reception.

I felt alone and I felt like a failure.  I felt worthless, unpopular, wretched, and undesirable. I felt like giving up more than once and often wished I had had the strength to end my life.

I did not end it.  I tried.  I did not end it.

Instead, I worked my butt off to be more than I thought I could be.  Instead, 23 years later I stand, knowing that I’m here and still fighting.

I never did qualify for nationals a second time.  I did not attend my grandfather’s funeral, and to this day, my relationship with my family member is no better than that fated tournament in January 1993–they still do not acknowledge that I exist as anyone related to them.  Other family members are content to allow that to take place and I can honestly say that as immediate family, we have not been in the same room with one another in over a decade.  More than 10 years have passed since we have been together, and even then it was stilted, awkward, and filled with emotions no one is willing to admit.

23 years later, I am still here.  23 years later, I have graduated from that college and even attained my Master’s Degree.  I have amazing children and a career path that fills me with challenging moments and people who inspire me.  I struggle too, though.

I struggle with relationships that I’ve lost, I wrestle with how much is my fault, what I could have done differently–what I did wrong.  I rack my brain to figure out how to fix it, how to undo what can’t be undone, and ultimately how to let go of decades of hurt.  I don’t have it figured out–not even close.

Here’s the thing though.  I can’t stop fighting and the idea of giving up is never an option.  I got into the college and department that I needed to by making an appearance and letting them see who I was and what I was capable of.  I maintained my degree by working hard and concentrating on those areas in which I excelled.

Above all, I invest.  I invest in people, conversations, and ideas that mean something.  I invest in loving people and letting them know that I do.  I believe that is half the battle.

I had someone tell me the other day that my words were a shining example of being able to lift people up.  I am a firm believer that words–spoken and unspoken are the most powerful tool we have.  I truly believe that words that people hear can destroy or elevate them.  Likewise, I believe that most of the problems we see happening are a direct result of reactions to words that have never been said.  Imagine the hurt of a child who has worked their whole life to win affection from a parent only to never hear that adult tell them, “I love you.  You are an amazing person and I am glad you are my son/daughter.”

Invest.  Invest everything that you are to everyone you know and those things that fill you.  Invest in not giving in….invest in breathing–because sometimes that is all you can do, just breathe.  Invest in making it at least one more day.  Invest in the fact that you are more than crawling into a ball, rocking back and forth in the corner in the fetal position.

Invest in the fact that it can be done.  I know it can.  So far, at 41 I’ve done it.

 

Shalom,

cahl

 

Carpe What Huh?

12 Aug 2014 Leave a comment

by cindythea in depression, Robin Williams Tags: , , , , , , ,

The recent death of Robin Williams shakes many of us to the core, but to the core of what?  What is at the core that rips us of a blanket of security that shields us like a blanket.  I look at the quotes which have been posted, I posted right along with them.  It was not until I was in the safety of my car this morning, did I pause a moment to mourn.

What?  Why could I possibly have to mourn in the death of a star with whom you have never met, yet was soooo impacted by his story relived on the movie screen.  When we laughingly toss  Carpe Diem around believing somehow we have our crap together. How am I supposed to seize the day when I dread going to school?

What, you?  You have so much going for you>>>>   Ah, you don’t remember or encountered me during some of those hellish years.  I remember I used to walk around the block that our elementary was located.  I remember so many trips around there, singing and talking to myself.  I spun the pourings of my heart, of how I knew that I would never be accepted and that I was somehow “weird”.  I knew from a young age that I would never go to prom, (I wasn’t) or to be asked on a real date (it never happened).  I knew in my heart what I thought was real, was in fact real.

I hated everything about myself.  I used to look in the mirror and tell off the reflection that stared back at me.  I hated her.  I wanted her vanquished, I wanted her dead.  Yup, I said that.  I wanted her dead.

That is so hard to write, some believing that at almost 40 I have it together..I don’t–none of us do.

Honestly if you had told me to Carpe Diem in high school and much of college I would remarked some deprecating slam and “beat them to punch”  I knew they hated me, why not beat them to the punch and throw out the comments as bitingly as possible.  If I could turn it so the response was mine, they could not touch me.  Sure.  I beat em to the punch.  You know what happened?  No one, I mean NO ONE wanted to hang with me.  High school classmates would never invite me to their homes ( that changed a bit my senior year..they were wonderful peeps to me)  Collegiate theatre majors dubbed me weird and cautioned anyone who might be a friend that I was not someone to be accepted.  This did nothing but make me hate that girl in the mirror even more.  Trying like hell to see at least 1 production in which I was cast…it never happened.  I still feel the pangs of hurt and rejection in both those scenarios

I remember my junior year especially, it was a  fairly good year.  I faked most people out and those I didn’t I severed those relationships with a biting  remark that left them shaking their head.  I lost many a friend, I still mourn those people.  Senior year spawned hell in every sense of the word.

I did not qualify for Nationals like I had the year before–gotta do it one more time–  In January I lost the one person I had looked up to and idolized from day 1.  They washed their hands of me, refused to acknowledge my existence.  They were friends with my friends ( the same ones I had severed ties) .  They were so damn talented it sickened me…I knew I would never reach that pinnacle of greatest.  But, damn I tried hard.  With every fail, with every second place finish I hated the girl in the mirror that much more.  I scored up a stash of blades, I wanted to be gone…I stashed them and there are still scars that dot my right and left arm.  I am ambidextrous you see.  I could go both ways.  I had bottles of sleeping pills–I worked at a grocery store, no one thought anything of the purchases I made.  Hell, no one thought much about me anyone..I knew it and it hurt like crazy….still does once in awhile.  I remember the night I had not qualified, almost but not quite.  The general smirk of the one who had seen my victory the previous year now watched me lose.  That one stings badly.  That night I also received a letter from the state college to which I had applied.  It was a letter negating my acceptance into their college.  The work that had to be done just to get me there….Finally a scholarship in theatre was awarded so that I could attend…See, if a dept. offered an incoming freshman a scholarship there was little else the Adminstration  could do to negate it.  In hindsight, I think I got it for the sake of another freshman coming in, talented and pretty–so pretty.  I never ever fit the bill, no matter how I tried.

That night I went outside, sat with my big Labrador (who i had spilled most of my life) and held the massive bottle of aspirin in my hand and the sleeping pills in another.  In a fit of anger, I downed a good share of both of them….then fear hit.  An all consuming fear spread over me…..I still do not know what caused me to throw them up–you see I was a talented Binge and Purger, I knew all about taking care of unwanted food—you throw it up.  There were members of my family who watched me do this…it was not to first time…I lost a lot in those years, years I will never get back as hard as I try.

You see, to declare to a person, Carpe Diem…well, that hurts in a place so deep and dark they can’t explain.  How can I seize the day when I so hated and loathed the person I saw staring back at me?  How can I be  joyous when I hated going to school where there are relationships were cut to the quick so that no one would even talk to me…You see, I did it first before any of them had a chance…I held that manipulation like a banner—ha ha ha ha,  I hurt me first before you even had a chance to…ha hahahahah.  The thing is, I wanted them to hurt as much as I did.  Silly me, it hurts worse than I can imagine.  Sometimes the dark rears its ugly head and I wrestle with depression, loneliness, hurt and self hate.  I often see that girl staring back at me.  I see her amid all the good and wonderful people in my, in those who were watching from afar…(they know who they are), amid a successful career and the beginning of some great connections and respect.  I look at her and wonder…what the hell are they thinking…me?  I dunno.  The dreams that I hold are so jam packed with concepts of redemption and reconciliation are as near and dear to me as breathing…..the writing, the speaking, the moments to speak for those who can’t.

Carpe Pencil?  Seize the pencil?  Write the words, speak….ah, if only I were not so terrified of the person I see in the mirror.  There parts of me that grieve–losses in family, friends, opportunities–(prom–you who giggle probably had a date and the stories from them) I don’t and I knew it all the way back to 3rd grade.  Could I rewind the clock?  Many times I say yes ( and tell the one in the mirror to go to hell, I scream it and pray it transcends to the whole of me), then again I think of all the students I taught, the people I speak with, and those who allow me to journey with them—showing me a glimpse of their reality.  Not sure where I stand ( no pun at all Captain)…that is an ever present fight.

Today instead of Carpe Diem, I challenge us all to say Carpe Rogare!  Seize the Question–How are you,and wait, wait, wait for the answer.  You may be surprised at what you hear.

 

Shalom my friends

That’s Affirmative

08 Jun 2014 1 Comment

by cindythea in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , ,

I spoke with a wonderful woman a couple months ago who was asking questions about an adopted niece  out there somewhere.  She expressed the desire to try to find her, maybe reconnect her with her mother, (her sister) and develop a relationship with her.  Inwardly I cringed.  I did not cringe because of the heartfelt desire, but about the can of worms that it would open for everyone involved.  I asked her to make sure she understood her own motivations for such a search and to consider the impact it would make on a grown woman who has had no contact with her biological family.  Many intricate strings exist here, for all involved. I have known my whole life that I am adopted and it has never really bothered me.  Kids in school often made remarks that I did not have any “real parents”.  It seems that many think that being adopted means that they don’t have any real parents.  How wrong a belief that is.  The fact is that we do have real parents, we were really born to someone and were given life.  The circumstances for an adoption are as varied as snowflakes that fall.  Hearing statements like that can really mess with a kid’s head, then again–sometimes it doesn’t..I will speak to my experience only.  It is the only story I know, and the only story which I have permission to share.

I know that many speak to the adopting parents experience and many times to the one who is giving the child up for adoption.  Then again, sometimes it is out of the biological parents control.  Few understand, or speak to the adopted child’s point of view.  Few realize that growing up there are real feelings that happen and they tend to stay into adulthood.  Not everyone is aware of that impact, but in studies of the psychological impact of adoption, some real emotions occur. I will speak to my experience only.  It is the only story I know, and the only story which I have permission to share.

Isolation:  Sometimes I feel like I am so different that most people would never understand why I think some things and my reactions to situations.  There are times when I watch families together that I physically ache for something real like that.  People have real connections with the people who REALLY have given birth to them….they are their biological family and thus can feel a tie to them that I will never have.

Loneliness:  It is true that I was adopted and cared for and raised by a set of parents.  I was given rules, guidelines, and opportunities that I would never had had.  I was able to realize what a household with parents and siblings feels like.  There are times though, when feeling different (even though I am not) makes for a lonely spot where I wonder if anyone else understands how I feel.

Affirmation:  This one is the hardest to feel, it is also the hardest to admit.  I am a creative soul, one who observes and feels emotions and the world around me intensely.  I cannot change this no matter how hard I try.  Being involved in speech events, theatre, and writing lends itself to a certain need for affirmation.  At 40, this drives me nuts.  Did I do this well enough?  Was I good enough at this task?  Did I do enough to please someone else?  Am I perfect enough that I won’t lose the relationship I have with this person?  Did I disappoint them so that they will go away, or decide that someone else is better?  Am I good enough to stay in this relationship…will they give me away if I do something wrong?  Can I be perfect enough to stay where I am and feel secure with this person.  Is it safe to love them, to let them love me, and to believe them when they say they care?  What may look like a compliment fishing expedition has little to do with ego stroking and more to do with the safety of that relationship.  If I do this, this, and this….I will get to stay.  If not, I am on my own….separated from the status quo that I understand.  That stability is so vital to my existence.  I know it may not make sense….I wish I could eliminate it, but it is part of who I am.  Missing a comma can throw me into such a moment of self doubt and fear that I will be replaced that I cannot tell others because I do not think they will understand.  Half the time, I do not understand.

Lastly, Wistful Dreaming.  I smile a bit here because like it or not, everyone of us has a dream in our head about what a reunion with our biological parents would be like.  We may never ever admit it to a soul, but the thought has crossed each mind.  The wondering of how they look, what they do, what are they like comes to the surface at least once in our lives.  The lifetime movie concept of running across a room with arms open wide and an easy explanation of circumstances has played before my eyes more than once.  Unfortunately that will never be the case.  I have met mine, know the situation, and know that that type of a reunion will never happen.  I have to be ok with that, and sometimes it is hard to admit that I want more than what I have.  It is hard to admit that the yearn for a “real family” surfaces…I wish it didn’t.  Much like I wish that I did not seek affirmation, I wish the yearn was not so strong.

There it is, the longer and not so short of it.  This is not an exhaustive list, and I have not done near the justice I could do.  Suffice it to say, there will be more observations…more encouragement to those adopting, and more caution for those entering into the world of adoption…Tread carefully and with more love than you ever dream possible.

shalom,

cahl

Anyone? anyone? anyone? (echo, echo echo)

12 Jan 2014 1 Comment

by cindythea in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , ,

bad mommy

I saw this the other day on my Facebook post.  I laughed initially, until I looked again.  I looked over at my kids…they are great.  They are also human, which means I don’t like them everyday.  Most of the time, they make me smile, laugh, and shake my head in wonder.  Sometimes I watch them, just watching them in their own world, they do not know that I am there.  These are the moments on which I reflect the most.   Moments when they believe no one is looking and I catch a glimpse of the people they are becoming.  Their play and non-verbal demonstrations tell me much about them.

They make me smile, even writing that last sentence about their play made me smile.  HOWEVER, there are moments that I watch them, hear them speak, or notice their interactions and I wonder….who are these people?  Then I cock my head and wonder even more…Who in the WORLD sent these creatures home with me?  I am still only like 15, right?  23 if I am lucky, right?  Who thought is was wise to bundle a wiggly, wrinkled, wailing, humanoid and hand it to me to raise?

Please tell me there are others out there feeling the same way.  I stepped (and still do step) around a cluttered house, believing that if anyone were to drop by, they would call social services based on the status of my livingroom.  I struggled with feeling like I should stay at home, yet yearning for “real” people conversation.  I could not breastfeed my first son, but was able to make enough to bottle.  That lasted until acid reflux for him and exhaustion for me set in and formula was our next step.  Different formula after different formula….ever smelt soy formula in spit up form?  Once is enough.

As young teachers, with little income and bills to catch up, we grudgingly applied and qualified for WIC.  I hung my head the first time I purchased the acceptable groceries.  Here I was, a teacher, pillar of a community and I was relying on something else to help me.  The shame I felt was immense, but the relief I felt to be able to pay off some medical bills incurred during my son’s birth outweighed shame.  No one tells you about those early days…the crying, the screaming, the stages–ear infections, diapers, diapers and the laundry….all piles up and the instances of real thought escapes amidst Baby Beethoven.  AAAAAGGGGGHHHHH.  No one mentions those days.

We only hear the baby smell is incredible, the cooing, giggles, grabbing fingers, and each milestone are out-of-this-world!  Do not get me wrong….These are incredible and can reduce a mom to joyful tears in seconds.  Those are highlights that make you want to capture that moment in time and freeze it….then reality hits as your boy wonder sprays you in the face-again.

We muddle through….another comes along, making room in your heart where you thought for sure there was no way you could love another human being as much as the first.  Again, someone it’s a good idea to send another one home with you.  I guess it would be bad to leave them in the crib at the hospital–right?

Life bumps along and finally you settle into a makeshift routine.  You flip-flop between knowing somehow you are doing an ok job and the utter fear that the children will end up on a counselor’s couch somewhere.

Then, it happens.  Something so unexpected throws a wrench into it all.  Maybe it is a diagnosis, a special need, a situation that erupts into something you never thought possible.  All of those happened in the young age stages of my boys–one in particular.

Ok, I will not concentrate on that.  What I will comment on is….well reality.  We women, we do a number on ourselves and one another.  If it is not comments about what we do or don’t do….what we feed our children (ramen noodles or organic mac-n-cheese) or what programs our children attend. Come upon  a fellow mom in stores (did you know Target or the horrid Wal-Mart is nicest to shop in the wee hours of the night or when bats fly at night?) who look bedraggled and harried, and yet paste on a smile and greet one another warmly.  Probe a little deeper than the famed, “how are you?  (insert giggling hug or kiss on the cheek here) and you’ll see another picture completely.  You’ll see the tired lines, hear the taxi trips  with multiple children (half who are not even hers), watch the posts of gaggles of children beginning the forays into slumber parties and  boy gatherings (they don’t have slumber parties….I dunno, I am just starting here).  Under all that is the question…”Am I the only one feeling such and such?”  Am I the only one too tired at night to do snuggles and prayers?  Tell me there are others so exhausted that the heart is not in to reading one more story or singing one more song, but you do anyway because there may not be another.  Tell me that others worry about friends, clothes, reputation, and whether they will be in a terrible accident.  Comfort me that others watch great grades come in, knowing that character is of far more worth, yet celebrate those accomplishments.  Tell me it’s ok to struggle with wanting them to be at the top, not slipping, yet knowing the “other stuff” is soooooo more important.  Remind me that moms all over fret over soft drinks….and cupcakes for breakfast ( if you tell anyone…..so help me!).  Convince me that it’s ok for a mom to smell jeans to make sure they still have another day left in them and recycling towels from one kid to another to save at least 1 load of laundry.  Funny, I just told my 2 that very statement as I walked in to see 5 wash cloths used, the bathtub full of soapy water, and the rim cluttered with 2 rows of matchbox cars.  Tell me this stage passes…that I will miss it, cause now I don’t believe you.  Forgive me that I want this stage to end, but that I feel guilty knowing this stage WILL pass.

Remind me that I am not alone…remind me that so many more are out there…believing they fumble and bumble and knock over card houses by one wrong step backward–sorry boys. Grab my hand and encourage me that I am not messing them up completely, that if they are already on the counselor couches, that means I am aware enough to know that I do not have it all figured out.  That all my training in pastoral care does not entitle me to counsel my children, but to love them.  Hug me and whisper in my ear that you, too, look  in the mirror and shake your head, praying these wiggly creatures are growing and thriving and will be wonder filled men and women.  Put your arm around my shoulders and offer to take a walk or two down the block, or a hit off the boxed wine in the fridge (moscato….hhhhm).  Tell me it’s ok that someday I want to stop buying consignment for myself and not feel guilty for a Saturday mani/pedi.  Proclaim with me that these wonderful creatures capture my heart, my mind, and my soul–turning my emotions from mush to elation to pits and back again.

Grab the microphone–wherever it may be….tap the top….check to make sure the horrid squeal does not exist….and YELL!!!! HELLO?  Is anyone, Is ANYone, is ANYONE out there?

Yes, yes I am…….

shalom.

cahl

4:34

16 Nov 2013 1 Comment

by cindythea in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , ,

My son  found a journal I had started some years ago.  It dates back to the time I had my first son, I think though, that it may just apply with any child, anywhere.

    Jolted,  awake, the silence ripped open.  I squint, trying to read the numbers on the clock.  They glare red, 4:34 am.  Inwardly, i groan, pull back the covers that held me in dreams just moments ago.  What started as slight whimpering increases in intensity as time ticks.

I pause, straining my ears to hear if whimper give way to sleep.  No sound, I sigh and relax.  Too late, I waited too long, cries split the stillness, amplified by the hour and its lateness.

Void of glasses or contacts, I stumble toward his room. making a quick pit stop.  I take fifteen quick seconds to myself and will him to wait only a moment to two more.

     Retrieving the bottle left in the warmer from the last go around, I am thankful for 2 items:  the light from the overhead stove and organization.  Without them, cries would soon develop into screams.

I wander into his room and make my way to the crib.  A nightlight given to him by his grandmother shine softly to guide me while a CD his father made plays in the background.  “O Come all Ye Faithful” does not sound so out-of-place at this hour.  I smile faintly.

Wrapped in yellow he flails his arms, waiting for security once again.  He whimpers, then quiets as he sees I am near.  Scooping him in my arms, we travel to the livingroom floor where wet becomes dry and I try to snuggle him once more.

It’s a makeshift cocoon and I figure if he feels safe, he won’t mind so much how the blanket looks as it swaddles him.  Settled in our chair, I cuddle him close, he squirms, anticipating the bottle he is sure is coming,

He sighs as I place it within his reach and I feel his whole body relax.  Eyes grow droopy and his breathing softens, he is at peace.  Sated from this feeding we burp and I rock slowly.  I remind myself to take a mental picture, moments like this are too few.  Head propped on my shoulder, he dozes, I rest my cheek against his and I listen.

The house comes alive at times like these. The ticking of the clock, a lone car drives by, the family dog resettling for a nap all reveal themselves.  Against his cheek I feel the smooth of baby skin, cool to the touch.  A slight movement of my shoulder and I discover he is smiling.   Knowing and seeing this causes my face to erupt in a wide grin, and I am gifted to receive another in return.

     Through the stillness, through the quiet, love transcends communication and my heart bursts.  Without words or eye contact, I know love and it is real.  I feel it in my son’s smile.  Tears well behind my eyes as I offer a silent prayer of thanks, praises, and requests for this little wonder entrusted to my care.  Again, I feel his smile and my heart soars.

     He inspires me, this little miracle.  With a look, a cry, a squeal, or a smile, he turns my world on its end.  Sitting here in the dark, I cease to wonder the time.  I find no longer care about the trivial details.

     In a sigh and a smile, my son captures my heart and claims it for his own. Sniffling back tears, I pat his back, and together; we Rock.

Shalom,

cahl

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