I made it to Montana yesterday afternoon, in spite of the major winter weather storm that hit the state. I saw the snow fly, but none of it stuck to the road. Still, it was a little scary to be driving on narrow, winding, unfamiliar roads in winter conditions. I am a moderately aggressive driver from years of driving in the city. I kind of cringe when I see out of state license plates driving the wrong way down a one way street, or making a left turn from the right lane because they don't know where they are going. I had one out of town driver treat an intersection on Ravenna Blvd once as a round-about, when it isn't. He plowed through the intersection, and honked and swore at me because I didn't stop. I didn't stop because it isn't a roundabout and in my fifteen years of living in Seattle, I have never seen anyone stop there.
What is the point of me complaining about out of state drivers? In Montana, I am that idiot driver who is probably making everyone else batshit crazy. Someone Montana has a blog out there who is writing about how awful drivers with Washington plates are. "Why can't she drive ninety miles an hour like the rest of us?" they are probably complaining.
Anyway, Montana is god's country. It is amazingly beautiful, with beauty I didn't see from flying to Kalispell twice before. I didn't get the full glory because of the low clouds, but man mother nature is impressive out here. I don't have any pictures because I was driving, so you will have to trust me. I am shocked that I have never driven out east this far before. I've been to New Zealand to see spectacular natural beauty, when instead I could have hopped in the car and hit the road for eight hours.
I'll be driving more today, so I don't know if I'll get any photos this trip. I'll figure something out.
This blog is about the little and big thoughts that pop into my head. I once read that when Flannery O'Connor walked into a bookstore, she would want to edit her published works with a red pen. In the digital world, we have the luxury of tweaking things up after we've hit the publish button. I can be a perfectionist/procrastinator, where waiting for the ideal means little gets done. Here I will share what is not--and likely will never be--perfect.
Monday, September 30, 2019
Saturday, September 28, 2019
Novel Gazing
I supposed to be working on my novel today before I leave for Montana tomorrow for a week. My assignment for my writing group is due next Sunday, but as I will be busy with the Boy and his therapy, I won't have time.
What am I doing instead? All writers have their favorite forms of procrastination. Jigsaw puzzles are my weakness, especially these elaborate wooden jigsaw puzzles from Liberty Puzzles. Carla introduced me to these puzzles and now I have my Dad hooked on them. They are mediative, where I allow myself to sit and think and not expect myself to be busy or productive.
Writing a novel (for me, anyway) is somewhat like doing a jigsaw puzzle. I have lots of small parts put together but I don't see how they are going to fit together yet so the whole thing is kind of chaos.
I have written a bunch of scenes about my main character, Betty, but I am not sure what the full picture will look like. Betty is very loosely based on my best friend from college who is wicked smart but then married a venture capitalist and now plays tennis as her vocation. (Perhaps that makes her even more wicked smart, that she found a way to get a luxurious life without needing to work, but the jury is still out on that.) The real Betty immigrated to the US from Taiwan when she was seven and didn't have an athletic bone in her body. Betty the character and Betty my friend both suffer from lack of problems in their lives, which is then actually a problem. In a sense, Betty is the opposite of Job, a biblical character who suffers every sort of indignity and still maintains his faith in God. Everyone has problems, but most of Betty's friend don't see her problems as real: How can someone so beautiful and wealthy with well adjusted sons and a well meaning husband actually suffer? I've known Betty for so long, I know she has struggled and she does have problems, especially with her mother-in-law, who is just plain wicked. I find it fascinating. I want to figure it out so I am plodding through a novel about her.
"Betty seems superficial," my writing group has said at times. I struggle because at times that is the point. How then does Betty grow from that point of perceived vacuity? My writing group has a point, though--readers need to be relate to Betty otherwise they won't bother reading about her.
Considering I am fighting two crises at the same time--one with the Boy and the other with Jack, I am having very little patience with Betty the character whose life floats by. The real life Betty is fine, but she is not the first person I call when I am having a hard time. When she had problems with her husband, she told him she was going to leave him and poof! he went to a therapist, got his head out of his butt, and everything is hunky-dory.
Betty and my lives were very similar until we turned twenty-eight. She had a baby who is now in college, and I had a baby who died. She has kind and supportive brothers (except one, but she has two others who are.) My brother is insane. Betty's kids are stable and productive. I have a kid in treatment for anxiety and depression. Betty's husband is smart, hard-working and attentive. My husband is smart and hard-working. Her husband is finance and money can't love you back so he spends time with his family. My husband is a prominent physician who is adored by everyone he works with who gets most of his meaning from his job.
I still love Betty in spite of her easy life, even though it would be easier to dismiss her instead. I know what she doesn't share with her friends who are wives of Silicon Valley leaders. When she was growing up in Texas, she was a black haired girl in a sea of blondes, that in spite of her traffic-stopping beauty, she could not get a date in high school, that she would love to have a day with with green eyes and an Anglo name like Lauren Jennings.
So I go back to my jigsaw puzzle, trying to find the bigger picture, to see where this is all heading. Unlike life and a half-written novel, a jigsaw puzzle has a tidy solution. I know the puzzle will work. I wish I had such faith about the book I am writing and my personal life.
What am I doing instead? All writers have their favorite forms of procrastination. Jigsaw puzzles are my weakness, especially these elaborate wooden jigsaw puzzles from Liberty Puzzles. Carla introduced me to these puzzles and now I have my Dad hooked on them. They are mediative, where I allow myself to sit and think and not expect myself to be busy or productive.
Writing a novel (for me, anyway) is somewhat like doing a jigsaw puzzle. I have lots of small parts put together but I don't see how they are going to fit together yet so the whole thing is kind of chaos.
I have written a bunch of scenes about my main character, Betty, but I am not sure what the full picture will look like. Betty is very loosely based on my best friend from college who is wicked smart but then married a venture capitalist and now plays tennis as her vocation. (Perhaps that makes her even more wicked smart, that she found a way to get a luxurious life without needing to work, but the jury is still out on that.) The real Betty immigrated to the US from Taiwan when she was seven and didn't have an athletic bone in her body. Betty the character and Betty my friend both suffer from lack of problems in their lives, which is then actually a problem. In a sense, Betty is the opposite of Job, a biblical character who suffers every sort of indignity and still maintains his faith in God. Everyone has problems, but most of Betty's friend don't see her problems as real: How can someone so beautiful and wealthy with well adjusted sons and a well meaning husband actually suffer? I've known Betty for so long, I know she has struggled and she does have problems, especially with her mother-in-law, who is just plain wicked. I find it fascinating. I want to figure it out so I am plodding through a novel about her.
"Betty seems superficial," my writing group has said at times. I struggle because at times that is the point. How then does Betty grow from that point of perceived vacuity? My writing group has a point, though--readers need to be relate to Betty otherwise they won't bother reading about her.
Considering I am fighting two crises at the same time--one with the Boy and the other with Jack, I am having very little patience with Betty the character whose life floats by. The real life Betty is fine, but she is not the first person I call when I am having a hard time. When she had problems with her husband, she told him she was going to leave him and poof! he went to a therapist, got his head out of his butt, and everything is hunky-dory.
Betty and my lives were very similar until we turned twenty-eight. She had a baby who is now in college, and I had a baby who died. She has kind and supportive brothers (except one, but she has two others who are.) My brother is insane. Betty's kids are stable and productive. I have a kid in treatment for anxiety and depression. Betty's husband is smart, hard-working and attentive. My husband is smart and hard-working. Her husband is finance and money can't love you back so he spends time with his family. My husband is a prominent physician who is adored by everyone he works with who gets most of his meaning from his job.
I still love Betty in spite of her easy life, even though it would be easier to dismiss her instead. I know what she doesn't share with her friends who are wives of Silicon Valley leaders. When she was growing up in Texas, she was a black haired girl in a sea of blondes, that in spite of her traffic-stopping beauty, she could not get a date in high school, that she would love to have a day with with green eyes and an Anglo name like Lauren Jennings.
So I go back to my jigsaw puzzle, trying to find the bigger picture, to see where this is all heading. Unlike life and a half-written novel, a jigsaw puzzle has a tidy solution. I know the puzzle will work. I wish I had such faith about the book I am writing and my personal life.
Tuesday, September 24, 2019
Feeling Better & Seattle
After feeling kind of blue about the Boy for the past few days, I am starting to feel better. Maybe that time in the Lego room has helped. Maybe because my trip to Montana is coming up in less than a week. Maybe my grief is starting to abate.
Maybe I am feeling better because fall has started in a good way. Of course, I miss the start of school for the Boy and being part of the school community, but arts season is upon us, thank god. I think the art gods and fairies decided to start right after the equinox when the daylight in Seattle shrinks to nothing. Last weekend, I saw Whim W'him Seattle Comtemporary Dance Company with a friend. Contemporary dance can be kind of weird (there was one dance where the performers had made bizarre facial expressions the whole time), but it can be refreshing after seeing Swan Lake and Sleeping Beauty over and over. While I love the Tchaikovsky ballets, they are very formal. This weekend will bring the Seattle Children's Theatre opening night and Carmina Burana at the Pacific Northwest Ballet.
Which makes me think about Seattle. I met guy on my recent trip to Chicago who said his favorite city in the U.S. is Seattle. I can agree with that, but I wondered when he saw Seattle. It is easy to fall in love with Seattle in August. If he had said he loved Seattle in December, then I would have been seriously impressed, but then maybe not if our moderate winter beat the arctic chill of midwest in the winter. Instead, he saw Seattle in April, May and September, which is just about right. The weather in Seattle can be kind of fussy then, but can also be lovely. More than other cities, I think the ever changing weather can play a big role in how Seattle feels. Any season in Chicago can have bright, blue sunny days, even super cold days in January. Seattle isn't so fortunate. In addition to rainy winters, the daylight hours shorten from sixteen hours at the summer solstice to less than eight at the winter solstice.
Today was a typical Seattle fall day. The morning starts of cold and dreary, and then by the afternoon the clouds have burned off and it is sunny and warm.
I guess my mood this week has reflected the daily weather patterns. It started out kind of blah, but then slowly got better. I guess my mood is getting better, too. Last night, I was on the Wilderness Therapy mediation phone call for parents. Even though the Boy finished a month ago, I love to list to Hector's soothing voice one a week. (Hector is the Yoda of parent/child relationships in Wilderness therapy.)
The first half of the call is listening to Hector. The second half parents get to ask a question to the group. I realized how much better I am feeling when I was able to offer support and advice to a newbie parent on the call who was overwhelmed with grief that her daughter was sleeping under a tarp in Colorado instead of attending her Homecoming Dance.
I think right now my mood about the Boy would be like noon at Pike Place Market--gray and kind of gloomy, but the forecast shows brighter skies coming up soon.
Maybe I am feeling better because fall has started in a good way. Of course, I miss the start of school for the Boy and being part of the school community, but arts season is upon us, thank god. I think the art gods and fairies decided to start right after the equinox when the daylight in Seattle shrinks to nothing. Last weekend, I saw Whim W'him Seattle Comtemporary Dance Company with a friend. Contemporary dance can be kind of weird (there was one dance where the performers had made bizarre facial expressions the whole time), but it can be refreshing after seeing Swan Lake and Sleeping Beauty over and over. While I love the Tchaikovsky ballets, they are very formal. This weekend will bring the Seattle Children's Theatre opening night and Carmina Burana at the Pacific Northwest Ballet.
Which makes me think about Seattle. I met guy on my recent trip to Chicago who said his favorite city in the U.S. is Seattle. I can agree with that, but I wondered when he saw Seattle. It is easy to fall in love with Seattle in August. If he had said he loved Seattle in December, then I would have been seriously impressed, but then maybe not if our moderate winter beat the arctic chill of midwest in the winter. Instead, he saw Seattle in April, May and September, which is just about right. The weather in Seattle can be kind of fussy then, but can also be lovely. More than other cities, I think the ever changing weather can play a big role in how Seattle feels. Any season in Chicago can have bright, blue sunny days, even super cold days in January. Seattle isn't so fortunate. In addition to rainy winters, the daylight hours shorten from sixteen hours at the summer solstice to less than eight at the winter solstice.
Today was a typical Seattle fall day. The morning starts of cold and dreary, and then by the afternoon the clouds have burned off and it is sunny and warm.
I guess my mood this week has reflected the daily weather patterns. It started out kind of blah, but then slowly got better. I guess my mood is getting better, too. Last night, I was on the Wilderness Therapy mediation phone call for parents. Even though the Boy finished a month ago, I love to list to Hector's soothing voice one a week. (Hector is the Yoda of parent/child relationships in Wilderness therapy.)
The first half of the call is listening to Hector. The second half parents get to ask a question to the group. I realized how much better I am feeling when I was able to offer support and advice to a newbie parent on the call who was overwhelmed with grief that her daughter was sleeping under a tarp in Colorado instead of attending her Homecoming Dance.
I think right now my mood about the Boy would be like noon at Pike Place Market--gray and kind of gloomy, but the forecast shows brighter skies coming up soon.
 |
| Morning |
 |
| Morning. I had to sneak that geranium in the left corner so this picture wasn't too bleak. |
 |
| Pike Place Market at lunch. Still kind of gray. |
 |
| Elliott Bay in the evening |
 |
| Along Elliott Bay |
 |
| Mt. Rainier is hiding behind clouds. |
Monday, September 23, 2019
Lego Room and Disappearing
As I am still missing the Boy, I am reminded of the time when he was six weeks old, Jack was working and my friend Cork from Chicago visited me in St. Louis.
"I met a guy," Cork said when she called to tell me she was coming to visit me. "Can I bring him?"
In the dozen prior years I had known Cork, she had never had a boyfriend. If she wanted to bring her then boyfriend (now current husband) to St. Louis to visit me, I was all on board.
When Derek and Cork came to St. Louis, we spent an afternoon at the Saint Louis Science Center. We didn't hit the science center for the Boy, but rather to keep Claire-Adele (then age two) occupied instead of being cooped up in the house with a newborn.
At the Science Center, the five of us went to an IMAX movie about Lewis and Clark or Shackleton, which freaked Claire-Adele out. I can't remember the exact movie, but there was lots of water and boats in perilous situations. I had to get Claire-Adele out of there, and Derek graciously offered to take the Boy while I helped Claire-Adele settle down.
I take Claire-Adele. After an hour or so, the movie ended, and Derek and Cork were no where to be seen. This was my new baby who hadn't been out of earshot or my body for the previous ten months. "Where are they with my baby?" I was getting a little freaked out that the Boy wasn't within arms reach. A little anxiety attack was coming on. Finally, I ran into Cork and Derek with the Boy. This guy was pushing the stroller, puffing out his chest. He was using my kid to show Cork was a loving and attentive father he would someday be. I asked for the Boy back, and Derek said he was happy to keep an eye on the baby and he said, no, he was fine, it was all good, and they were off again. I guess his plan worked because now they have two kids of their own, and I am still scarred by my infant being dragged around the science center by someone I didn't know.
Sixteen years later, I am revisited by that panicky feeling of not knowing where my son is. I've already had one kid leave, but she left on her own, willingly and as expected.
I am going to Montana next week to see the Boy. Jack got to spend a few days with the Boy on a father-son retreat over Labor Day.
"He has really grown a lot. It will be good for you to see him and have some time with him," Jack said. "You will feel better after spending a few days with one-on-one time with him."
I hope Jack is right. In the meantime, I'm back at the house, in the Lego room while Jack is at a work dinner, trying to rebuild a Technic dune buggy.
Years ago, I thought if the Boy ever had an untimely death, I'd rebuild all of his Lego sets and give half of them away to his friends. I haven't reach that level of anguish yet, but I am closer than I'd like to be.
For those of you who don't know, the Boy is a Lego fan. He played with Duplos when he was toddler, his first personal creation being the famous "Stomp Drop Rocket" which looked more like an aircraft carrier than a rocket, but I digress. When he was four, he got the Lego Fire Station. Every birthday and Christmas gift thereafter involved at least one box of little plastic bricks. When the Boy was in elementary school, he'd come home from school, go to the Lego room and build for an hour or two. I'd frequently join him, sorting bricks from old creations that were half assembled, scrapped for parts to build something new. Sometimes the Boy and I would talk. Sometimes we'd listen to music. Other times, I'd be his piece finder, looking for a yellow two by four flat or a dark blue eight by one tall.
The Lego room is where I feel physically closest to the Boy when he isn't here. I could go to a soccer field or ride a ski lift, but that would be kind of random. Instead, I am here, attempting to build a dune buggy.
I wish he were here to help me.
Soon enough. Soon enough.
"I met a guy," Cork said when she called to tell me she was coming to visit me. "Can I bring him?"
In the dozen prior years I had known Cork, she had never had a boyfriend. If she wanted to bring her then boyfriend (now current husband) to St. Louis to visit me, I was all on board.
When Derek and Cork came to St. Louis, we spent an afternoon at the Saint Louis Science Center. We didn't hit the science center for the Boy, but rather to keep Claire-Adele (then age two) occupied instead of being cooped up in the house with a newborn.
At the Science Center, the five of us went to an IMAX movie about Lewis and Clark or Shackleton, which freaked Claire-Adele out. I can't remember the exact movie, but there was lots of water and boats in perilous situations. I had to get Claire-Adele out of there, and Derek graciously offered to take the Boy while I helped Claire-Adele settle down.
I take Claire-Adele. After an hour or so, the movie ended, and Derek and Cork were no where to be seen. This was my new baby who hadn't been out of earshot or my body for the previous ten months. "Where are they with my baby?" I was getting a little freaked out that the Boy wasn't within arms reach. A little anxiety attack was coming on. Finally, I ran into Cork and Derek with the Boy. This guy was pushing the stroller, puffing out his chest. He was using my kid to show Cork was a loving and attentive father he would someday be. I asked for the Boy back, and Derek said he was happy to keep an eye on the baby and he said, no, he was fine, it was all good, and they were off again. I guess his plan worked because now they have two kids of their own, and I am still scarred by my infant being dragged around the science center by someone I didn't know.
Sixteen years later, I am revisited by that panicky feeling of not knowing where my son is. I've already had one kid leave, but she left on her own, willingly and as expected.
I am going to Montana next week to see the Boy. Jack got to spend a few days with the Boy on a father-son retreat over Labor Day.
"He has really grown a lot. It will be good for you to see him and have some time with him," Jack said. "You will feel better after spending a few days with one-on-one time with him."
I hope Jack is right. In the meantime, I'm back at the house, in the Lego room while Jack is at a work dinner, trying to rebuild a Technic dune buggy.
Years ago, I thought if the Boy ever had an untimely death, I'd rebuild all of his Lego sets and give half of them away to his friends. I haven't reach that level of anguish yet, but I am closer than I'd like to be.
For those of you who don't know, the Boy is a Lego fan. He played with Duplos when he was toddler, his first personal creation being the famous "Stomp Drop Rocket" which looked more like an aircraft carrier than a rocket, but I digress. When he was four, he got the Lego Fire Station. Every birthday and Christmas gift thereafter involved at least one box of little plastic bricks. When the Boy was in elementary school, he'd come home from school, go to the Lego room and build for an hour or two. I'd frequently join him, sorting bricks from old creations that were half assembled, scrapped for parts to build something new. Sometimes the Boy and I would talk. Sometimes we'd listen to music. Other times, I'd be his piece finder, looking for a yellow two by four flat or a dark blue eight by one tall.
The Lego room is where I feel physically closest to the Boy when he isn't here. I could go to a soccer field or ride a ski lift, but that would be kind of random. Instead, I am here, attempting to build a dune buggy.
I wish he were here to help me.
Soon enough. Soon enough.
Saturday, September 21, 2019
"Be Honest"
This is the most bullshit advice ever given.
Seriously.
I am in a bunch of crazy personal dilemmas and I asked a friend what I should do.
"Be honest," he said.
Seriously? What planet is he living on? Not earth because usually when I try being honest that is when things go sideways. Being honest means exposing myself to heartbreak or hurting someone else. I suppose being honest could lead to joy and happiness, but let's table that thought for now.
Let me dig way back into my past. I had a high school boyfriend who was a little crazy (a theme here with the male characters in my life, I know.) I told this boyfriend who was a little crazy that perhaps he should get some help, like see a therapist or a shrink, to help him deal with this legitimately difficult problem in his family life.
What do you think this eighteen year old boy said in response?
a) I am so glad you are looking out for me and have such deep concern about my personal wellbeing. You aren't trying to fix me, but nevertheless you are worried. Thank you! You are amazing.
or
b) I don't think we should see each other anymore.
Yeah. Honesty didn't work out well then, and it hasn't gotten much better. Honesty hurts, and who likes pain? I was honest with my high school boyfriend, he was hurt, and then he dumped me, which then hurt me. That was a lose-lose situation.
So now I am "an adult" and everyone else around me is "an adult," so it should all be good, right?
Nope. I told Jack he needed a therapist. While the Boy is in treatment, the parents are required to be in therapy, too. When I nudged Jack that he needed a therapist, he was resistant at first, second and third. After a while, I became a deranged lunatic, which is not my favorite state of being. That didn't work. Finally, "If you aren't going to see a therapist for me or yourself, see one for the Boy." That worked, but both Jack and I were traumatized by the experience. Jack and I were revisiting this later.
"It is as if we both are massively burned and we both need a hug, but it hurts too much to be touched," I said.
As my friend Betty would tell me, I need to switch the narrative. I need to rewrite the story so that honesty becomes a strong and positive thing in my life, even if in the short-term in causes me pain.
The problem is I don't know what I want. I am in a state of flux, so how can I magically expect everyone else in the world to be honest with me?
Seriously.
I am in a bunch of crazy personal dilemmas and I asked a friend what I should do.
"Be honest," he said.
Seriously? What planet is he living on? Not earth because usually when I try being honest that is when things go sideways. Being honest means exposing myself to heartbreak or hurting someone else. I suppose being honest could lead to joy and happiness, but let's table that thought for now.
Let me dig way back into my past. I had a high school boyfriend who was a little crazy (a theme here with the male characters in my life, I know.) I told this boyfriend who was a little crazy that perhaps he should get some help, like see a therapist or a shrink, to help him deal with this legitimately difficult problem in his family life.
What do you think this eighteen year old boy said in response?
a) I am so glad you are looking out for me and have such deep concern about my personal wellbeing. You aren't trying to fix me, but nevertheless you are worried. Thank you! You are amazing.
or
b) I don't think we should see each other anymore.
Yeah. Honesty didn't work out well then, and it hasn't gotten much better. Honesty hurts, and who likes pain? I was honest with my high school boyfriend, he was hurt, and then he dumped me, which then hurt me. That was a lose-lose situation.
So now I am "an adult" and everyone else around me is "an adult," so it should all be good, right?
Nope. I told Jack he needed a therapist. While the Boy is in treatment, the parents are required to be in therapy, too. When I nudged Jack that he needed a therapist, he was resistant at first, second and third. After a while, I became a deranged lunatic, which is not my favorite state of being. That didn't work. Finally, "If you aren't going to see a therapist for me or yourself, see one for the Boy." That worked, but both Jack and I were traumatized by the experience. Jack and I were revisiting this later.
"It is as if we both are massively burned and we both need a hug, but it hurts too much to be touched," I said.
As my friend Betty would tell me, I need to switch the narrative. I need to rewrite the story so that honesty becomes a strong and positive thing in my life, even if in the short-term in causes me pain.
The problem is I don't know what I want. I am in a state of flux, so how can I magically expect everyone else in the world to be honest with me?
Thursday, September 19, 2019
Baby Lust v Wanderlust
Last week when I was out out my friend Clarissa, I confessed something scary, mortifying and illogical.
I've been having baby lust.
The last time I had an epic case of baby lust was when I was four months pregnant with the Boy. I was walking through a Pottery Barn Kids and I swear to god I ovulated in the store, my heart pleading "Oh my god I want a baby!" It was crazy then because I was already pregnant. Now, I see babies and toddlers everywhere, or at least I am noticing them, which is the first step to baby lust. Seeing babies. I also notice where I am not seeing children, which is also important.
Now, it is just plain crazy. Or is it? When I told my friend Clarissa--who grew up on the South Side of Chicago where all of the families had eight kids, I thought she would tell me I'm nuts. Instead, she said that made total sense. "I get it. I wish I had a bigger family," she said. She already has four kids.
Part of this might be because I am an early empty-nester, that I wasn't ready for this. I miss the Boy and yet I know he is in a good spot. Since I can't get him back, why not have another? I could adopt or something.
Maybe it is because I am reading lots of parenting books right now, which is hard without having a child in the house. If I am reading parenting books, then I should have a kid, right? But the Boy and Claire-Adele aren't here, maybe I should get another kid?
Maybe part of me wants another chance not to screw it up. Maybe I want another chance to not be so worried about the kid, but just feel the joy, be less neurotic, be more patient, understanding. No wait, that is bullshit. I was plenty patient and understanding. What I really needed to do was be patient and understanding and still hold firm boundaries. Whatever I did wrong with the Boy, I want to fix it.
Or, Maybe I just want to get the hell out of Dodge and see the world. Do I want to go to Rio? Prague? Istanbul? India? Kyoto? Kenya? Spain? Heck, maybe I just want to hike that abandoned two mile train tunnel in Snoqualmie.
I think in reality, I want to do both, which would probably require some sort of change to the physics of time where I could live several lives, like in the book Einstein's Dreams. Maybe I want a layered life, where I could stack different experiences on top of each other.
I've been having baby lust.
The last time I had an epic case of baby lust was when I was four months pregnant with the Boy. I was walking through a Pottery Barn Kids and I swear to god I ovulated in the store, my heart pleading "Oh my god I want a baby!" It was crazy then because I was already pregnant. Now, I see babies and toddlers everywhere, or at least I am noticing them, which is the first step to baby lust. Seeing babies. I also notice where I am not seeing children, which is also important.
Now, it is just plain crazy. Or is it? When I told my friend Clarissa--who grew up on the South Side of Chicago where all of the families had eight kids, I thought she would tell me I'm nuts. Instead, she said that made total sense. "I get it. I wish I had a bigger family," she said. She already has four kids.
Part of this might be because I am an early empty-nester, that I wasn't ready for this. I miss the Boy and yet I know he is in a good spot. Since I can't get him back, why not have another? I could adopt or something.
Maybe it is because I am reading lots of parenting books right now, which is hard without having a child in the house. If I am reading parenting books, then I should have a kid, right? But the Boy and Claire-Adele aren't here, maybe I should get another kid?
Maybe part of me wants another chance not to screw it up. Maybe I want another chance to not be so worried about the kid, but just feel the joy, be less neurotic, be more patient, understanding. No wait, that is bullshit. I was plenty patient and understanding. What I really needed to do was be patient and understanding and still hold firm boundaries. Whatever I did wrong with the Boy, I want to fix it.
Or, Maybe I just want to get the hell out of Dodge and see the world. Do I want to go to Rio? Prague? Istanbul? India? Kyoto? Kenya? Spain? Heck, maybe I just want to hike that abandoned two mile train tunnel in Snoqualmie.
I think in reality, I want to do both, which would probably require some sort of change to the physics of time where I could live several lives, like in the book Einstein's Dreams. Maybe I want a layered life, where I could stack different experiences on top of each other.
Wednesday, September 18, 2019
Tribes and Go U NU
My friend DJ had his birthday party in Chicago this weekend. DJ is Taiwanese-American, but doesn't feel Taiwanese or American. Actually, he wrote an essay about his confusion about which is his tribe in Briefly Knocked Unconscious by a Low-Flying Duck. He grew up in my white, middle class, Midwestern neighborhood where ethnic diversity meant Scots, Irish and Anglos. In my high school graduating class of six hundred, you could count the people of color on two hands. DJ was one of them. He wrote about that he doesn't really know what it means to be Chinese, but nor does he feel white. It wasn't until he got out of college that he made friends with Asians. And then he married an African-American.
I never thought of DJ as an outsider, but it doesn't matter what I think. I think of the old SNL skit where Eddie Murphy puts on white face, calls himself Mr. White, and sees how he is treated as a white guy in the world. He gets a free newspaper and bankers give him money for free, which only happens to people like Trump and George Bush. (Actually not Trump. American bankers think he is a bad business guy; hence, Trump's involvement with the Russian mob. I digress.)
I have a friend here who is Indian who just moved to Seattle. If he wants to make friends, it is easy. All he has to do is show up at a cricket game or hang out at ex-pat events for Indians and boom, he can have a bunch of friends, just that.
For someone who looks like every other goldfish in the bowl, it is harder to find my tribe when the whole place looks exactly like me. Everyone is my tribe, and no one is. That may be the whitest, whiniest thing anyone has ever said, but I have never been to surprise parties on buses like Eddie Murphy imagined.
I can't really complain because I have friends. I have lots of friends, but I have to work to get them. I don't have them because I have a cultural or other affinity group. I am not even really ethnic. My maternal grandparents are from Italy and my dad's family has been in the U.S. since the 1860's, so where does that put me? Who is like me besides sixty percent of America? I don't want to be like sixty percent of America. I don't have a massive extended family I can go whine to, to cry to, to have them pick me up, that I both love and hate. I want a tribe, and group of people who will have my back and then I can have theirs.
This past weekend, I was at my friend DJ's birthday party in Chicago where I met Iris. She was a spitfire about four feet tall and about sixty years old. In the conversation, it came up that I went to Northwestern.
"I don't like going out with my Northwestern friends," she said. "They all know about 700 people from Northwestern and they run into all of them when they go out."
I thought about this. At first it made me kind of sad because if I still lived in Chicago, I might have 700 extra friends. Now, I live two thousand miles from Evanston, and yet these people are still part of my tribe, even if I didn't know them way back when.
Clarissa, Jessica and Sasha--three women all from NU who have snuck into my life in Seattle. Sasha has a kid in Wilderness therapy, the same program and same team as the Boy but they missed each other by a few weeks. When Sasha found me on FaceBook, she connected with me and we talked for hours. I hadn't seen or heard from her since graduation. I know Clarissa from the Boy's soccer team. She has been cheering me on about my person life: define what you want, without a face. I told her I hate complaining about my life, that I sound like a seventh grade girl with all of my "he saids-she saids."
"No," she said. "You need to talk about his stuff. If you don't, that is when things will go bad." She said something more eloquent, but I was so touched I don't remember her exact words. She not only wanted to listen to my bullshit, but she was encouraging me to talk about it more. And Jessica reminds me that it is okay to be miserable right now. This is a hard time with the Boy off to therapy so he doesn't kill himself or succumb to addiction.
And there is it--my tribe, or at least one important slice: the women of NU who treat me like their sister. They support me and gently push me and are helping me grow. They have my back and tell me that I am okay and I believe them. Isn't that what a tribe is for?
I never thought of DJ as an outsider, but it doesn't matter what I think. I think of the old SNL skit where Eddie Murphy puts on white face, calls himself Mr. White, and sees how he is treated as a white guy in the world. He gets a free newspaper and bankers give him money for free, which only happens to people like Trump and George Bush. (Actually not Trump. American bankers think he is a bad business guy; hence, Trump's involvement with the Russian mob. I digress.)
I have a friend here who is Indian who just moved to Seattle. If he wants to make friends, it is easy. All he has to do is show up at a cricket game or hang out at ex-pat events for Indians and boom, he can have a bunch of friends, just that.
For someone who looks like every other goldfish in the bowl, it is harder to find my tribe when the whole place looks exactly like me. Everyone is my tribe, and no one is. That may be the whitest, whiniest thing anyone has ever said, but I have never been to surprise parties on buses like Eddie Murphy imagined.
I can't really complain because I have friends. I have lots of friends, but I have to work to get them. I don't have them because I have a cultural or other affinity group. I am not even really ethnic. My maternal grandparents are from Italy and my dad's family has been in the U.S. since the 1860's, so where does that put me? Who is like me besides sixty percent of America? I don't want to be like sixty percent of America. I don't have a massive extended family I can go whine to, to cry to, to have them pick me up, that I both love and hate. I want a tribe, and group of people who will have my back and then I can have theirs.
This past weekend, I was at my friend DJ's birthday party in Chicago where I met Iris. She was a spitfire about four feet tall and about sixty years old. In the conversation, it came up that I went to Northwestern.
"I don't like going out with my Northwestern friends," she said. "They all know about 700 people from Northwestern and they run into all of them when they go out."
I thought about this. At first it made me kind of sad because if I still lived in Chicago, I might have 700 extra friends. Now, I live two thousand miles from Evanston, and yet these people are still part of my tribe, even if I didn't know them way back when.
Clarissa, Jessica and Sasha--three women all from NU who have snuck into my life in Seattle. Sasha has a kid in Wilderness therapy, the same program and same team as the Boy but they missed each other by a few weeks. When Sasha found me on FaceBook, she connected with me and we talked for hours. I hadn't seen or heard from her since graduation. I know Clarissa from the Boy's soccer team. She has been cheering me on about my person life: define what you want, without a face. I told her I hate complaining about my life, that I sound like a seventh grade girl with all of my "he saids-she saids."
"No," she said. "You need to talk about his stuff. If you don't, that is when things will go bad." She said something more eloquent, but I was so touched I don't remember her exact words. She not only wanted to listen to my bullshit, but she was encouraging me to talk about it more. And Jessica reminds me that it is okay to be miserable right now. This is a hard time with the Boy off to therapy so he doesn't kill himself or succumb to addiction.
And there is it--my tribe, or at least one important slice: the women of NU who treat me like their sister. They support me and gently push me and are helping me grow. They have my back and tell me that I am okay and I believe them. Isn't that what a tribe is for?
Tuesday, September 17, 2019
The Jean and the Friend Vault
As many of you know, my life is in a state of flux, a time of conflict, an era of grief. This past week was rough, so I dug into my friend vault, the place where I keep my some of my oldest and dearest friends. It is as if I got out fancy jewelry (which I don't really own except for my pearls) instead of the everyday stuff that I normally wear.
This weekend, I went to Chicago to celebrate a friend's birthday. I've known DJ since middle school in Columbus, Ohio where we were both transplants from suburban Chicago. After college, DJ lived two blocks away from me in Lincoln Park in Chicago so we became friends again as adults. I stayed at Jack's late Great-Aunt Jean's condo in the Streeterville neighborhood behind the Drake. Jack's Aunt Margaret decided to keep the condo and use it as a pied a terre for family when they are in the city. This is the first time I've stayed at "The Jean."
I met Aunt Jean at Jack's medical school graduation. I arrived early before Jack and his parents. As I was waiting, I stood next to an elegant elderly woman She has a blue coat, coifed light brown hair and large pearl earrings. On the east coast, a woman this refined might have a scowl on her face, unimpressed by everything and anything. True to her Midwestern roots, Jean instead had a radiant and welcoming smile. We saw each other, smiled and nodded. I had this urge to reach out and introduce myself to this friendly woman, but I didn't.
Of the many regrets I had, I wish I said hello then this woman who turned out to be Jack's Aunt Jean before I knew she was Aunt Jean. It would have been an epic way to have gotten to know her, to say "I liked her before I knew she was family." Aunt Jean never had kids and lived in downtown Chicago for most of her life. During World War II, she held some amazing job where she was the admin for the Secretary of the Navy or something like that.
I love both Aunt Jean and Aunt Margaret. Aunt Margaret is the matriarch of a family of ten, plus all of the extra people she brings in as needed. She is a caring and compassionate woman. Her well of giving runs very deep and is always full.
Here are two strong women: one with no kids and one with ten. Both made space for me in their lives as I was the new woman in Jack's family. They brought me in and welcomed me, treated me as if I belonged.
I don't know why this is important to me today, but it is. Maybe right now I miss them, Aunt Jean has since died, but Aunt Margaret is still lives, but in Iowa. I miss their courage and compassion and kindness. I wish they were here, telling me what to do.
I have friends, many friends, but what I really miss is family. In some ways, my friends are my family: DJ, Cork who I visited this weekend, Betty who I talked to last week. These are my friends in the friend vault.
With the loss of the Boy, I am also missing the other "family" I had created here in Seattle: the family of moms on the soccer sidelines, the parents at the band concerts and cross country meets. What I want is permanent family, family that doesn't go away after the soccer game is over, when the concert is finished.
My mom is gone, my brother is crazy and my dad lives in Ohio. My daughter is lives in Maryland and my son in Montana.
Oh my god. I feel like Job. I have nothing left. Okay, I have my job and my dog and my friends, which is not nothing but I am living with large losses. Jack's therapist said I have had some pretty big losses in my life -- my firstborn Ada, my brother Michael, my mom, my son.
My son, my sun.
We live to love and what I love is gone. Of all of those losses, the Boy is the worst.
I met a friend of DJ's this weekend who is also a writer. Years ago, I was in Chicago where I was one of ten people who read their essays published in a small literary magazine. This guy was also there years ago at the same reading. After talking to him for a while, I recognized his voice. I asked if he wrote about his uncle's death from alcoholism (he did) as I was reading about my brother's battle with schizophrenia.
"A shitty life makes a great story," I told him, but I am tired of the misery. This is fucking rock bottom, the worst moment of my life. I suppose this is where I need to have faith, to say that my life will someday be fine and full of love and affection and tenderness and caring.
Or maybe not. Maybe I just need to wade through this, get to the other side. Maybe I need to accept this slog through the mud for what it is.
This weekend, I went to Chicago to celebrate a friend's birthday. I've known DJ since middle school in Columbus, Ohio where we were both transplants from suburban Chicago. After college, DJ lived two blocks away from me in Lincoln Park in Chicago so we became friends again as adults. I stayed at Jack's late Great-Aunt Jean's condo in the Streeterville neighborhood behind the Drake. Jack's Aunt Margaret decided to keep the condo and use it as a pied a terre for family when they are in the city. This is the first time I've stayed at "The Jean."
I met Aunt Jean at Jack's medical school graduation. I arrived early before Jack and his parents. As I was waiting, I stood next to an elegant elderly woman She has a blue coat, coifed light brown hair and large pearl earrings. On the east coast, a woman this refined might have a scowl on her face, unimpressed by everything and anything. True to her Midwestern roots, Jean instead had a radiant and welcoming smile. We saw each other, smiled and nodded. I had this urge to reach out and introduce myself to this friendly woman, but I didn't.
Of the many regrets I had, I wish I said hello then this woman who turned out to be Jack's Aunt Jean before I knew she was Aunt Jean. It would have been an epic way to have gotten to know her, to say "I liked her before I knew she was family." Aunt Jean never had kids and lived in downtown Chicago for most of her life. During World War II, she held some amazing job where she was the admin for the Secretary of the Navy or something like that.
I love both Aunt Jean and Aunt Margaret. Aunt Margaret is the matriarch of a family of ten, plus all of the extra people she brings in as needed. She is a caring and compassionate woman. Her well of giving runs very deep and is always full.
Here are two strong women: one with no kids and one with ten. Both made space for me in their lives as I was the new woman in Jack's family. They brought me in and welcomed me, treated me as if I belonged.
I don't know why this is important to me today, but it is. Maybe right now I miss them, Aunt Jean has since died, but Aunt Margaret is still lives, but in Iowa. I miss their courage and compassion and kindness. I wish they were here, telling me what to do.
I have friends, many friends, but what I really miss is family. In some ways, my friends are my family: DJ, Cork who I visited this weekend, Betty who I talked to last week. These are my friends in the friend vault.
With the loss of the Boy, I am also missing the other "family" I had created here in Seattle: the family of moms on the soccer sidelines, the parents at the band concerts and cross country meets. What I want is permanent family, family that doesn't go away after the soccer game is over, when the concert is finished.
My mom is gone, my brother is crazy and my dad lives in Ohio. My daughter is lives in Maryland and my son in Montana.
Oh my god. I feel like Job. I have nothing left. Okay, I have my job and my dog and my friends, which is not nothing but I am living with large losses. Jack's therapist said I have had some pretty big losses in my life -- my firstborn Ada, my brother Michael, my mom, my son.
My son, my sun.
We live to love and what I love is gone. Of all of those losses, the Boy is the worst.
I met a friend of DJ's this weekend who is also a writer. Years ago, I was in Chicago where I was one of ten people who read their essays published in a small literary magazine. This guy was also there years ago at the same reading. After talking to him for a while, I recognized his voice. I asked if he wrote about his uncle's death from alcoholism (he did) as I was reading about my brother's battle with schizophrenia.
"A shitty life makes a great story," I told him, but I am tired of the misery. This is fucking rock bottom, the worst moment of my life. I suppose this is where I need to have faith, to say that my life will someday be fine and full of love and affection and tenderness and caring.
Or maybe not. Maybe I just need to wade through this, get to the other side. Maybe I need to accept this slog through the mud for what it is.
Thursday, September 12, 2019
Headache, Heartache and Man's Search for Meaning
Last night, I went out with my friend Clarissa. I know Clarissa from soccer -- our boys were on the same team since 6th grade. We also went to the same college but didn't know each other then. We went to the studio rehearsal for PNB's Carmina Burana, which is one of my most favorite ballets, up there with Romeo and Juliet by Jean-Christophe Maillot.
That was the good part. The rest was hard. Damn, I wish I didn't have such supportive, concerned and wise friends. I wish they would let me let my life crash and burn, but no.
"What do you want, Lauren?" she asked. "What do you want? This is your time to figure out you. Don't attach a face to what you want. Just think about you."
She is 100% right, and she is like the 18th friend who has given me this advice. I keep searching for someone who doesn't ask me to be introspective. I want companionship and a partner, someone who can help carry the load. I am sure there is more, but that is it for now.
This morning, I picked up Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor Fankl. If I hear of a book from three different reliable sources, I figure that is the universe's way of telling me to read it. I started crying the second page of Harold Kushner's intro.
"Frankl saw three possible sources of meaning:
Right there, I saw the gap in my marriage. My husband gets his meaning from work, where he also cares for people. Two birds, one stone.
My meaning for so many years been caring for others: my family and most recently, the Boy. At 8:03 this morning, I missed him. By missing him, I mean I had a full-fledged grief attack. At that moment, I should be making sure he is awake. I should have walked to Seven Roasters Cafe, the coffee shop around the corner from the Ravenna house, and gotten him an egg sandwich, or a muffin and maybe a latte. I should be rousting him from bed, shaking his foot like my dad used to do to me, making sure he is awake and ready to go to school. Sometimes I'd throw the dog on his bed and have Fox poke around him. There is probably a cross-country meet today after school. Jack should be taking to him about his plan for his run. Maybe we'd talk about the plan for the post-meet dinner.
So when I think about what I want, there is a face. So much of my source of meaning was the Boy, being a mom. I know all mom's jobs have an expiration date, that things change and progress. I talked to one of my co-workers yesterday about sending her son to kindergarten this week.
I know the Boy is in a better place, but that also makes it sound like he is dead, and that sucks. I don't want him in "a better place." I want him in my kitchen, looking for milk for a bowl of cereal.
It is hard to compare grief to grief, but missing him is almost as bad when Ada died. The hardest part about this love, and love in general, I suppose, is that when someone you love needs something you can't give them, and they need to get it someplace else. I don't know how many people have told me "You are such a great mom. You are doing the right thing by helping the Boy get the help he needs."
But that is of no comfort when on Thursday morning when he is not in my kitchen. A good mom makes sure her son has breakfast. I want to be that kind of good mom.
That was the good part. The rest was hard. Damn, I wish I didn't have such supportive, concerned and wise friends. I wish they would let me let my life crash and burn, but no.
"What do you want, Lauren?" she asked. "What do you want? This is your time to figure out you. Don't attach a face to what you want. Just think about you."
She is 100% right, and she is like the 18th friend who has given me this advice. I keep searching for someone who doesn't ask me to be introspective. I want companionship and a partner, someone who can help carry the load. I am sure there is more, but that is it for now.
This morning, I picked up Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor Fankl. If I hear of a book from three different reliable sources, I figure that is the universe's way of telling me to read it. I started crying the second page of Harold Kushner's intro.
"Frankl saw three possible sources of meaning:
- In work (doing something significant)
- In love (caring for another person), and
- Courage in difficult times."
Right there, I saw the gap in my marriage. My husband gets his meaning from work, where he also cares for people. Two birds, one stone.
My meaning for so many years been caring for others: my family and most recently, the Boy. At 8:03 this morning, I missed him. By missing him, I mean I had a full-fledged grief attack. At that moment, I should be making sure he is awake. I should have walked to Seven Roasters Cafe, the coffee shop around the corner from the Ravenna house, and gotten him an egg sandwich, or a muffin and maybe a latte. I should be rousting him from bed, shaking his foot like my dad used to do to me, making sure he is awake and ready to go to school. Sometimes I'd throw the dog on his bed and have Fox poke around him. There is probably a cross-country meet today after school. Jack should be taking to him about his plan for his run. Maybe we'd talk about the plan for the post-meet dinner.
So when I think about what I want, there is a face. So much of my source of meaning was the Boy, being a mom. I know all mom's jobs have an expiration date, that things change and progress. I talked to one of my co-workers yesterday about sending her son to kindergarten this week.
I know the Boy is in a better place, but that also makes it sound like he is dead, and that sucks. I don't want him in "a better place." I want him in my kitchen, looking for milk for a bowl of cereal.
It is hard to compare grief to grief, but missing him is almost as bad when Ada died. The hardest part about this love, and love in general, I suppose, is that when someone you love needs something you can't give them, and they need to get it someplace else. I don't know how many people have told me "You are such a great mom. You are doing the right thing by helping the Boy get the help he needs."
But that is of no comfort when on Thursday morning when he is not in my kitchen. A good mom makes sure her son has breakfast. I want to be that kind of good mom.
Wednesday, September 11, 2019
Reckoning and My Superpower
I believe everyone has a superpower and I believe this is why the Harry Potter books are so popular. Don't we all want to be special in some way? The lovely thing about the Harry Potter series is that he--and all of the witches and wizards--are deeply human in spite of their magical gifts. Their powers make their lives more complicated and challenging, not less.
For the past five months, my primary focus has been getting the Boy help. I had a laser like focus on that where everything else in my personal life came in a distant second, especially my marriage, but also many of my very important friendships. Overall, I have been a shitty friend. By shitty, I mean self-absorbed. Even if this is all justifiable (see: Time of Conflict), it doesn't mean I feel good about all of the people I have neglected along the way. This week, I was riding my bike along the new path on Elliott Bay and not once but twice I ran into Carla. Twice. I have been so absorbed I haven't seen Carla in months and this is a friend who I went all the way to New Zealand to see her when she used to live there before she came back to Seattle.
My marriage was the biggest thing on hold. Since December of last year when the Boy really started to tumble, I put all of the hurts and resentments on hold until the Boy was settled into treatment. Being stoic is one of my superpowers, but it is a secondary power, not my primary one.
stoic | ˈstōik | noun1 a person who can endure pain or hardship without showing their feelings or complaining.
I stuffed the down my pain and hurts and resentments (and also joy, I am now realizing) because I feared if I let the those feelings out, it would hurt my chances for getting the Boy help. I couldn't deal with my own pain or confusion and complexity because it would distract me from getting the Boy help. I would talk about this hidden pain with friends, but I didn't address many of those feelings with the people who mattered or were involved.
The Boy is reasonably settled in boarding school. Now comes the reckoning of what I have squished down.
This reckoning sucks, by the way. The turmoil is intense and horrible and I don't wish it on anyone. Seriously, if you have a problem and can deal with it in the present tense, do so. Agony is like interest on a bank account: it compounds. Still, I have no regrets for getting the Boy into treatment. I am his mother. If I didn't take care of him, who would?
With the reckoning comes some intense and unpleasant self-discovery.
I am sensitive. I feel things more deeply than the average bear. I can read people's emotions and I am impacted by them. My feelings have more amplitude than most people's. When I am hurt, I can be devasted.
sensitive | ˈsensədiv | adjective1 quick to detect or respond to slight changes, signals, or influences: the new method of protein detection was more sensitive than earlier ones | spiders are sensitive to vibrations on their web. • easily damaged, injured, or distressed by slight changes: the committee called for improved protection of wildlife in environmentally sensitive areas. • (of photographic materials) prepared so as to respond rapidly to the action of light. • (of a market) unstable and liable to quick changes of price because of outside influences. 2 (of a person or a person's behavior) having or displaying a quick and delicate appreciation of others' feelings: I pay tribute to the Minister for his sensitive handling of the bill. • easily offended or upset: I suppose I shouldn't be so sensitive.
I've known this about myself, but I never realized the degree to which this is my superpower in the sense of a Harry Potter magical gifts. My sensitivity is a gift, but it also causes me and other people in my life pain. I was talking to a guy at work about my conflicts with Jack.
"Lauren, all husbands and wives fight," he said. "Why is this different?"
That is a good question. Why is it different? This is another case of sensitivity: he asked a question and I wonder about it, ponder it til the point the question haunts me and it must be answered. I cannot let things slide. I need to address my emotions or else I will die.
The issue isn't that I can't deal with conflict--I can, but only when I feel emotionally safe. Disagreement is fine if I feel safe and respected or loved. In those cases, the disagreement is about an idea or suggestion or thought which is fine. Fighting is when I don't feel emotionally secure and I fear the other person doesn't get me and that is devasting. Part of being sensitive also means I have a very deep need to be understood.
For people who know and love me, they already know this about me. I knew I was sensitive, but I didn't understand the full scope or extent* until now as I am trying to put all of the broken pieces of my life back together, seeing which ones will fit in my new world order and which ones won't.
Which brings me back to my favorite wizard, the Boy. Not "The Boy Who Lived," but my Boy. He has this power, too. He is sensitive, just like me. Part of me believes that his depression and anxiety is a manifestation of his sensitivity, that he feels so much that is it overwhelming. I have another friend with anxiety, and his superpower is his sensitivy as well. Unlike me, the Boy is male and having this power as a guy is amazingly wonderful but also I imagine harder for them to deal with. Girls are encouraged to talk about their feelings. Visit Green Lake some time and see all women in NE Seattle talking about their emotions. Guys are not raised or socialized to learn to cope or celebrate their sensitivity, which is tragic.
Which brings me back full circle. If I didn't get the Boy into treatment, he'd never learn to master his sensitivity, his superpower. I want him to grow up, to be the Boy Who Lived, not the Boy who Succumbed.
* I kinda of wished my therapist had told me, but whatever.
For the past five months, my primary focus has been getting the Boy help. I had a laser like focus on that where everything else in my personal life came in a distant second, especially my marriage, but also many of my very important friendships. Overall, I have been a shitty friend. By shitty, I mean self-absorbed. Even if this is all justifiable (see: Time of Conflict), it doesn't mean I feel good about all of the people I have neglected along the way. This week, I was riding my bike along the new path on Elliott Bay and not once but twice I ran into Carla. Twice. I have been so absorbed I haven't seen Carla in months and this is a friend who I went all the way to New Zealand to see her when she used to live there before she came back to Seattle.
My marriage was the biggest thing on hold. Since December of last year when the Boy really started to tumble, I put all of the hurts and resentments on hold until the Boy was settled into treatment. Being stoic is one of my superpowers, but it is a secondary power, not my primary one.
stoic | ˈstōik | noun1 a person who can endure pain or hardship without showing their feelings or complaining.
I stuffed the down my pain and hurts and resentments (and also joy, I am now realizing) because I feared if I let the those feelings out, it would hurt my chances for getting the Boy help. I couldn't deal with my own pain or confusion and complexity because it would distract me from getting the Boy help. I would talk about this hidden pain with friends, but I didn't address many of those feelings with the people who mattered or were involved.
The Boy is reasonably settled in boarding school. Now comes the reckoning of what I have squished down.
This reckoning sucks, by the way. The turmoil is intense and horrible and I don't wish it on anyone. Seriously, if you have a problem and can deal with it in the present tense, do so. Agony is like interest on a bank account: it compounds. Still, I have no regrets for getting the Boy into treatment. I am his mother. If I didn't take care of him, who would?
With the reckoning comes some intense and unpleasant self-discovery.
I am sensitive. I feel things more deeply than the average bear. I can read people's emotions and I am impacted by them. My feelings have more amplitude than most people's. When I am hurt, I can be devasted.
sensitive | ˈsensədiv | adjective1 quick to detect or respond to slight changes, signals, or influences: the new method of protein detection was more sensitive than earlier ones | spiders are sensitive to vibrations on their web. • easily damaged, injured, or distressed by slight changes: the committee called for improved protection of wildlife in environmentally sensitive areas. • (of photographic materials) prepared so as to respond rapidly to the action of light. • (of a market) unstable and liable to quick changes of price because of outside influences. 2 (of a person or a person's behavior) having or displaying a quick and delicate appreciation of others' feelings: I pay tribute to the Minister for his sensitive handling of the bill. • easily offended or upset: I suppose I shouldn't be so sensitive.
I've known this about myself, but I never realized the degree to which this is my superpower in the sense of a Harry Potter magical gifts. My sensitivity is a gift, but it also causes me and other people in my life pain. I was talking to a guy at work about my conflicts with Jack.
"Lauren, all husbands and wives fight," he said. "Why is this different?"
That is a good question. Why is it different? This is another case of sensitivity: he asked a question and I wonder about it, ponder it til the point the question haunts me and it must be answered. I cannot let things slide. I need to address my emotions or else I will die.
The issue isn't that I can't deal with conflict--I can, but only when I feel emotionally safe. Disagreement is fine if I feel safe and respected or loved. In those cases, the disagreement is about an idea or suggestion or thought which is fine. Fighting is when I don't feel emotionally secure and I fear the other person doesn't get me and that is devasting. Part of being sensitive also means I have a very deep need to be understood.
For people who know and love me, they already know this about me. I knew I was sensitive, but I didn't understand the full scope or extent* until now as I am trying to put all of the broken pieces of my life back together, seeing which ones will fit in my new world order and which ones won't.
Which brings me back to my favorite wizard, the Boy. Not "The Boy Who Lived," but my Boy. He has this power, too. He is sensitive, just like me. Part of me believes that his depression and anxiety is a manifestation of his sensitivity, that he feels so much that is it overwhelming. I have another friend with anxiety, and his superpower is his sensitivy as well. Unlike me, the Boy is male and having this power as a guy is amazingly wonderful but also I imagine harder for them to deal with. Girls are encouraged to talk about their feelings. Visit Green Lake some time and see all women in NE Seattle talking about their emotions. Guys are not raised or socialized to learn to cope or celebrate their sensitivity, which is tragic.
Which brings me back full circle. If I didn't get the Boy into treatment, he'd never learn to master his sensitivity, his superpower. I want him to grow up, to be the Boy Who Lived, not the Boy who Succumbed.
* I kinda of wished my therapist had told me, but whatever.
Sunday, September 8, 2019
Time of Conflict
At this point of my life, I am getting sick of myself and my own company. I am wondering why anyone wants to even talk to me as I continually complain and bitch about the same things over and over and over.
Oh my god. I am horrible.
"You are making progress," said my friend Karen. "Three months ago the Boy just started treatment and you were exhausted. Look at all of the progress both of you and the Boy have made!"
Yes, I have made progress, but I still feel like an emotional mess. My heart is pulling me in forty different directions and my brain is like "Seriously woman. All of these feelings are so conflicted and then throw in an anxiety attack. Give me something consistent to work with here and I'll try to help you sort things out."
I walked around Green Lake with a friend today, who is kind and patient, like all of my friends. I am waiting for one of them to say, "For god sake's woman, pull yourself together!"
But no.
"I want to have peace," I told my friend Jessica walking around Green Lake today. "I don't want to be in this chaos anymore. I want to be calm and fun and carefree, like I used to be. I am tired of reading self-help books and books on how to parent a troubled teen. I want to read a novel. Anything."
"You can't skip to peace," said Jessica, a two-time cancer survivor. "You are in a time of conflict. There won't be peace during a time of conflict. You are trying to sort things out. Peace is a nice long-term goal, but you need to go through this. You can't cut around it." She said this as she pointed to a tree. Behind the tree were the giant fields where dozens of little girls played soccer while parents watched. The youth soccer pitch--the Promised Land of Parenting. For some parents, the Promised Land might be a swimming pool or a stage or a concert hall. Let me tell you: it isn't Wilderness or therapeutic boarding school. And yet, I am lucky that I can send the Boy to a place where he can get the care and support he needs to make it to adulthood.
Jessica has a son who is in his senior year of high school. Having been through that with Claire-Adele, I know that is a very difficult time. Toddlers are more rational and open to suggestion compared to a NE Seattle teen who feels their existence depends on whether or not they get into their top choice university.
"I made the mistake of watching videos of them when they were little," she said. "They were so full of joy. Will they ever get that back?"
I hope so. I am equally guilty of looking back at pictures and videos of the Boy when he was a tot. But that is not a bad thing. Seeing the sweet boy he once was gives me more reason to make sure he is getting the help he needs.
My manager often says to me he wants me to be happy, and the subtext there is that I am not. He has known me for a few years, and has seen me at my worst and my best at work. He recalls that I have a sense of humor and fun, but hasn't seen it in a while as it has been hidden behind my worry about the Boy.
Like my manager wants me to be happy, I want the Boy to be carefree and fun, too. I miss his sense of humor. I miss the joie de vivre he had a kid, like in the video above when he was crashing his plastic lawn chairs with the wheelbarrow. I remember when the Boy was little and Claire-Adele was in pre-school, I would dance with the Boy on my hip in the kitchen. I'd put him on my hip and spin around and he'd laugh and laugh. Obviously, that isn't going to happen, but I remember in recent times when he'd have good stories to tell about school, his friends and skiing. I remember dinners at Santorini with the kids when Jack was working, and they'd bombard me with tales of the crazy things they had done.
I miss that, but I am hoping sometime the Boy and I will both return to not necessarily our past selves, but better, future selves that enjoys the ups in life and can safely weather and navigate the rainy days. I hope Wilderness and boarding school will give him the rain coat, the umbrella, the rubber boots he will need to keep him warm and dry during those inevitably rough times. I used to wish--as I am sure most mothers do--that the Boy would never face hard times, that his life would be sunshine and rainbows. I have had enough tragedy in my life I should know better, and yet I still wish him a peaceful life.
But I can't. There are hard parts of life, the times of conflict that we cannot avoid or go around. We need to go through, as I was so gently reminded by Jessica. Unlike rain, we can't just sit and wait until it stops. We need to work through, or else the conflict will wait.
Oh my god. I am horrible.
"You are making progress," said my friend Karen. "Three months ago the Boy just started treatment and you were exhausted. Look at all of the progress both of you and the Boy have made!"
Yes, I have made progress, but I still feel like an emotional mess. My heart is pulling me in forty different directions and my brain is like "Seriously woman. All of these feelings are so conflicted and then throw in an anxiety attack. Give me something consistent to work with here and I'll try to help you sort things out."
I walked around Green Lake with a friend today, who is kind and patient, like all of my friends. I am waiting for one of them to say, "For god sake's woman, pull yourself together!"
But no.
"I want to have peace," I told my friend Jessica walking around Green Lake today. "I don't want to be in this chaos anymore. I want to be calm and fun and carefree, like I used to be. I am tired of reading self-help books and books on how to parent a troubled teen. I want to read a novel. Anything."
"You can't skip to peace," said Jessica, a two-time cancer survivor. "You are in a time of conflict. There won't be peace during a time of conflict. You are trying to sort things out. Peace is a nice long-term goal, but you need to go through this. You can't cut around it." She said this as she pointed to a tree. Behind the tree were the giant fields where dozens of little girls played soccer while parents watched. The youth soccer pitch--the Promised Land of Parenting. For some parents, the Promised Land might be a swimming pool or a stage or a concert hall. Let me tell you: it isn't Wilderness or therapeutic boarding school. And yet, I am lucky that I can send the Boy to a place where he can get the care and support he needs to make it to adulthood.
Jessica has a son who is in his senior year of high school. Having been through that with Claire-Adele, I know that is a very difficult time. Toddlers are more rational and open to suggestion compared to a NE Seattle teen who feels their existence depends on whether or not they get into their top choice university.
"I made the mistake of watching videos of them when they were little," she said. "They were so full of joy. Will they ever get that back?"
I hope so. I am equally guilty of looking back at pictures and videos of the Boy when he was a tot. But that is not a bad thing. Seeing the sweet boy he once was gives me more reason to make sure he is getting the help he needs.
My manager often says to me he wants me to be happy, and the subtext there is that I am not. He has known me for a few years, and has seen me at my worst and my best at work. He recalls that I have a sense of humor and fun, but hasn't seen it in a while as it has been hidden behind my worry about the Boy.
Like my manager wants me to be happy, I want the Boy to be carefree and fun, too. I miss his sense of humor. I miss the joie de vivre he had a kid, like in the video above when he was crashing his plastic lawn chairs with the wheelbarrow. I remember when the Boy was little and Claire-Adele was in pre-school, I would dance with the Boy on my hip in the kitchen. I'd put him on my hip and spin around and he'd laugh and laugh. Obviously, that isn't going to happen, but I remember in recent times when he'd have good stories to tell about school, his friends and skiing. I remember dinners at Santorini with the kids when Jack was working, and they'd bombard me with tales of the crazy things they had done.
I miss that, but I am hoping sometime the Boy and I will both return to not necessarily our past selves, but better, future selves that enjoys the ups in life and can safely weather and navigate the rainy days. I hope Wilderness and boarding school will give him the rain coat, the umbrella, the rubber boots he will need to keep him warm and dry during those inevitably rough times. I used to wish--as I am sure most mothers do--that the Boy would never face hard times, that his life would be sunshine and rainbows. I have had enough tragedy in my life I should know better, and yet I still wish him a peaceful life.
But I can't. There are hard parts of life, the times of conflict that we cannot avoid or go around. We need to go through, as I was so gently reminded by Jessica. Unlike rain, we can't just sit and wait until it stops. We need to work through, or else the conflict will wait.
 |
| The leaning stack of books next to my bed. |
Saturday, September 7, 2019
Persistence
Years ago when I was living in Lincoln Park in Chicago, I saw a petunia growing in the concrete where the sidewalk met a wall. It was a bright pink petunia, if I recall correctly. I wish I had had camera back then because I would have taken a picture of it, framed it on my wall, and called it "Persistence."
When the Boy was in a gifted program back in elementary school, I would say that the mothers of these very bright girls thought of their kids as precious petunias, which is ironic because petunias are hardy perennials flower that are easy to grow. The Boy, on the other hand, is an orchid. He needs precise living conditions in order to thrive.
I digress. Today when I let Fox on the condo patio to pee, I saw a little plant growing in a crack in the concrete between the patio and the wall. I immediately snatched the little sapling before I could think. As soon as I picked out, I was immediately reminded of the petunia on the sidewalk in Chicago.
It is interesting to see this plant has nothing but one skinny little root that found its way to some soil buried underneath my sidewalk.
I was going to compost this weed--a plant that nobody wants--until I saw my pot with a matching plant in it. I decided to replant this fragile yet hardy little guy in the soil with another snapdragon. Will this plant be better off in the concrete or in the dirt? We will never know because we can't compare the two paths, the one we took and the one we didn't.
When the Boy was in a gifted program back in elementary school, I would say that the mothers of these very bright girls thought of their kids as precious petunias, which is ironic because petunias are hardy perennials flower that are easy to grow. The Boy, on the other hand, is an orchid. He needs precise living conditions in order to thrive.
I digress. Today when I let Fox on the condo patio to pee, I saw a little plant growing in a crack in the concrete between the patio and the wall. I immediately snatched the little sapling before I could think. As soon as I picked out, I was immediately reminded of the petunia on the sidewalk in Chicago.
It is interesting to see this plant has nothing but one skinny little root that found its way to some soil buried underneath my sidewalk.
I was going to compost this weed--a plant that nobody wants--until I saw my pot with a matching plant in it. I decided to replant this fragile yet hardy little guy in the soil with another snapdragon. Will this plant be better off in the concrete or in the dirt? We will never know because we can't compare the two paths, the one we took and the one we didn't.
Tuesday, September 3, 2019
Betty & the Chicken Farm
Last Friday night, I went to a used bookshop in Pike Street Market. I didn't know what I wanted to get, but I wanted something new and fun to read, not a parenting book on how to deal with your troubled teen.
I fell upon The Egg & I by Betty MacDonald, a Pacific Northwest writer and author of the Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle series. Published in 1945, The Egg & I is memoir about the early part of Betty's life from her childhood in Seattle, to her marriage in 1927 to a chicken farmer on the remote Olympic Peninsula.
Sometimes when I pick up a book in a store, I'll read the back jacket, the table of contents, or flip it open to the middle. Of course, there is also reading the first page:
"Along with teaching us that lamb must be cooked with garlic and that a lady never scratches her head or spits, my mother taught my sisters and me that it is a wife's bounden duty to see that her husband is happy in his work. 'First make sure that your husband is doing that kind of work he enjoys and is best fitted for and then cheerfully accept whatever it entails. If you marry a doctor, don't whine because he doesn't keep the hours of a shoe clerk, and by the same token if you marry a shoe clerk, don't complain because he doesn't make as much money as a doctor. Be satisfied that he works regular hours,' Mother told us.
"'It is depressing enough for a man to know that he has to work the rest of his life without the added burden of knowing that it will be work he hates. Too many potentially great men are eating their hearts out in dull jobs because of selfish wives.'"
I stopped reading there. I was slightly repulsed. Betty's mom does not sound like a modern feminist. But, the book cover said this book is a classic, so I thought I might get it anyway because it is only $7. I thought I might find it interesting to read about something I would seriously question myself.
When I got home, I read more of the book and about Betty online. Betty continues:
"This I'll-go-where-you-go-do-what-you-do-be-what-you-are-and-I'll-be-happy philosophy worked out splendidly for Mother for she followed my mining engineer father all over the United States and lead a fascinating life; but not so well for me, because although I did what she told me and let Bob choose the work in which he felt he would be the happiest and then plunged wholeheartedly in with him, I wound up on the Pacific Coast in the most untamed corner of the United States, with a ten-gallon keg of good whisky,... and hundreds and hundreds of the most uninteresting chickens."
This is a book I could read.
When I googled Betty MacDonald, I read that she grew up in Laurelhurst, a historically posh neighborhood in Seattle. When I read that she married a chicken farmer and moved to the boondocks, I wanted to fly back in time before Betty married this guy and take her for a walk around Green Lake and say "Oh honey--marrying a chicken farmer and living on a chicken farm is such a bad idea. You are smart! You are elegant! You are funny and refined! Chickens are dumb, smelly and poop all over the place." I bet her some of her friends did try to tell her, and I bet she didn't listen because she was in love with the first guy that paid her any attention.
When I got home, I googled Betty. She left Bob and the chicken farm in 1931. You know the old cliche--a bad date makes a good story. Betty's bad marriage made a famous memoir.
I began to think about Betty's mom's advice. At first pass, I thought it was crazy. Now I think it isn't wrong, but I might take a different spin on it. Instead of being blindly happy about your husband's work, I might say don't marry a guy whose job you hate.
When I read more about The Egg & I, I felt a little like Ginny Weasley when she found Tom Riddle's diary in her book basket when she was shopping for school supplies. I just picked up this book not really knowing what it was really about. It seems interesting, but it also could be dangerous.
So where does this leave me? Jack became leader of his group about seven years ago. At that point, his job became all consuming. He works long hours and has a hard time being physically or emotionally present. When real problems arise (see: The Boy, Wilderness), he lacks the bandwidth to adequately cope as he is spent on work. Based on my own personal data inventory of people I know who have held this job, I've seen 100% divorce rate. I've never known anyone in this role in other hospitals around the country who isn't on their second spouse.
Jack and I have talked and talked and talked about his job. He loves his work. He admits it is too much, but he sees no way to change it.
Now I wish Betty could fly forward in time, take me for a walk around Green Lake, and tell me what to do. What would I tell her I want: companionship. Steady and reliable companionship. I went out with friends this weekend, but I don't want to go out with a different friend every night. I want a constant companion who knows my stuff and I know his.
I fell upon The Egg & I by Betty MacDonald, a Pacific Northwest writer and author of the Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle series. Published in 1945, The Egg & I is memoir about the early part of Betty's life from her childhood in Seattle, to her marriage in 1927 to a chicken farmer on the remote Olympic Peninsula.
Sometimes when I pick up a book in a store, I'll read the back jacket, the table of contents, or flip it open to the middle. Of course, there is also reading the first page:
"Along with teaching us that lamb must be cooked with garlic and that a lady never scratches her head or spits, my mother taught my sisters and me that it is a wife's bounden duty to see that her husband is happy in his work. 'First make sure that your husband is doing that kind of work he enjoys and is best fitted for and then cheerfully accept whatever it entails. If you marry a doctor, don't whine because he doesn't keep the hours of a shoe clerk, and by the same token if you marry a shoe clerk, don't complain because he doesn't make as much money as a doctor. Be satisfied that he works regular hours,' Mother told us.
"'It is depressing enough for a man to know that he has to work the rest of his life without the added burden of knowing that it will be work he hates. Too many potentially great men are eating their hearts out in dull jobs because of selfish wives.'"
I stopped reading there. I was slightly repulsed. Betty's mom does not sound like a modern feminist. But, the book cover said this book is a classic, so I thought I might get it anyway because it is only $7. I thought I might find it interesting to read about something I would seriously question myself.
When I got home, I read more of the book and about Betty online. Betty continues:
"This I'll-go-where-you-go-do-what-you-do-be-what-you-are-and-I'll-be-happy philosophy worked out splendidly for Mother for she followed my mining engineer father all over the United States and lead a fascinating life; but not so well for me, because although I did what she told me and let Bob choose the work in which he felt he would be the happiest and then plunged wholeheartedly in with him, I wound up on the Pacific Coast in the most untamed corner of the United States, with a ten-gallon keg of good whisky,... and hundreds and hundreds of the most uninteresting chickens."
This is a book I could read.
When I googled Betty MacDonald, I read that she grew up in Laurelhurst, a historically posh neighborhood in Seattle. When I read that she married a chicken farmer and moved to the boondocks, I wanted to fly back in time before Betty married this guy and take her for a walk around Green Lake and say "Oh honey--marrying a chicken farmer and living on a chicken farm is such a bad idea. You are smart! You are elegant! You are funny and refined! Chickens are dumb, smelly and poop all over the place." I bet her some of her friends did try to tell her, and I bet she didn't listen because she was in love with the first guy that paid her any attention.
When I got home, I googled Betty. She left Bob and the chicken farm in 1931. You know the old cliche--a bad date makes a good story. Betty's bad marriage made a famous memoir.
I began to think about Betty's mom's advice. At first pass, I thought it was crazy. Now I think it isn't wrong, but I might take a different spin on it. Instead of being blindly happy about your husband's work, I might say don't marry a guy whose job you hate.
When I read more about The Egg & I, I felt a little like Ginny Weasley when she found Tom Riddle's diary in her book basket when she was shopping for school supplies. I just picked up this book not really knowing what it was really about. It seems interesting, but it also could be dangerous.
So where does this leave me? Jack became leader of his group about seven years ago. At that point, his job became all consuming. He works long hours and has a hard time being physically or emotionally present. When real problems arise (see: The Boy, Wilderness), he lacks the bandwidth to adequately cope as he is spent on work. Based on my own personal data inventory of people I know who have held this job, I've seen 100% divorce rate. I've never known anyone in this role in other hospitals around the country who isn't on their second spouse.
Jack and I have talked and talked and talked about his job. He loves his work. He admits it is too much, but he sees no way to change it.
Now I wish Betty could fly forward in time, take me for a walk around Green Lake, and tell me what to do. What would I tell her I want: companionship. Steady and reliable companionship. I went out with friends this weekend, but I don't want to go out with a different friend every night. I want a constant companion who knows my stuff and I know his.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)