Hate. The word, in and of itself, has lost much power, much OOMF in this society in the past, ohh, let’s say decade. You hear it all the time around you daily…
“grrr, I HATE the rain!”
“oh, I HATE this computer!”
“I HATE her, she is so bossy…”
I say it all the time, I am guilty. And while in that context the word hate is used to describe dislike, frustration, annoyance, or anger…none of us use that word correctly. Hate is one of the strongest emotions that a human can have. You cannot love someone and yet really HATE them at the same time. Hate can kill. Hate can make a woman question what is right and good in this world.
Why must we spread hate? What is so tempting about that feeling that we want to hold onto it, keep it close to ourselves and FEED it?
I do not have any readers at this point, however I am hearing more and more from the more popular blogs that hate mail is their daily dose of shitty medicine. And I so not understand how someone can spew HATE, real, uncensored, horrible HATE, to a stranger and not feel…anything.
Ok, so I don’t know what they feel. I cannot put myself in those shoes because I would never tell someone to stop crying over their dad father already. That-that kind of hate- that I don’t have in me. I get angry. I am angry at the way people are being treated over seas. I am angry that this country is falling apart. I am angry that racism still exists.
I get angry a lot.
But I am going to make a concerted effort to stop using the word HATE. Because, after reading this, I know that I do not truly hate anything.
Join me, won’t you? Wipe out the word hate.
Oh, and if you are up to it, read this and consider wiping out that word too.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Tobacco Stains and the Snow Plow
I decided not to go that morning. I decided not to go to see her and she died.
Because I did not go see her? Maybe. Because the survived ovarian cancer, survived breast cancer, emphysema, past fall down the stairs thanks to her drunken ex-husband culminated and said “Your coming with us now”? Likely.
Since I was born, she was there. My mom brought her home after she visited her in the nursing home and found out they were not treating her right. My grandmother. She was like another child- unable to cook, run errands, or do algebra. Her and her ex got drunk one night and he pushed her down the stairs and he caused brain damage. I never met him, but oh, oh how I hate him for that.
And also, in a weird way, I am grateful. Otherwise, I never would have gotten to grow up with a grandmother who was my equal but could remember the wars. Could remember the depression. So many stories
She was always kind, always smiling. Always smoking too. I still wake up sometimes, 10 years after her death and 15 since I have lived in the same house, smelling her Benson and Hedges Menthols. And I hug my pillow and I wish, so terribly, that her wrinkled, tan, calloused and tobacco stained hands would hug me like she always used to. Would hold me while I cried, like she used to when I would find my mother on the couch, passed out with tequila spilled on the carpet.
I was living on my own, going to college and working and living, when my father called and invited me over for dinner. My grandma seemed off that night, sad somehow. I hugged her and she told me she loved me.
Then she told me to remember that I can fly away in my dreams.
And I knew. I knew she was going to die. She used to tell me that same phrase when I would cry and sob in her arms, clutching her shoulders, sobbing into her flat double mastectomy-ied chest, because even as a child I realized what my mother was doing to herself and I wanted to run away.
And I left. And that night it snowed. And I called my Dad early and said I would not be able to make it to feed the horses because the road had not been plowed yet, and would he mind walking out back to do it this morning?
An hour later he called back, as I was settling in to study, and told me my grandmother had died last night.
And I shattered, there amongst the piles of papers, my laptop, the wet boots from my trek to the buried car that morning. I shattered.
When my mother and I drove to the ocean to spread her ashes, I could not. I could not touch the ceramic jar. The cold, dead jar. The cancer. And I fell to my knees on the wet sand.
And I was five again, wishing I could run away.
Then I smelled her cigarettes, and my head filled with memories of her hands- making clay snakes with me, frosting cakes, giving me her veggies because she hated green things…
And I wished her sweet dreams. And my mom, my mom who has been through so much, let her mother’s ashes fly away.
And I imagined that she was up in Heaven, smoking her favorite cigarette and eating cake and patting some child on the head, comforting them as she used to comfort me.
************
Inspired by this from Her Bad Mother:
This post was inspired by a discussion that was shared between me and some very good friends – Lindsay, Loralee, Julie and Devra – at Mom 2.0. We curled up on the floor of the bedroom of the Four Season’s Presidential Suite during the CheeseBurgHer party and talked spirituality and faith, grief and loss, prayer and meditation and all variety of confused and confusing things. And then Lindsay decided that maybe we should explore some these questions (like the one I’m struggling with above, talking to kids about death) together, on our blogs. So we are. You’re welcome to join in. Leave me a link if you do. Or just speak your piece in the comments. Talking, maybe, will bring enlightenment. Or maybe more confusion. Either/or.
So: how do you talk to your children about death? Do you talk to your children about death? If they ask the hard questions, how do you/will you answer? Or do you, will you, like me, seek their answers, and look for comfort there?
Because I did not go see her? Maybe. Because the survived ovarian cancer, survived breast cancer, emphysema, past fall down the stairs thanks to her drunken ex-husband culminated and said “Your coming with us now”? Likely.
Since I was born, she was there. My mom brought her home after she visited her in the nursing home and found out they were not treating her right. My grandmother. She was like another child- unable to cook, run errands, or do algebra. Her and her ex got drunk one night and he pushed her down the stairs and he caused brain damage. I never met him, but oh, oh how I hate him for that.
And also, in a weird way, I am grateful. Otherwise, I never would have gotten to grow up with a grandmother who was my equal but could remember the wars. Could remember the depression. So many stories
She was always kind, always smiling. Always smoking too. I still wake up sometimes, 10 years after her death and 15 since I have lived in the same house, smelling her Benson and Hedges Menthols. And I hug my pillow and I wish, so terribly, that her wrinkled, tan, calloused and tobacco stained hands would hug me like she always used to. Would hold me while I cried, like she used to when I would find my mother on the couch, passed out with tequila spilled on the carpet.
I was living on my own, going to college and working and living, when my father called and invited me over for dinner. My grandma seemed off that night, sad somehow. I hugged her and she told me she loved me.
Then she told me to remember that I can fly away in my dreams.
And I knew. I knew she was going to die. She used to tell me that same phrase when I would cry and sob in her arms, clutching her shoulders, sobbing into her flat double mastectomy-ied chest, because even as a child I realized what my mother was doing to herself and I wanted to run away.
And I left. And that night it snowed. And I called my Dad early and said I would not be able to make it to feed the horses because the road had not been plowed yet, and would he mind walking out back to do it this morning?
An hour later he called back, as I was settling in to study, and told me my grandmother had died last night.
And I shattered, there amongst the piles of papers, my laptop, the wet boots from my trek to the buried car that morning. I shattered.
When my mother and I drove to the ocean to spread her ashes, I could not. I could not touch the ceramic jar. The cold, dead jar. The cancer. And I fell to my knees on the wet sand.
And I was five again, wishing I could run away.
Then I smelled her cigarettes, and my head filled with memories of her hands- making clay snakes with me, frosting cakes, giving me her veggies because she hated green things…
And I wished her sweet dreams. And my mom, my mom who has been through so much, let her mother’s ashes fly away.
And I imagined that she was up in Heaven, smoking her favorite cigarette and eating cake and patting some child on the head, comforting them as she used to comfort me.
************
Inspired by this from Her Bad Mother:
This post was inspired by a discussion that was shared between me and some very good friends – Lindsay, Loralee, Julie and Devra – at Mom 2.0. We curled up on the floor of the bedroom of the Four Season’s Presidential Suite during the CheeseBurgHer party and talked spirituality and faith, grief and loss, prayer and meditation and all variety of confused and confusing things. And then Lindsay decided that maybe we should explore some these questions (like the one I’m struggling with above, talking to kids about death) together, on our blogs. So we are. You’re welcome to join in. Leave me a link if you do. Or just speak your piece in the comments. Talking, maybe, will bring enlightenment. Or maybe more confusion. Either/or.
So: how do you talk to your children about death? Do you talk to your children about death? If they ask the hard questions, how do you/will you answer? Or do you, will you, like me, seek their answers, and look for comfort there?
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
My moment
I am going on a new pill next week. Getting off some others. It's kind of like going on a plane- you know that they hardly ever crash, but somewhere in your lizard brain you worry that the "hardly ever" will become "today" and you will go down in a hot mess of a crash.
In the meantime I have to wean off the old pill. And I am not sure what caused the moment of clarity for me, but I am going to say that it was due to me really, really paying attention to my body and thoughts this week.
I want an apology. From my parents. Thats all- three words "I am sorry".
Most of you will smile to yourselves and think "oh, she is so young, she has so much to learn about the world" Yeah? Try raising your sister, placating your father by holding flashlights while working on stupid cars in a freezing garage, and prying the bottle out of mommy's hand at night, then tell me I need to grow up. My sister is graduating medical school this year, so I guess I did alright there.
What I have NEVER gotten was an apology. Not for my mom busting my nose, not for...so much. So very, very much.
So while I am still to chicken shit to demand it from them...thats what I want. That's the only thing I want from them. Instead I will get a care package for my birthday and Christmas...and while I pretend that those presents carry a hint of apology...well I can only pretend for so long.
It is hard, not feeling close to your parents. It's even harder to explain to people that I would rather be just about anywhere else then in a room with both of them.
Maybe I should change this website to "How I hate my parents" with how much I am writing about them lately. Stick with me reader, if anyone is reading. I promise that soon, oh so soon, I will be on a new pill and I am sure the hilarity will ensue
In the meantime I have to wean off the old pill. And I am not sure what caused the moment of clarity for me, but I am going to say that it was due to me really, really paying attention to my body and thoughts this week.
I want an apology. From my parents. Thats all- three words "I am sorry".
Most of you will smile to yourselves and think "oh, she is so young, she has so much to learn about the world" Yeah? Try raising your sister, placating your father by holding flashlights while working on stupid cars in a freezing garage, and prying the bottle out of mommy's hand at night, then tell me I need to grow up. My sister is graduating medical school this year, so I guess I did alright there.
What I have NEVER gotten was an apology. Not for my mom busting my nose, not for...so much. So very, very much.
So while I am still to chicken shit to demand it from them...thats what I want. That's the only thing I want from them. Instead I will get a care package for my birthday and Christmas...and while I pretend that those presents carry a hint of apology...well I can only pretend for so long.
It is hard, not feeling close to your parents. It's even harder to explain to people that I would rather be just about anywhere else then in a room with both of them.
Maybe I should change this website to "How I hate my parents" with how much I am writing about them lately. Stick with me reader, if anyone is reading. I promise that soon, oh so soon, I will be on a new pill and I am sure the hilarity will ensue
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
They say that writing is the writer’s own therapy, their way to make sense of the world around them. It was that for me, but after leaving my therapist, facing what I faced at the doctor yesterday, and coming home to a dog who no matter what we did to him (when he was sick mind you), he runs to the door like he has not seen me in a month…I realized that while it might be my therapy, it’s also my saving grace.
Pious bull? Maybe. I won’t lie, the thought that my opinions and thoughts are now out for people to see and maybe, just maybe agree with me is tempting. It’s also terrifying. When I am on an up and look at what I wrote when I was down, so, so far down it.terrifies.me. Bone chilling terror.
How could I have thought that? God, was I really that close too…?
Yes. Yes you were and only the Devil/God/Buddha knows why you pulled away from the edge of the cliff again.
So it might be my therapy, it might be what jolts me into reality from my fuzzy, pill filled world. I know what it is for sure.
It is my safety net that keeps me from falling off the ledge of sobriety I am walking on.
Pious bull? Maybe. I won’t lie, the thought that my opinions and thoughts are now out for people to see and maybe, just maybe agree with me is tempting. It’s also terrifying. When I am on an up and look at what I wrote when I was down, so, so far down it.terrifies.me. Bone chilling terror.
How could I have thought that? God, was I really that close too…?
Yes. Yes you were and only the Devil/God/Buddha knows why you pulled away from the edge of the cliff again.
So it might be my therapy, it might be what jolts me into reality from my fuzzy, pill filled world. I know what it is for sure.
It is my safety net that keeps me from falling off the ledge of sobriety I am walking on.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
When you need a miracle and chemistry kicks your ass
I woke up this morning drenched in sweat. Crying with puffy eyes. I also woke up with pain all over. Aches. Pain in my joints and muscles. It’s been just like this for a week. I think the storm is coming again and I am not sure I can sit tight through it again. If medicine ain’t working, then what the fuck am I supposed to do?! Therapy made my night terrors worse.
I thought about leaving my boyfriend this morning. Just packing up and going. Partly to hurt someone, partly because I would rather be alone. All my friends are social beings. Me- I could live on a mountain top alone with only squirrels. That started early, but I can’t blame my parents forever for whats going on in my head. It’s not that I feel I don’t deserve to be happy- I want to be happy. I am happy for stretches at a time. Then, it’s like the meds stop fucking working. And what do you do when your first, last, and backup line of defense crumbles around you, leaving you heaving, sweating, with eyes so puffy you cannot even focus to see your mortal enemy? Because that’s what we are talking about here folks, my mortal enemy. The thing that if I let draw blood, even once, will kill me. Viciously and without mercy or thought of my family or friends.
I know I love him. I know that he is the best thing to happen to me. Ever. Period. I also know that he is going to get on one knee next month and ask me to marry him. And I want to be happy about it. Instead I am terrified. Terrified that I will be inexorably attached to another human. Why would he want to tie himself up with someone who has historically lashed out after lashing herself for months at a time.
The awesome part is that I keep wishing that I am going to channel Joan of Arc or something, find a sword and kick ass on that battlefield, with no defense. Instead what happens is I keep my head just above the blood. I sidestepped a sword thrust from my enemy this morning, and I am not sure how long I can keep moving. I need backup. I need this medicine to get my brain chemicals in check.
I need a miracle. And a reason.
I thought about leaving my boyfriend this morning. Just packing up and going. Partly to hurt someone, partly because I would rather be alone. All my friends are social beings. Me- I could live on a mountain top alone with only squirrels. That started early, but I can’t blame my parents forever for whats going on in my head. It’s not that I feel I don’t deserve to be happy- I want to be happy. I am happy for stretches at a time. Then, it’s like the meds stop fucking working. And what do you do when your first, last, and backup line of defense crumbles around you, leaving you heaving, sweating, with eyes so puffy you cannot even focus to see your mortal enemy? Because that’s what we are talking about here folks, my mortal enemy. The thing that if I let draw blood, even once, will kill me. Viciously and without mercy or thought of my family or friends.
I know I love him. I know that he is the best thing to happen to me. Ever. Period. I also know that he is going to get on one knee next month and ask me to marry him. And I want to be happy about it. Instead I am terrified. Terrified that I will be inexorably attached to another human. Why would he want to tie himself up with someone who has historically lashed out after lashing herself for months at a time.
The awesome part is that I keep wishing that I am going to channel Joan of Arc or something, find a sword and kick ass on that battlefield, with no defense. Instead what happens is I keep my head just above the blood. I sidestepped a sword thrust from my enemy this morning, and I am not sure how long I can keep moving. I need backup. I need this medicine to get my brain chemicals in check.
I need a miracle. And a reason.
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