New Eyes

When last I talked to Colleen, I left feeling more than a little perplexed. Strong? Maybe. Competent? Probably. Admired? dunno about that. So being ever so slightly analytical–as well as certifiable–I checked it out with R.

Am I intimidating? Yup but it’s not your fault that you look like you know your butt from two dollars a week. ’s not so much that you are intimidating as some folk are intimidated by you. hmmm. There is a difference there?

I go through life thinking that people don’t much like me. Checked it out with M. NAh, it’s not that people don’t like you. They just don’t understand you. They are used to agendas and ulterior motives and you just let it out straight up. It’s a mistake to read between the lines with you because there is NO between the lines between the lines. hmmm.

You know, people always ask about you and I have never heard a critical word…hmmmm.

I see myself through different eyes. I see the insecurity not the strength. I see the places I could have, should have done better, differently, more, less, something. I see someone who wants terribly to be loved and sometimes doesn’t know how to be lovable. I Don’t see the lion; I see the puppy. Scratch my ears and I’ll follow you anywhere.

So just for giggles I have taken R’s advice. I have suspended my disbelief. You know, people stop by my desk to chat, ask advice, grouse about the rest of the world. Folk don’t do that with people they would prefer to avoid. Even the dour ones play word games with me. There are more smiles than averted eyes. I just have been looking for the rejection rather than the acceptance. Perhaps the acceptance I need to really work on comes from that mythology that the demon in my head promotes. Maybe reality is not nearly as daunting as the demon has had me believe.

This week I am willing to be loved. This is a good week.

Who is this Man?

Somebody brought the Big Guy back when I wasn’t looking. My sweetie is back on the planet. Maybe it’s as simple as less than a month until a major vacation. Maybe it’s for good–or at least a good long time. I am not going to analyze too closely. I am just busy loving having him home.

There haven’t been any revelations on the southern front. I have been getting big bear hugs in the kitchen again. The quiet, when it is quiet, doen’t seem lonely at all and it doesn’t sound as deafening as it has all these months. Now, quiet just feels peaceful. There had been a tension to silence that felt like the few seconds before the JAWS! theme started to play when you knew that something pretty gnarly was up close and personal.

The House Elf has a definite positive influence on my sense of well being. I love coming in and not tripping over my own crap. Of course, I have had to keep it picked up–but even that is easier from a starting point that is not somewhere behind the eight ball. I am not sure whether it is a chaotic house that depresses me or depression that makes my house chaotic. I am inordinately pleased with clean window sills.

Analogies and Metaphors

On the long trip from Phoenix to San Diego, we stopped for a bio break somewhere just ourside of Yuma. The restrooms were 100 yards or so from the parking area. Mom had to pee. To pee, she had to get from the car to the restroom. Fifty yards from the car she said, “I can’t. I can’t. I cannot go any farther.” and she stopped and stood. “Come on, Mom.” didn’t work. “You can, Mom.” didn’t work. What got her to keep going toward the john was, “Okay, look where the car is. Look where the bathroom is. You have to go just as far to get back to the car as you have to go to get to the pot. If you go back to the car you will still have to pee. Whaddya want to do? I am going to pee.” Then she followed me to the bathroom and back to the car.

So, this morning at Weight Watchers I was looking at how far I have to go–40 pounds. It’s daunting and discouraging. ( I have back peddled some this past year. I can’t imagine why.) Right now, I am looking over my shoulder at how far I have come–still more than 100 pounds down. It is closer to the goal than it is half-way back.

The analogy doesn’t hold all the way through. I really am not headed back ‘to the car’ with any positive intention. I am afraid of weighing ### again. Finishing the weight loss doesn’t really finish anything. The part that makes sense to me is that I can either go forward or backward. Having gone forward, I will be more comfortable as I continue the journey. If I go backward, I’ll still continue the journey but I’ll be sitting–at best–in a pissy seat.

I’ll toddle along. I can. I will. It isn’t that far to the goal. It is much closer than the distance I’ve already covered…and I have to pee.

Books and Their Covers

The old adage says, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” I am drawn to books with beautiful covers. Depending on the phase of the moon, a beautiful cover might be old worn leather or a damsel in distress being swept away by some iconic hero. Yeah, I read bodice rippers, too.

This afternoon, while talking with Colleen, I got to take a look at my cover through her eyes. There are not many places where staight talk is the order of the day. The shrink’s office should be one, but in many instances it is a lot more listening with little feedback. The feedback has given me an opportunity to examine the advertisement I put on the dust cover. We all know that the real cover doesn’t show itself until the paper one is accidentally shredded or intentionally discarded.

It seems that through my reportage, I come off as strong: a force with which to be reckoned, a no nonsense, self-reliant, get-out-of-my-way kind of gal. I think I may make a story better or harsher in the retelling. 

Disclaimer here: This reporting is run through my interpretation and personal filter of the discussion. Some of the things I heard, I am sure were not said. Sometimes, with the demons in my head, I cannot tell the difference between what is said and what I hear. That is often unfortunate when what I hear is tangential to what is said.

I don’t mind being seen as strong. I think ’strong’ is a bit of an overstatement. I think I just try really hard and I don’t cut myself much slack. I am much more generous with people around me. I don’t feel tough.

I don’t feel like much I do is noteworthy–it’s just what I do. I see myself as adequate in a lot of areas. I lay tile pretty well. I build pretty cool cabinets but Norm Abrams has nothing to fear from me. I cook and people come back for seconds but anyone who can follow directions can cook. I sew–I like it. Making dresses for little girls makes me laugh. I knit–it keeps my hands busy. I love needlework but my hands shake so badly that holding a needle and finding the threads to count is more frustration than joy these days. I have samplers I may never finish. I sling words well enough to be paid for it.

The paper cover is much more inticing than the binding underneath. The truth is the things I do don’t impress me. They are just things I do.

What does all this have to do with what people see when they pick up the book that is me? Apparently, they don’t see the fear. Apparently, the desire to run hide in the closet instead of confront is trumped by the need to seem capable. People often seem surprised at all the things I do well. That’s nothing; I am surprised that I do anything well. I don’t cut myself much slack. I feel shy. I know I don’t look it. I tell the truth because I cannot keep lies straght.

In the session today, I fought with hearing the internal translation rather than the observations offered. My demon was saying, “no one likes you,” while Colleen was saying that the demon needs to be evicted. She was noticing that I hear the criticism more clearly than I hear the confirmation. I expect to be hit more often than I expect to be caressed. That may mean that the protective cover mis-represents the content. I am thinking on that. She also said that I am more willing to be rejected than embraced and that I see rejection when it isn’t there.

When you look inside yourself it’s introspection. What is it when you look at the persona you project and ask if the cover fits the book?

Making Your Own Mythology

This is an odd place to get real–whatever real may be.

Mom died in February. She left my life ten years ago–her choice not mine. Having her back in town even if she left her mind somewhere else was surreal. In the years since she ran away from home, I have built a mythology for myself that wrapped me pretty tightly around my brother and youngest sister. Middle sister went in a different direction from the day she backed into the world. The odd thing I am realizing about the mythology I built is that I believed it.

I believed that we siblings could have relationships after growing up in a family that did nothing to foster fraternity. I have made excuses for patently bad behavior and accepted off hand treatment because I believed that under the bad behavior there was love and trust and respect.

Now that it is clear to me that there is niether trust nor respect, I cannot see anything that approaches love. At least nothing that approaches a brand of love I understand. So, I feel duped. I feel embarassed and naive. I am not happy with my lack of perception. It is very hard to be wrong sometimes. I am less angry with my sister than I am disappointed: first, that my mythology was just that and nothing more; and second, that I have made myself more vulnerable in my false belief.

If I can be so wrong about something I want so much, what else do I miss by a mile and a half? Where is the person I think I am?

Then Came Spring

February was a blur. There were obits to write, decisions to be made, and the only guilt I could feel was guilt for not feeling guilty. I was busy reassuring my friends I was fine. They didn’t think so. But I was fine with mother dying. I wasn’t fine with what her dying did to my relationship with my siblings.

We have actively worked at having different families than the one we grew up in–although each is us has such different memories it is often hard to believe we ever lived together or shared parents. So, our respective children behave very differently from our collective behavior at similar ages. We siblings have revelled in the independence and character of all those next generation kids. They span 20 years from the oldest to the youngest. Their generation is more like two. The youngest of them just finished high school; the oldest is 36 and has two daughters and a lovely wife. It’s not like they hang out a whole lot.

They love and respect each other. They read each others’ blogs and comment. They plead guilty to cybersnooping and they know that their cousins are there for them–good news or not.  I don’t even know where my cousins are and would not recognize them on the street.

The divide and prevail tactic mother used all through our childhoods had brought us closer–once we recognized the game. After her death, resolve seemed to fail. She was dividing us more in death than she ever had in life.

Now, if I were reading this, uninvolved and unbiased, my first thought would be, “Money does that, even in families.” But we have no issues with the settling of her estate. Four of us, one step-sister–sell it off; divide by five. All agree. No issue.

Since February, it feels like some of us think others of us don’t care–or we don’t care correctly. I hear the critical voice of my father coming out of my sister’s mouth. The words have the same degree of inanity they had when I was 14 and of a fairly logical mind. If I tell you I prefer you speak to me differently, when you are being controlling, officious and overbearing, wouldn’t you think perhaps there was room for improvement?

Colleen says, “Tell the truth with love.” For my translation, I have never believed that there was any chance of getting what you want unless you ask for it. So I asked. I didn’t use the controlling, overbearing, officious, carve-her-into-little-pieces-and-feed-her-to-the-sharks tone or rhetoric. I used an “I message.” One of many exchanges went: ”When you tell me how to make a bed, I feel demeaned and criticized. Would you please try to be aware of your tone of voice?” Of course the subtext in my mind was, “What the f—! I have been making beds for 48 years–maybe more. And why the Hell do you care, anyway?” Repeatedly, sister spoke to me as though I had fallen off the turnip truck and struck my head severely. Perception is reality and I did not like what I was perceiving. I have never needed close supervision in my work or in my life. I’ve negotiated 58 years of life my way and I am content to let her negotiate her route her way, All I ask is that she extend me the same courtesy.

What I hoped and expected to be a gentle intervention BEFORE I became thoroughly pissed off was not well received. Brother, meanwhile, was being subjected to the same condescending tone and content–albeit he never helped her make a bed. He was already thoroughly pissed.

Elfin Magic

I haven’t been home yet. The House Elf and her minions are there. It is 4 pm. They were supposed to arrive at 11. I don’t know if they were punctual or approximate elves. I am just SO excited that they are there.

Didn’t ask about the clothes thing either. The Big Guy probably would have mentioned starker elves—if he noticed. I think he has not stuck his head out the door. He and the dog are locked in the office waiting for the all clear to sound.Last week I was all atwitter with anticipation.

The disappointment of no wafting lavender is still rattling in my nose. It’s much like expecting mint and biting into wasabi. The wasabi is a shock when you know it’s horseradish. When you expect mint, well, you’ve been there.

This week, I am not so up. I won’t have so far to fall. But there are elves, working elves, attacking my house. I love elves.

When talking about my adventures in psychology, The Bug Guy declared he had not changed—it’s all me. Yeah, but he showed up Friday with two dozen red roses. Then he showed up on Sunday with two dozen orangey/yellow roses. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he has bought cut flowers under his own power. He has paid for them often when I threw them into the basket, but any female knows that isn’t the same thing at all.

He hasn’t changed a bit. Not at all. Uh-huh. Yeah, right.

Moving North

Mom was evicted. Someone took her wedding rings—a handful of diamonds—not a fortune, but nice. We took her to the Northern part of the county to a wonderful house high on a hill. The view of the ocean eased into a view of the city then gradually faded into a view of hills and chaparral. Three hundred and sixty degrees of wonderful and a twelve bed house/mansion were all carefully outfitted for people who could not live alone.

Mother immediately decided it was her house. She also decided it was very Christian of her to share it with all those unfortunate people. By the end of the first hour she was holding hands with one of the geriatric Lotharios and gazing longingly at another. This was going to be a better place for mom than the bridge-playing crowd in the valley. And so it was until she got sick.

Very soon after moving in she caught a virus and her breathing became labored and gasping. She went to the emergency room. The news was not good and it got worse. Her lungs were functioning at something less than 50%. Her heart rate was entirely too fast and her blood pressure was a stroke looking for a place to happen. She laid in bed and her body was running a marathon. The watch began.

While in the hospital we expected her to fade into the night three nights in a row. She did not. The fourth day she gave us a wonderful gift. She sat up and talked to us. She TALKED to each of us. She was sweet and charming. She tried to get an extra hug and kiss from the Crazy (and cute) Norwegian.

When the doctor asked her how she was doing, her thought and her answer went beyond her health. She said, “I am apprehensive but I am not concerned.” She was getting ready for a final trip, I am sure.  She rallied. We took her home to hospice care at the mansion on the hill. The four of us visited daily—sometimes even one at a time. The others at the facility fussed over us. There were not so many visitors as one would hope.

The day after Valentine’s Day I walked in and looked around, not finding her in the chair she usually commandeered. The nurse’s aide was young and rabbit-like. Her eyes were darting as if looking to escape but there was no way through it but through it. “She is gone,” she whispered. “Gone?” said
I. “I am so sorry,” said she. The dawn broke in my benighted mind. “May I be with her?” “Yes, of course.” “When?” “An hour or so. We have not been able to get your sister on the phone.”

Then I sat with my mother and made a few calls. I sat with my mother. 

Saga of the House Elf

Have I mentioned that I don’t clean, cook, pick up, or otherwise display domestic tendencies when depressed? Have I mentioned that I have been really down for at least the past six months and kinda sorta generally down for about a year? Have I mentioned that a room at the dump might be neater and cleaner than my house?

The newly engaged House Elf was scheduled to begin elfing around my house this past Thursday. Himself was home–having basically nothing else to do. I had a command performance off-site meeting at the Salt Mine and the incumbent stress-related headache. Truly, the only thought that kept me from jumping headfirst into a giant martini was the sure knowledge that at home, that very minute, magic was being made. Wonderful elfin magic was transforming Chez Garbage into Chez Moi.

uh-uh. Nope. Not so. No wafting scent of lavender scented floor cleaner met my tired hopeful nose. No windows sparkled in the fading light. THE ELF WAS  A NO SHOW. Your basic “Wassup?” phone call revealed that she had, indeed, called. She had, indeed, broken down on the freeway. Himself had texted my cell–the one I turned off because of said command performance off-site meeting. She will come elf on Tuesday. Tuesday–the day AFTER my birthday.

Dobbie would not treat Harry so.

I blew off renewing my drivers license. I get to go do pennance in DMV purgatory first thing in the morning. I get to spend the first part of my non-elfing birthday standing in a blinking line. The second half I get to spend working my salty little fingers to the bone. In the evening, I will finish laying the tile in my laundry room. I will enjoy the evening most.

My darling children made dinner for me tonight. I got to swim with my little grandgirls while the Crazy Norwegian finished scraping the old mastic off the laundry room floor. That was a wonderful gift. I had been plugging away at it for more than a week. The washer is in the hallway and the dryer is on the porch (with two low flush toilets that require six 1.6 gallon flushes to depoop themselves–how does that translate to water savings?). I am eager to have my yard look less like Jeff Foxworthy’s nearest neighbor.

After everyone left, I dry fitted the tile and cut the requisite edge pieces. I also made a calculation error and ran out of mastic before sticking down all the tiles. I knew I should have gone to visit the Despot to get another bucket o’gunk but … So, instead of grouting tomorrow night, I’ll lay the rest of the tile and grout on Wednesday. The Elf can work around the washer in the hall.

I’ll have to shower several times twixt now and then. I am not sure what I will use for a towel. The little girls are towel intensive and the washer is not washing at the moment, Hmmm.

The Big Guy showed up with roses–long-stemmed red-is-for-passion roses. Himself is much more apt to buy a rose bush and say, “Here, plant this.” Yeah, he’s back. Who needs an Elf when the Big Guy actually buys roses?

On Aging

Unattributed, blatently stolen quotation: “Getting old ain’t for wimps.” I don’t remember where first I heard this sentiment so aptly expressed. Getting old is hard work. First, you have to negotiate the whole prenatal crap shoot. Then you must survive infancy–a doubly interesting negotiation if you are firstborn. Someone, somewhere decided you should learn to walk and that offers even more opportunities to remove yourself from the gene pool. Eventually you are sent to school, where if the germs don’t get you, your peers take their best shot. By middle school, your peers have better aim and the challenge is dodging bullets to your psyche or something more literal depending on your neighborhood. Highschool separates the figurative men from the boys. Living through highschool is living through life in a war zone. The blessed few float through on a cloud of adulation and coolness seemimgly aloof from the strafing around them. Some muddle along with a cadre of coolish lesser beings–mostly they keep their heads down to avoid fire. Some survive by the skin of their teeth, running full tilt with explosions on every side. These are the ones who succeed wonderfully in college just to prove that highschool really was not the end-all-be-all of life–just as mother said. If you make it to 26–male or female–actuaries tell us you stand to live to a ripe old age (with variance for genetics and sudden gusts of stupidity).

The hard truth of the human condition is that no one gets out of it alive. A corollary to that truth is that the the longer you live the more aware you become that no one gets out of it alive. I postulate that many of us forget to live once we make it through the major minefields of life. I have taken life completely for granted, lived in the colon of my own angst, and basically taken everything entirely too seriously for years at a time. Stop and smell the roses. There were roses?

So tomorrow is my birthday. I will celebrate the completion of 58 years’ survival and I am going to try to keep my mind on the next 58 years or 58 minutes whichever seems most reasonable at the time. Even when life is less than good it is better than the obvious alternative. As for the not-so-obvious possible alternatives, I have never been a good gambler. I am sticking with the horse I know –I am not interested in pulling out of the race prematurely.