Sunday, March 27, 2005
He asks why I'm not blogging. Why not? Jesus, have you looked at my life lately? I'm deathly afraid to document it for fear that I'm actually going to have to face the facts at hand: we've sold our house and have no place to live; the homeowners' insurance paid nothing; my father is remarrying; he bought the girlfriend a house; I'm changing jobs; and I have no freakin' stability in my life. I'm terrified that one day I'm going to wake up and be drooling on myself in the corner of the bedroom after a well-deserved nervous breakdown. And during it all, I pretend that everything's fine, that I don't feel completely and utterly alone in the world, and that I'm perfectly capable of dealing with life as we know it. I still can't cry, and until I do I don't think I'll ever really be able to get over any of this.
And that's why I'm not blogging.
And that's why I'm not blogging.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Nine months today. Every day I feel the urge to write, but I end up conflicted, torn and deleting whatever it is that I write. I'm going to put it into words today, because I need to do it.
My relationship with my mother was complicated, but I suppose that's the case for nearly everyone. She was, for me, a walking contradiction. She was emotional, stubborn, demanding, talkative and infuriating. She was also warm, loving, helpful and giving. But I fear that my stories about her will tend to be too much one aspect of her personality and not enough of another. I don't want to give the impression that she was all good or all bad, and I worry that individual stories will be taken out of context and somehow harm the memory that I have of her, or give the impression that I don't remember her accurately. Is it wrong to be angry about certain things? Is it wrong to laugh about others? I don't know. This is all very new territory for me, because nine months isn't enough to sort out how you handle someone's memory.
So maybe I'll start by telling a bad story, and then follow with a good one. One for one. That's fair, right? And it's not that the bad stories are bad, necessarily. They're just stories that, at the time, hurt or upset me.
When I was 17, my father was hit by a car while walking in the parking lot at work on a cold, rainy March morning. The woman just nailed him from behind. I came home from school that day to find my father in his recliner, in his robe, with a hospital bracelet on his wrist. When I flipped out and asked why my mother hadn't called me at school to tell me about this, she said, "It just never occurred to me that you needed to know." I later found out that when she left for the hospital, she didn't know if he was even conscious or going to live. She had no details. Yet I didn't need to know.
A few years later, I was home from college on break, and I was lamenting my choice to become a writer because I would never make any money. My father had been in chronic, severe pain for three or so years at that point, and I saw a significant potential for him to require long-term care when he was older. I was really worried (at 20) about how I was going to provide for my father who would probably have to go out on long-term disability for this terrible pain he was in. She laughed at me. Laughed. Told me I was being ridiculous, that he would get over it, and that I was a fool to worry about it. I didn't feel like a fool. I felt like the weight of the world was on my shoulders, and I just wanted someone to hug me and tell me it was going to be ok. Instead, I was mocked. And I'm not talking about a few casual jabs. This was her laughing and me sobbing for hours in my bedroom. I was crushed.
Fortunately, nearly nine years after the accident, he found a surgeon who performed a surgery that's given him relief since day one. I don't have the same worries anymore. But it doesn't change the fact that on that day, I was so terribly sad.
But there are good stories, too.
Three years ago, mom's friend Micki was diagnosed with a pretty signifcant case of breast cancer. Micki, of course, was devastated. Throughout the process -- waiting for test results, surgery, biopsies, radiation -- my mother was there for her, calling on the phone, taking her little gifts, etc. Micki said once that having something major like breast cancer really showed you who your friends were. Some people heard her diagnosis and never called again, as though somehow their contact with her would put them at risk. But not my mother. She was there, helping, supporting and, above all, talking like she always did. I think her death was particularly hard for Micki because she had been there for her through all the hard times, and Micki would never have the chance to repay the favor.
My relationship with my mother was complicated, but I suppose that's the case for nearly everyone. She was, for me, a walking contradiction. She was emotional, stubborn, demanding, talkative and infuriating. She was also warm, loving, helpful and giving. But I fear that my stories about her will tend to be too much one aspect of her personality and not enough of another. I don't want to give the impression that she was all good or all bad, and I worry that individual stories will be taken out of context and somehow harm the memory that I have of her, or give the impression that I don't remember her accurately. Is it wrong to be angry about certain things? Is it wrong to laugh about others? I don't know. This is all very new territory for me, because nine months isn't enough to sort out how you handle someone's memory.
So maybe I'll start by telling a bad story, and then follow with a good one. One for one. That's fair, right? And it's not that the bad stories are bad, necessarily. They're just stories that, at the time, hurt or upset me.
When I was 17, my father was hit by a car while walking in the parking lot at work on a cold, rainy March morning. The woman just nailed him from behind. I came home from school that day to find my father in his recliner, in his robe, with a hospital bracelet on his wrist. When I flipped out and asked why my mother hadn't called me at school to tell me about this, she said, "It just never occurred to me that you needed to know." I later found out that when she left for the hospital, she didn't know if he was even conscious or going to live. She had no details. Yet I didn't need to know.
A few years later, I was home from college on break, and I was lamenting my choice to become a writer because I would never make any money. My father had been in chronic, severe pain for three or so years at that point, and I saw a significant potential for him to require long-term care when he was older. I was really worried (at 20) about how I was going to provide for my father who would probably have to go out on long-term disability for this terrible pain he was in. She laughed at me. Laughed. Told me I was being ridiculous, that he would get over it, and that I was a fool to worry about it. I didn't feel like a fool. I felt like the weight of the world was on my shoulders, and I just wanted someone to hug me and tell me it was going to be ok. Instead, I was mocked. And I'm not talking about a few casual jabs. This was her laughing and me sobbing for hours in my bedroom. I was crushed.
Fortunately, nearly nine years after the accident, he found a surgeon who performed a surgery that's given him relief since day one. I don't have the same worries anymore. But it doesn't change the fact that on that day, I was so terribly sad.
But there are good stories, too.
Three years ago, mom's friend Micki was diagnosed with a pretty signifcant case of breast cancer. Micki, of course, was devastated. Throughout the process -- waiting for test results, surgery, biopsies, radiation -- my mother was there for her, calling on the phone, taking her little gifts, etc. Micki said once that having something major like breast cancer really showed you who your friends were. Some people heard her diagnosis and never called again, as though somehow their contact with her would put them at risk. But not my mother. She was there, helping, supporting and, above all, talking like she always did. I think her death was particularly hard for Micki because she had been there for her through all the hard times, and Micki would never have the chance to repay the favor.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
It's 12 days into 2005. It's three days from our return to California from our Mexican cruise, and subsequently three days since we learned that our house had been burglarized while we were away. I was fine on Sunday. I came home, took inventory, accepted the fact that all of my jewelry, my mother's jewelry and my grandmother's jewelry was gone. As the days have gone by, I've gotten increasingly bitter and upset about everything. Today is the worst day. I'm perpetually on the verge of tears. I can't focus. I'm so fucking angry about everything. Tonight I realized that they took my laundry basket and my goddamned fabric softener, and I started screaming and yelling at the top of my lungs in my basement. I can't handle it. I can't even breathe sometimes. I don't know what to do. Everything is gone. All the electronics and the tools can be replaced, but what about my family's stuff? What about the checkbooks and the birth certificates and the titles to the cars and the social security card? Every call I make to straighten things out leads to 12 more calls. It will never be fixed.
I'm home alone tonight while C gives a presentation at a conference in Mt. View. I'm terrified to be in the house alone. I hear all sorts of noises that scare the hell out of me. I'm convinced that someone is coming through the window. About 15 minutes ago, I almost hyperventilated. I don't know how I'm ever going to make it past this. I've been through so much shit in the last year, and I just don't know if I can take any more. I've more than exceeded my limits. And the worst part about it all is that the loss of the jewelry and the memories is like losing my mom and grandmom all over again, and I can't take it. It hurts so badly. I don't know how I can make it through this.
I'm home alone tonight while C gives a presentation at a conference in Mt. View. I'm terrified to be in the house alone. I hear all sorts of noises that scare the hell out of me. I'm convinced that someone is coming through the window. About 15 minutes ago, I almost hyperventilated. I don't know how I'm ever going to make it past this. I've been through so much shit in the last year, and I just don't know if I can take any more. I've more than exceeded my limits. And the worst part about it all is that the loss of the jewelry and the memories is like losing my mom and grandmom all over again, and I can't take it. It hurts so badly. I don't know how I can make it through this.
Saturday, January 01, 2005
It's January 1. I've just left behind what could arguably be the worst year of my life. I'm leaving for a week-long cruise in the morning. Things should be great. I should be happy and delighted and looking ahead.
Instead, I have a flooded basement, a leaky roof, a furnace that stopped working and a car that's making a horrific grinding sound. My business has put me darned close to financial ruin. If not for the jillion Membership Rewards points that C has accrued over the past 10 years of business travel, we wouldn't be able to afford vacation at all (thank god for free vacations). I'm scared. I feel completely lost, worse than I did when my mother first died. The holidays have been horrific from an emotional standpoint. I feel completely crippled. The only consolation I have is sex.
I need to write on vacation. I need to spend immense amounts of time writing and getting very bad things out of my head.
Instead, I have a flooded basement, a leaky roof, a furnace that stopped working and a car that's making a horrific grinding sound. My business has put me darned close to financial ruin. If not for the jillion Membership Rewards points that C has accrued over the past 10 years of business travel, we wouldn't be able to afford vacation at all (thank god for free vacations). I'm scared. I feel completely lost, worse than I did when my mother first died. The holidays have been horrific from an emotional standpoint. I feel completely crippled. The only consolation I have is sex.
I need to write on vacation. I need to spend immense amounts of time writing and getting very bad things out of my head.
Monday, December 20, 2004
Everything looks perfect from far away.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
The cookie party is over. 7 1/2 hours of baking, hours of prep, hours of cleanup. This was the easy part. Dad arrives tomorrow. I'm so uptight that he's going to drop some major bombshell, like he's eloped with L or something. I just want to have a pleasant Christmas. That's all.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
It's amazing that it's been so long since I've blogged anything here. I was busy with NaNoWriMo through November, and I guess I just don't have much to say, or much that I want to say. The summary version is that I've gone off the antidepressants, I desperately need to talk to my mother, I'm starting to wonder if my husband thinks I'm more trouble than I'm worth, and I feel a burning need to cry. I feel so lonely. How did it all come to this?
