Ode to my Mother

Our lives are like a worn patchwork quilt with bright, cheerful, splotches of love and laughter stretched next to limp,defeated rags of heartache and anger. These are all bound by the threads of our family; gray and white and red, all twisted together in fragile but stiff cords, like floral wire, as if none of our emotions could blend or be neutral. No, they all clash and slam against each other, leaving us damaged and bewildered, tied yet straining to be apart, wondering what to do next.

Mother's day is a bittersweet day for me. I love spending time with my kids, reading their homemade cards while I blink back tears, and listening to them laugh at me. It's the best feeling in the world, knowing how much you are loved and appreciated. I think the older I get, the older my kids get, the more I appreciate it all. There have been battles and tears and silences and confusion and laughter and wonderment, as my kids morph into teens and try to become their own person. I feel so honored and privileged that they have been entrusted to me. And it is because of this joy of my own children that i also feel such sadness. A "constant mourning" is what my therapist calls it. And she is right. A constant mourning for my own mom who is not in my life.

I could have sent her a card. I could have called. But what would be the point? then what? There's nowhere else to go and constantly saying "no" and "goodbye" wears on my soul with its repetiveness.

My therapist suggested I send her a phantom card. What is a phantom card? It's pretending to send a card. I can write it out and pretend to put it in the mail to her. I laughed at my therapist. Um, that's crazy I say. What kind of lunatic writes out a pretend card and sends it in the mail? I imagine it would end up in the same post office as all the tooth fairy and Santa Clause letters. but in this instance, some cheery little elf with his pointy little ears, or even more realistically, a gray-haired grandma with a soft smile on her gently weathered face full of love and wisdom, is going to get a lot more than they signed up for when they opened my phantom card. Who needs that kind of pressure?
Instead, I have chosen to think of my mother and our life for the past three days. I have pondered. I have smiled. I have choked back sobs that came on suddenly and took me by surprise. But I wanted to think of my mom in a positive light. There are so many fantastic things about her and i feel that this rift, this deepening chasm, is drowning all of the quirkiness in her that I love with all my heart. I can't do that. It's not fair - to her or to me. So here it is, the ode to my mother. It is not a phantom, it is not a secret and even though she will probably never read this, I feel incredibly relieved and heartbroken that I am able to write it.

My mom is..............
Vivacious. A quality I envy if i can be completely truthful. Who else would actually think of changing their name to Carre' Star just because she felt like one?
Captivated. My mom is able to stop and enjoy the little things. A bird singing in a tree. A seashell on the shore. A perfect flower in her garden. The smell of the ocean. All of these things receive her undivided attention and scrutiny and joy. She always stops and takes the time to appreciate and enjoy them.

Funny. I don't know how else to say it. She's funny and fun to be around. She dances and sings and hugs you with abandon, not caring who is watching or what they think. She does things and buys things and creates things, because they make her happy. That's it. Her laughter can fill a room.

My mom instilled in me an appreciation for great music like Carole King, The Supremes,Bob Seger, and Fleetwood Mac. I dance around the living room and sing at the top of my lungs all the same songs she did. Way over Yonder, Love Child, and Stop Draggin' My Heart Around..... I see her, swaying with her eyes closed, hands clutched at her heart, while she faces up, the words coming out like an offering.

Thoughtful. I buy cards almost every time I go the store and have a basket collection of them so i can send them out whenever I want, to whomever I want, at a moments thought. Just like my mom. Except she has a drawer. i love getting a card or a magazine in the mail because it makes me feel special and loved. I jump up and down and rip it open like I'm five and expecting a $10 bill to fall out on my birthday. Just like my mom.

Fashion queen - she thinks. My mom rocks a style all her own. Cowboy boots with dressy shorts. A leather jacket with pearls. Anciently old OP shorts and a t-shirt. A pair of pink jeans with faded purple flowers on them. I think she finally got rid of those but she wore them often. And she looked good. Red lipstick. Always, always, lipstick. A jeweled clip for her hair even if she was in sweats. There is always something about her that says, feminine, all the time.

Fortitude. My mom worked three jobs at one time for a few years. I didn't see her much but she did it so we could live in a decent neighborhood and i could go to a good school. I'll never forget when she got her job at UPS. It was a seasonal position. Christmas. She walked in, no interview, but in my mom's true form, she acted surprised that her name was not on the interviewee list and they gave her one anyway. They asked if she could drive a truck and she lied and said yes and then proceeded to do it because that was part of the interview. She got the job.

My mom had balls. About so many things. My mom had gumption. In all things but one.....

I admired her. I catch myself sometimes, saying something exactly like she did or I'll get a glimpse in a store window and see her face glancing over at me. It's unsettling.

I read something that captured how I feel about my mom so perfectly that I have to put it here. It is not my words but I certainly felt as though someone opened the door to my heart and and scribbled down what they saw there. I read this today at lunch and I started crying in the break room........

"I was able to ache for her, for all that had been so impossible for her to bear, for the bad cards she had been dealt. Yet I could forgive her only about half the time. I was struggling to learn the little things she forgot to teach me - that I was beautiful, and of value, regardless of how well or poorly I was doing in the world - and was mad that she had given me a lousy owner's manual. I saw her as the foil, and believed that I had grown to be the woman I was simply because of how hard I had to work to defend myself against turning out like her." Grace (Eventually) - Anne Lamott pg. 88 (underlined in my book with a big squiggly line down the page just in case I missed my notes next to it.)

Ironic that touched me so much when I see so much of my mom inside me and in the things I do. I guess i obtained my objective though. I didn't want any of the bad stuff. None of the anger. None of the sickness or denial. None of the hatefulness.

It's hard because I know now that my mom is sick. It's hard to be mad at her when I want to hug her and help her and tell her it will be ok. If she'd just do what she's supposed too..... But that's the thing isn't it? Unconditional love is a bitch. It's so hard to love and reach out when you know a back-handed slap is coming your way. It sucks that I can't just pick up the phone to tell her I love her because I know the storm that comes after that is just not worth it.
I picture my mom, on mother's day, going about her day but listening with one ear, for the phone to ring. Going out to the mailbox to see if a card is there. I picture my mom feeling a slice of disappointment and then pain, knowing no one is going to call when the end of the day is near, as she gives a a small, tight, smile to her husband and looks out the window with tears that she won't shed. I picture this and it hurts me, it kills me inside. I want to protect her. Like a child. I want to hold her tight, whisper to her that no one is going to get her, and protect her from herself. But I can't. I can't protect her and me. I can't protect her and my family at the same time. I have to choose. She made her choice and I also made mine. But that doesn't make it any easier. It doesn't lessen how much i miss her. Because I do, I miss her so much.

I was asked how I would feel if she died. Would I feel like i had done everything I could? Would I be sad?

I know I have done everything I can except agree to be a part of the cycle. I can't agree to that. Ever. Would I be sad? I'm sad now. i mourn now. I cry now. I don't think death would make it any harder. This is worse. Knowing there should be an opportunity to make it better but there isn't.

I used to sing to Bre when she was small. You are my Sunshine. That is my song to her. I'd sing it when she was crying, hurt, sad, or sick. She has a pillow on her bed that has this saying stitched on it. She knows it is her song and hers alone. She doesn't share it with her brother or sister. It's especially for her.

It was also my song. I don't know if i ever told her that. Maybe. Maybe not. My mom used to sing it to me too.

You are my Sunshine.
My only Sunshine.
You make me happy,
when skies are gray.
you'll never know dear,
how much I love you.
Please don't take my Sunshine away.

I love too mom. More than you know.

darkness......and Light

It's been weeks since I had my "man - part 1" breakdown. I keep thinking to myself, with an intro like that, what the hell am I going to write in Part 2? The answer is, I don't know yet. I've gotten glimpses, little whispers of words, but no complete thoughts yet. Not on that subject anyway. So for now, Man part 2 is on hold. I'll write about that when I'm ready. I've got other things on my mind.

Things like trust, and hope, and faith, and love. Just writing those words seem to shine a light on a blog that is very dark. I like the light. Have you ever noticed how light can kick the shit out of darkness without even trying? The light doesn't need to sneak up on darkness. It doesn't have to strategize, plot or plan. It doesn't have to arm itself. The only thing light has to do is......well, show up. Walk into a dark room and flip a switch. Watch the darkness run. It can't scoot into a corner to catch a breather. The darkness can't hold up it's smoky finger and call time out. When the light comes all the darkness can do is leave. Good riddance.

i lived in the darkness for a long time. Not physical darkness of course. I haven't resided in a hole somewhere, but the darkness in my heart, in my soul, in my mouth; it consumed all of me. I have to be honest and say that for a very long time, I was comfortable in the darkness. Shit, let's not play games Shables - I loved it there. All the anger, bitterness, jealousy, and hate ... it was my fuel and gave me the strength to survive things that most people wouldn't want to wake up to. But to me death seemed so, so, so weak.
I tried it once, the whole suicide thing. Swallowed a bottle of pills and locked the door. About the time my legs grew shaky and my eyelids drooped is when the door opened. Needless to say, I wasn't very good at suicide and all I got for my troubles was a stomach pumping that left me feeling like i had puked up my asshole and a bunch of cops in my face. I'll pass.
Not only that, if I died, who would remind them? Who would be the one to point the finger? Who would stand up and say, yes that really happened? Dying would give him exactly what he wanted - peace. And I sure as hell wasn't willing to see that happen. No way. Until he takes his last breath, I will be in his face, in their faces, and I will not back down.

It has taken me along time to realize that I can stand up for myself without destroying myself at the same time. Because let's face it - he continued living his life with his family right there with him. I was the one that stood alone. So it was my choice. Would i stand alone in the damp darkness of my mind and rot from the inside out or would i walk into the sun?

The sun beckoned.

And who can argue with such a force? I couldn't and I didn't want to.

I was cold and I wanted warmth. I was lost and I wanted a home. I was lonely and I wanted to be loved. I was scared and broken and I wanted to be safe and complete. I wanted light to shine on my face. I wanted laughter to flow from my mouth. I. Wanted. Freedom.
Freedom may seem odd but to someone that has been held captive by memories and fear, freedom is like water to a plant that has wilted from scorching heat and neglect. It soothes the soul and perks up the spirit. It gives us a fighting chance. Because no matter how great our life looks from the outside. It's a joke if we are still in bondage. And I was. for so very long.

Breaking free is similar, I think, to what it would feel like to peel your own skin off. The first layer, the protective shell, well that takes guts to tear it off. And tear it off you must. There's no such thing as gently peeling away this kind of crap. It takes tugging, and cuts, and snags, and sometimes even a ripping so hard and so brutal that a scream will erupt from your throat from the agony. But now the protection is off,we're shivering, and holy shit, we're exposed.

Fear is next. fear. The fear of telling. The fear of rejection. The fear even of being happy because you have no idea what that feels like. You've seen it. But you've also seen foreign movies and guess what,that doesn't mean you can speak the language. Fear. It is your enemy, but it has also been your friend. It has told you when to hide, when to run, when to stop crying, and when to yell out. But fear is just fear. It doesn't know any other way, so it has to go. Peel it off.
Once the fear is gone, there is some liberation here. It's almost intoxicating when you realize you've survived and the word "victim" isn't stamped on your forehead anymore. That came off when fear was pulled away. But fear's big brother is here now. And he's a mean SOB. His name is ANGER.

Anger is the house guest that turns into your roommate and before you know it, your landlord. Instead of you inviting Anger in for awhile, now you owe him and he's laying down the law. There will be no more shit-taking when Anger is around. Anyone that oversteps their bounds, says the wrong thing, or, God forbid, looks at you the wrong way, is going to get the crap kicked out of them pretty quick. And at first, this feels so incredibly satisfying. Who can blame you right? Look what your life has been. All you are doing is taking care of yourself. And this is true....to an extent. You see, Anger doesn't come to stay all by himself. Nope, he doesn't travel alone. He's a pack man. Along with Anger comes Pride and Bitterness. You've really got to watch these two. They've got the good-cop/ bad-cop act down. But it's a scam. Neither of these are good. They will tie you up worse than fear if yo udon't get rid of them.
You see, once we've taken off that protective layer and done away with fear, the anger flows through and we are so damn excited that we aren't being abused anymore, that we are handling our business, that we become full of Pride. Pride tells us we can do anything. Pride tells us we are entitled to do anything. And if anyone tells Pride no, Bitterness steps in and puts that person in check with a quickness. bitterness brings up all the bad things that happened and makes everyone see how stupid and wrong they are for getting in your way. The only catch though is that for Bitterness to get your back, you have to be willing to let him eat up some of your heart. This may not seem like such a bad deal. But here's the thing - our hearts pump our life's blood in and our of our body. So when we let Bitterness come in and eat some of it, well, we are choking out our own life. We are basically killing ourselves. Yep, Bitterness is a mean bitch.

Getting rid of Anger, Pride, and Bitterness is only hard in the beginning. It's those first steps that hurt. Granted, they can hurt so bad it would seem easier to rip out our own intestines and strangle ourselves with them but if you can make it past that, it'll be alright. You see they can only feed on us if we let them. Once we make the step to cut them off, they are done for. Sure, they put up a fight at first but it's only because they know the battle is lost.

What's needed to kick out Anger, Pride, and Bitterness?

Forgiveness. Know what forgiveness is? Letting someone else off the hook for your happiness. Stop waiting for them to apologize. they aren't going to do it. Stop waiting for an apology to make you whole and happy. It won't anyway. It won't be enough. It's not enough. so let it go. Let them off the hook and quit holding yourself hostage to them. Period.

Cry. Our bodies are designed to cry.When we hurt or feel sad, tears come naturally. We don't wish for them or work at it. It just happens. Let them flow. So many times we blink them back. Forcefully. Angrily. Why? Well I know why. Because we think it makes us weak. We think it lets them win. That's what I've thought and still do sometimes. In my head. But in my heart, I know that isn't true. When I hold in my tears, I choke off all the emotions that want to be free. When we eat something bad, our body expels the offensive crap by hurling it up. This works the same way. When we've swallowed an injustice or hurt, our body is expelling the badness in it. Cry. Weep. Wail. Throw your self on the bed. Scream in pillows. Stand in the shower and let them roll down your face. no one will know. If you're a complete control freak, prepare yourself and set the mood. Candles, melancholy music, a locked door to avoid interruption, and a box of kleenex. Just get it out. It wants to be free. Let it.

Joy. Joy and happiness are not the same. Happiness is based on circumstances. Joy is based on truth, faith, love. Even when our circumstances are bad, we can still feel joyful inside because we have hope. We can watch the orange, pinks, and reds of a sunset, or walk through a field of blooming flowers, or sit on a swing and listen to children laugh and feel overwhelmed with joy. The hope that is all around us, that everything is going to be ok and that we are NOT the center of the universe. Thank God! There's more going on than the horrors I have inside. Feel it. smell it. See it. It's all there for the taking. To make our souls light. Joy.

This is not to say, there won't be moments when it comes back, when it gets dark. It will. But the darkness cannot overcome the light. ever. Just flip the light on. And watch the darkness run.

The window

His office had a window. Nothing fancy. Just a square piece of glass with brown curtains. His office was on the second story, the first room at the top of the stairs. In it were all his mementos of military service, plaques on the wall announcing what a superb human being he was, a desk that was neat but not clear, as if to show that he was important but not overwhelmed. Along the far wall was his couch bed, directly under the window. I would stare out this window, into the blue sky, drifting, lost, and imagine that the clouds floating by would let me hitch a ride to wherever it was they were going. Anyplace other than where I was. You see, every time I looked out this window, I was flat on my back.

Well, every time but one.

"Let's go take a nap." This was his code, his inside joke if you will. He'd sit and look at me, waiting for me to ask where we were taking our nap? What a sick fuck. So manipulative. As if me asking where we were going implied I wanted to. As if I had a choice. As if I could say no. It was always either their bedroom or his office.

This particular day I went up the stairs, sat on the couch bed, and waited. I was nervous this time. Not because this was the first time or the second time or even the fifth time. No, I was used to this already. I knew the drill. I was nervous because we weren't alone. I didn't understand how we were going to "nap" without being seen. Perhaps it was this incomprehension on my part that allowed me to speak up this day. Part of me thought that maybe he forgot we weren't home alone (although I didn't get how he didn't already know that) and so maybe I would be granted a last minute reprieve when I reminded him of this. I guess some part of me thought he would smack himself on the forehead as if to say, "My word! What was I thinking?!" We'd both chuckle a little and then I could leave. I felt......hopeful.

Silly, stupid girl.

He came in and began to unhook his belt. My confusion grew. My hands sweat ed. I remember gripping the blanket, rubbing my thumbs back and forth over the material. Back and forth, back and forth, oh my God, oh my God. He looked at me and told me to take my pants off. I was frozen. What? We weren't alone.

I told him I didn't want to. I told him we couldn't. Not today. He took his belt off and looked at me. "And why not?" he asked. I fumbled, stuttered, stammered, gripped the blanket, and then looked out the window. He followed my gaze and looked down into the backyard with me.

My brother was playing in the leaves with their dog, Mickey.

He leaned over, his face just inches from mine,looked me straight in the eyes and smiled. Not a happy smile. Not a comforting smile. Not an "oops - I goofed up" smile. No, it was a smile that reeked and dripped of slime and horror. An eager smile. My stomach knotted and became queasy. I started breathing hard. His smile grew.
He could tell I didn't get it yet.

"But......????"

"Well now, we're going to do this right now. We need to be quick." Then he looked back out at my brother and back to me. "You don't want me to go get him..... do you?"

Then he just stared at me and patiently waited for me to answer.
Sick fuck.

I stared back. I stared at the lines on his face. Deep grooves, valleys that gave the illusion of wisdom and comfort. I stared at his gray hair. I stared at his glasses. I stared at everything that showed he was my grandpa. Then I looked down and stared at his pants. They were already undone. He was already out.

It's amazing how the mind works. I'm not a pysch major or highly educated. But yes, I know how the mind grasps for a way to cope in order to stay sane and retain the ability to think and function. It was almost like I could feel my mind doing this. Situating itself, creaking, turning this way and that, so that I wouldn't go mad. And yet, still, at eight years old, make a decision to sacrifice myself however was necessary, all while staring at his thing.

It was at that moment that I became my brother's protector. I didn't hesitate. My brother was two years younger than me. Only six. At eight I knew that I would never, ever, want him to live through what I was doing and what was being done to me. Wasn't it bad enough this was happening to me? But to know my little brother would be next if I didn't try stop it, well, that was an easy choice. If someone could have prevented it from being done to me, I would hope they would have.

I almost threw up. But I didn't. I just cried. Silent, hot tears of defeat and courage ran swiftly down my face. It was when he kissed my face, kissed the very tears that he caused, that my throat broke open and i began gasping for air. Trying to stop crying, Trying to be quiet, trying now to get it over with so that i could go back downstairs to where my brother was playing. I was hysterical and desperate..... and then I was silent because I heard him.

The glass slider had opened and then closed. My brother yelled out my name.

He got off me and pulled up his pants. He yelled down to my brother, "We'll be right there. Just a second." But my brother was six. He didn't wait. I heard him running to the stairs and start to come up.

I knew I needed to move quickly but I felt like I was drugged. I couldn't move fast enough. He threw my panties at me and told me to get dressed. I'll never forget the way he looked at me or how his voice sounded when he said it. Like he was repulsed by me. Like I had done something that disgusted him. Like I was the twisted one.

My brother was almost to the top of the stairs.
He went out of the room and laid down on the landing so my brother couldn't see that his pants were still undone. And then, to my horror, he pushed my brother back down the stairs. He pretended like it was a joke, like he was playing with him. He laughed. I heard my brother yell out and fall back down.
I felt near hysterical again. It was my fault. It was my fault that he had been pushed. I wasn't fast enough getting my clothes on. I wasted too much time crying like a baby. And now my brother was at the bottom of the stairs. It was all my fault.

I got my pants on and I ran out of the room, past him, and down the stairs. I asked my brother if he was ok and told him I was sorry. He came down and told my brother not to cry like a baby and then he went to his room.

My brother doesn't know that happened. I never told him. It would only hurt him if he knew. The way I see it, there has been enough pain. Pain that has nowhere to go. It sits. I've learned to live with it, to manage it. It sucks. Why pass it on?

From that day forward, I have always been the one that has stood by my brother. I would step in front of a bullet for him if I thought it would save him. Like a mama bear protecting her cub.

Except.... I'm not his mama. I'm just his sister. His mama, our mama, was unable and unwilling to protect us. She could have. She should have. But she didn't.

small, then slightly bigger

As I was driving home I thought of myself. Well, the smaller me. I'm not sure i know her very well. I've always avoided her. I'm not quite sure what I would find there and so I leave her alone. I've written a few poems in the past and I feel like I got a glimpse... of what she feels like but it was too much, then, so I put my pen down and put my notebook away. Tucked inside a drawer, hidden, in the dark. I don't like the dark much. She doesn't either. I do know that.

I was 8 when this all went down. Eight is very small.
I wore my hair in pigtails then. It was long.
I didn't have my two front teeth for a very long time.
I liked wearing those plastic high heel dress up shoes. The ones if you started walking too fast you could hear them, click, click, click, just like a grown -up.
I remember getting a 3-story Barbie Dreamhouse. I had a lot of Barbies.
I loved Starwberry Shortcake.I had a Starwberry Shortcake record even and my Grammy made all the dolls for me. I had them for the longest time. I don't know where they went.....
I remember fishing with my Grandpa.
My Grammy used to read me bible stories.I was fascinated by her. My mom didn't wear make up much back then. She was plain with long, dark hair, and well, was kind of hippie-ish. But my Grammy, wow, she was so glamourous to me with her bright pink lipstick that covered her lips so thick that no matter how many Diet Cokes she drank, the pink stain on the can never faded. Her hair was always done and her skin was so soft. She worked at the cosmetic counter in a department store so she always smelled good; a heavy,woody, smothering scent but I liked it. My Grammy always called me "Darling" but she would say it all draggy and high-pitched,
"Daaahhh-ling", and then she'd throw her head back and laugh. She was like a movie star to me. I loved her.

I haven't seen or spoken to her since I was 11.

Eight is very small. Very small indeed.

Amazing that all these memories include them, her, him. I lived with my grandparents then. Well, my mom and I both did. It was a big house, two stories with five bedrooms and an attic upstairs. It was a brick house and it had white pillars in the front. (Funny, I just realized how much I hate pillars on houses. I do. I hate them. I think they are pretentious and fake. As if the white pillar signifies how rich and grand the people inside must be.) The house had a large backyard with a garden, and a large oak tree that held a swing made of a wooden board and two lengths of white rope. There was a birdbath. And lots of leaves. This is where I lived. In a house that looked like it was the home to a stable, noble family. But it wasn't. It was a house full of nightmares and secrets and lies. It wasn't just my house of horror. No, this was passed down from another generation. I wasn't the only one. I'm just the only one that wanted to leave.

It took me a little bit but I did. I left. I only went back once. Not to that house but I realized it's not the house that brings the badness. No, the people that live in it get all the credit for that. The second house wasn't any better, even when I was promised it would be.

Eight is very small. Eleven is only slightly bigger.

Funny how age doesn't really seem to matter. When the fear is there, it grips so tightly, so completely, that it squeezes the... movement... right out of you.

Yes, eleven is only slightly bigger. Fortunately for me, it was big enough.

It was the one time I didn't protest. I didn't say no. I didn't cry or scream. I just sat there for what seemed like an eternity but really was only seconds. I stared at him, part of me unwilling to believe it was starting to happen again, and the other part of me not surprised at all. That part was shouting, yelling, stomping her feet at me to, "GET UP! You knew this would happen, you knew he would not change. You knew it! Don't just sit there, GET UP!! You are not 8! We are not 8!" And the kicker, "No one else will help you." That's when he kissed my mouth. With his hand up my shirt. While he apologized and said he would never hurt me.

I got up. I didn't just get up, I jumped up and out, away from him so he could not touch me. I ran to the kitchen and I grabbed the knife.

It was a very big knife.

Just the kind of knife a girl at 11 may need to keep herself safe.
Because she knew no one else would help her.
And I did. I kept myself safe that day and each day since. I have been safe from him. From them. They cannot touch me. Not physically anyway.

The rest of it... well, I'm working on it.

I cried while I wrote this and thought of my Grammy. I haven't thought of her in a very long time. I don't know how the 33 year old me feels about her just yet, but the 8 year old me, she loved her. Very much.