Inside Outsides

I dragged myself out of bed this morning in the most unglamorous way possible and was so grateful that there was no one standing beside me to witness such things.
After a long night, week, month, year, glamour has faded away under the brutal constancy of my existence.
After spending just the minimum of time needed, I was showered and awake (though awake is a strong word for my state)
And feeling vulnerable, fragile, tenuous.
I feel in danger of fading away completely.
I armed myself in the loudest, brightest shirt I own.
It’s a ridiculous shirt, red, blue, yellow swirls.
It’s a shirt usually reserved for laundry days or quiet house days,
Not days like today when I’m out among people I suspect are quietly judging my wardrobe choices.
But today’s tenuousness and fragility required something ridiculous and loud,
So I walked out into the world wearing my armor and hoping for the best.
Halfway through the day, I realized I had donned my shirt inside out, and I left it that way for a bit, daring myself to be strong.

I'm holding a vessel of grief. The weight of it is unspeakable, undefined.
A deep chill emanates through me, rippling with each disturbance.
I see it, I know it, I name it. And yet, and yet.
I don't understand the nature of these things. Can I tip it over and spill my grief onto the ground?
Is the ground parched, and will welcome something such as this,
Or would this simply sit there, surfaced, rejected or unnecessary?
Is my grief so deep it cannot be emptied? Will I carry this forever? Can I wall myself away and stay safe?

It's all too complicated, or so simple I can't see it.

In moments of quiet, I find myself inexplicably melancholy. As if everything else is a complicated fun house of distraction, and the melancholy is the reality on the other side of the door. This is scary and unsettling. And incredibly difficult to face in full.

On another note...

I feel like I used to be a very different person. I've been thinking about who that person was and what it is, exactly, that I miss. In writing a friend the other day, these words poured out: I miss poetry. I miss the rhythm of words in my life. It's a river gone dry, and I can still remember taking deep, refreshing droughts of the stuff. I hope that I'll forget, that I won't remember to miss it anymore.

Sincerely. Me.

Silence

My spirit is crying out for something greater than this casual turn. In the midst of all that is ugly and beautiful, there is no solace.

The balance of success and failure.

I love this job of mine, staying home and raising my kids. Sometimes I yell too much. Some days I'm too frustrated and we can't make any progress. Some nights I burn dinner and struggle to make everything work out ok. But sometimes it all goes right.

This job breaks my heart every day, and that's a good thing. I think that means I just might be doing it right enough.

Bare spots...

There's a hole in my soul
like a withered bare patch
in the lawn outside my door

Killed like the grass
by the decisions I've made--
piss-poor; yet those patches
are just acidic with waste

I don't pretend I can fix it
regrow it,
even accept it,
but I know that I can eventually
adapt to it.

I will make a path, a new way,
through the lawn of my life.
I will turn that bare-worn spot
into a stepping stone to better places.

My soul is not whole, but that's okay.
My path is not built, but it will be someday.

guest appearance because I can't revive my own blog this way

My brain is like swiss cheese - full of big holes information slips through (and away).

I sat down here to write a sad but inspiring blog post about my mother. It's just past midnight, so it's no longer officially the anniversary of her death. But it's bearing down on me. It's left me agitated and grumpy all day. Then, when I was in the middle of putting the wet laundry into the dryer, I remembered something about my mother. Something that led into a sad but inspiring blog post.

Only, before I actually started crafting the post, I forgot what that thing was. That thing I remembered, that was hard but sweet, too. Some elusive memory of her that felt good to talk about and, with more sweet and less bitter.

But then I forgot it.

So instead I'm writing a post that's more bitter and less sweet. And the only reason I'm not crying overtly is because I'm holding on to the anger that keeps me sane. The anger keeps the tears pooled along my eyelashes, elegantly poised to fall at any moment. The anger kept me going for so long. It's hard to let it go.

So. Thirteen years ago, Mom died. She never met my husband or my kids. She never walked through my house, or saw me become something better than I was then. And in the end, it's not about what she missed but what I missed from her - support, love, kindness, familiarity, that life long relationship. Because she's gone, and I'm not.

Which, at a seriously bottom line point, is the reason I've gotten this far without her.

If I had more space, I'd plant a rose garden.

I was recently recounting some of the bigger landmarks in my past. Sort of like a tragic overview version of "This is My Life." I was in a psychologist's office, and she's new to me. Lots of questions, lots of ground to go over. I don't think there's one particular issue that has led me to the quagmire that is my personal neuroses. It makes that introductory phase of therapy hard. Friendships, too, actually, but that's a whole different blog post.

While reviewing aforementioned landmarks, I realized that yes, this is the month marking my mom's death. As a matter of fact, it will be 13 years since her death next week. July 16, 2010. Gone 13 years. The weight of that makes my eyes close and pulls me down toward the earth. This is not something I usually contemplate, as that would push me into an incredibly unhealthy place. I miss her and my heart hurts. It always will.

After having this realization, I was thinking about a trip to the cemetery. It's kind of traditional. Not specifically for me, as I figure I can be depressed anywhere, but in a generic kind of a way. When I do make this trip, no matter what time of year, I leave behind some fresh pink roses. They were predominate in her funeral sprays (casket and standing), and even decorated the coffin we buried her in. There's a bitter macabre part of me that knows those roses are going to wither and die, on the ground at the foot of her tombstone.

At the store, there was a bouquet of fresh pink roses. I bought them. Then I decided to keep them for me. There's still something bitter and macabre about it all. I put them in a jar, with some water, and I walk buy them all day long. I want to remember her life, not her death, but it's too tied up all together.

I wish she was buried in a place where I could plant a live rose bush. That might be healing. For me, anyway. I know she doesn't care.

I'm terrified that when I die someone will seal my body in a box, then another box, and throw dirt on top of it. Logically, I know it doesn't matter as I won't be there anyway. Emotionally I haven't caught on. My wish is that they'll wrap me in some basic linen and put me directly into the Earth. Then somebody who loved me can come along and plant a tree.

Some new poetry

The bare bones of this poem filtered through my head this evening but I wasn't able to write them down immediately. I find this happening lately, and by the time I have a chance to spin the words out of my head they've disappeared into the fog. I was determined to hold on to these, this time, and found myself repeating them over and over. I made it a priority to work with them, and I'm fairly pleased with the result.


Traveling

It’s not quite late; twilight, an exhalation in my day.
I’m driving comfortably - I know these roads and this car today, and the rhythm of the pavement under the wheels feels like an echo to my heartbeat
It keeps me going.
The quiet is full of sound as the wind rushes through the open windows and cars speed by on their own missions.
The night is almost here and the day bears down with one last effort;
I can feel the dry film of sweat on my face, smell the end of the day, feel the worries and trials dragging on my shoulders and then
I see it.
Twilight, the perfect time, as swarms of fireflies come up from their soft earthen rest.
As the pavement pulses around us the side running grass comes alive with bursts of yellow pinpricks,
Like a monumental birthday cake
Like a fireworks display
With a blink and a switch the grass is alive in a new way.
I yearn for it, to be in it.
In my mind I stop and sit in the middle of this choreographed rising, ignoring the grass burns and insect bites, and with each rising blink I let go of a piece.
Each soaring firefly bears away a part of me, my worry, my trial, the weight pulling at my shoulders and heart
Until I can lay peacefully down on the Earth, breathe in the scent of evening, and find rest..
The road brings me back to myself;
I carefully tuck this existential experience into a pale blue envelope and file it away for the future,
Against a time when the fireflies fall to the Earth under the weight of my burdens
Or when I am incapable of giving away such things.

In other news, I do not excel at this motherhood thing.

I just put together Oliver's mobile tonight. The joy with which he contemplated it was worth the 5 minutes and $15. He quite happily stared while doing his superman imitation (one arm extended, one bent in front) and kicking his feet. I'm glad I took the opportunity to get it together.

But, he's nearly 4 months old already and I'm just now getting around to it. Add it to the list of today's failures:
1. Was not prepared properly for leaving with all three children for Ari's dress rehearsal. Leaving took more time.
2. Bread was moldy and in moment of total lapse couldn't think up a substitute, so we ate fast food in the car.
3. Combine 1 and 2 with a wrong turn, and that explains why we were 25 min late for dress rehearsal.
4. That moment in the grocery store when I completely lost my patience with a tired crabby 2 yr old.
5. I didn't have a grocery list, and so now I have to go back soon because I didn't get everything we needed.

I could go on, but I won't, because that makes the point. My days are usually full of these moments. Hopefully, I can take the end of the day and find enough moments when I did the right thing, the good thing, and find some kind of balance. The problem I have is that the big failures, the ones that just don't feel like they balance, tend to sneak up on me and worry at my sense of peace. They vary widely, but it all boils down to this: Have I done more harm than good? And how do I really know?

Stumbling through the undergrowth.

I wandered away from the central hub (a.k.a. the living room) and into my home away from home, the office. It's not really an office, but it houses my computer, bill paying materials, school supplies, and piano. I'm in here a lot.

I was contemplating where I am, emotionally/mentally. It's a bit of a train wreck, honestly. I was wondering what the darkness inside of me would say if given a voice. [Thank you, latest Dr. Who episode.] And then it struck me, the darkness has a voice. I hear it when I close my eyes, late at night, and the weight of my failures sit on top of my chest so that I can't breathe.

Into the midst of this, music came forth from the hub. I'm not sure what's playing, or why it was chosen, but it draws me out of my head and into someplace a bit more tangible. Like the safety rope that just snapped taut - and I am grateful.



Safely

There's a beat in my soul, a voice in my head, and they spin
Out of control, driving towards the cliff.
I don't jump; I merely fall, and bloody my hands attempting to arrest the descent.
The plants are shallowly rooted, the rocks loosely packed, the fear mind-numbing.
In the moment I embrace humbleness and resignation I find myself lying on solid ground and wonder
Which part was the dream
So that I can hold on forever.


There's an Over the Rhine song "When I Go" that comes to me often in these times. It says more than I can, which is why OtR is living and breathing their poetry instead of trying to forget it ever existed. The song is hauntingly beautiful and I could cry every time I hear it. And today, like so many days, I think of the line "I'm not letting go of God, I'm just losing my grip" I'll let you take your own thing from that, not mine.

Words are the essence of the thoughts floating through my head (and right now they feel like destruction).

Sometimes, I sit down and reread things I've written. Rambling blog posts, bits of poetry, things I've jotted down here and there. I've been rereading the last few days. In this foggy crazed life I feel like I'm losing touch. Reviewing the words from before helps remind me who I am. A word-album of memories.

Today, the word-album makes me sad.

How long will this go on? How many times will I walk this road? Where and when will it end?

And the quiet, whispered voice in the deep part of my soul wonders: Will it ever end?

I'm on the downward swing of mental health, again. My days seem to disappear in a rush of things that must be done and I feel guilty for the time I take for myself, again. I look in the mirror and wonder where I went, again. In the middle of the night my weaknesses grow into paralyzing attacks, again. I'm pretty sure the pieces have scattered everywhere with no reason or rhythm, again.

Right now, I'm sure that I am so broken it will never be fixed. Not by me, anyone, or God. Not because He can't, but because I won't let Him. Or that this brokenness is part of my time here.

All the jagged edges of me are showing, and I feel like they're attacking my life, my friends, my relationships, my peace.

Lately, I've been thinking again about some fairly significant things that happened - so long ago - that changed my course so subtly, amazingly, frighteningly, horribly. Choices I made, choices others made. And I find myself wanting to say it all out loud. The need to say it all is so very loud in my head I can hardly hear myself think anything else. But I can't say it. If I let all these words out, I'm sure that they will destroy this life I've built around me.

For the record, I know this isn't reality. I know that the words begging for release are only words. And those words wouldn't hurt the people I love or destroy my relationships with them. But the sheer explosiveness behind them might shatter me. And so I refuse to say them, because I refuse to be shattered.

I'm thinking therapy might be in order again. It's a safe place where the words can just disperse. And if they do destroy me, I can hide the destruction inside the structure of my therapy appointment and still walk around in my everyday life.

I'm so sorry. To do this again, again, again....

Things change and then smack you in the head violently.

We finally got around to yanking the disgusting cream colored carpet in our living room and dining room. It's been on the project list for years. We replaced it with this beautiful carbonized stranded bamboo flooring. While we were at it, we painted the rooms a nice bright white. We hauled out the large area rug we had in storage and unrolled it. There still a few bits that need finishing, but finally (!) the carpet is gone and the floors are beautiful to behold.

The missing carpet has created a slight echo in the dining room. It feels cold, lonely, and sad. That could just be a reflection of my mood.

For some reason, this mother's day left me more negative feeling than usual. The day coincided with a big rush to get the floors finished and Ari's seventh birthday. I've been missing my mom lately, so that's probably it.

In truth, I'm at a point in life where I can't really miss mom anymore. I miss having a mom. It's different. My life is so far from when she knew me, I wonder if she'd recognize me at all. This leaves me sad. In my mind, she'd know that it was her granddaughter's birthday. And what was going on in my life on a personal level, not just generally. Maybe I'm giving her too much credit.

For Ari's birthday, her paternal grandmother took her to Dairy Queen and let her pick an ice cream cake. Not one of those weird things with layers of cake, but a concoction made of ice cream shaped into a cake like round. The last time I'd had one of those was when my mom arranged for me to get one on my 18th birthday. It was my first birthday away from home (I was in the midst of an ill-conceived plan to attend college). It was the last birthday I celebrated while she was alive.

On my daughter's birthday, I ate ice cream cake and did my best not to cry.

I think the darkness is growing and I hate myself for it.

Windows.

From here, I can hear my computer humming. The dog grumbling. The baby swing rocking. And the quiet laying over it all. I think there's poetry in this, but it's sound thing not a word thing and I can't capture any kind of translation. My brain is working on a stream of consciousness sort of level, not interested in considering word meanings and structure, incapable of working that audible rhythm of quiet and sound into something else.

I should be sleeping. All three of my children are sleeping but I'm stuck in this rhythm, awake. My days are structured to maximize the times when my arms are free to work, I already have the kids gathered up to leave the house, the baby just ate and so I am free for a few hours. I must hurry, hurry, hurry until I must stop. It makes sleep a hard thing to find until I practically pass out, and then I feel like I've miss-scheduled the whole thing. I'm vaguely resentful of it all and am craving a chance to just sit.

I'm working on appreciating the people in my life for the positive things they grant me. I'm surrounded by some awfully cool people and they seem to make the puzzle pieces of my life fit together in a better way. Ways I don't understand, usually.

My time is up. Someone is calling me.

I'd quote that "tomato/tomato, potato/potato" song, but that's so cliche.

I wrote a blog post last week about going to Mass. Yes, you read that right: Mass.

Then a friend pointed out today that I can't really call it a blog post. Because I couldn't type it in at the time, due to Oliver's demands. So I hand wrote it instead. She feels I must now call it a journal entry. But I wrote it with the intention of typing later. Now I'm torn. To fill it in here, or just let it go? Or write something completely new?

Journaling. Blogging. Synonyms for so many.

Failure to change perspective is, in the end, simply failure. I think.

Recently, someone said to me "You write poetry, right?" I laughed. I said I used to write poetry. Now I write blog posts. This made me feel like some kind of sell out. I couldn't cut it as a poet, and so now I clutter the blogverse with rambling commentary. And obviously, this must be a bad thing. Or a step down.

Then I wondered: is it? Is it really so bad?

We talk about blogs as if they are some new, exciting method of communication. It's our way of connecting with other like minded people, sharing information, getting the words out of our heads and into something that seems somewhat more concrete. The truth is, all of this isn't new. It's just the current mutation of the age old habit of diary keeping, of writing social commentary, of meeting our fellow humans and making a connection with them. Blogs used to be printed in newspapers and magazines, in leaflets papering the local pub. When paper was a commodity, people used it to take the words out of their heads. Now it's the internet.

Admittedly, the wide availability of blogs has led to an overabundance of words thrown out there. Many of them aren't even all that interesting or good. Most will be forgotten over time and slowly rot away in the lost space in some server somewhere. There are a few, though, that will endure. This blog probably isn't one of the enduring ones. But that's ok with me. The idea of endurance is too overwhelming, the weight is too heavy. I'd rather stick with the idea that over time this will all be forgotten; it frees me to write honestly.

Is this any better or any worse than poetry? I'm beginning to think that I don't really know that answer to that question. I do know that I miss the craft I felt while working with poetry and I hope to one day recapture the drive to wrangle with words in such a way. For now, though, I'll take this online diary keeping for what it can offer me and skim the words out of my brain into some structure outside of myself.

Break out the cheesy uniforms, it's a call to arms.

It's only 10:30pm and I've been done in for hours. I managed to partly clean some of the house, produce some dinner, and whip up a batch of chocolate chip cookies. I gave up a shower and laundry. These are the trades required by this existence.

Something profound is lurking in the depths of my brain. I can feel it, trying to sneak up on me. It's weird. And kind of creepy. Also, it could not be profound at all. Problem is, it's stuck in there and not working it's way out here.

Some moments I feel normal. I remember a bit of myself that existed last week, last month, last year. And it all works together to fit right. Most of the time, I feel completely strung out. As if I'm still taking the narcotics and no one told me. I'm so out of sorts I feel like I need to ping my own location. Like when I can't find the cordless phone and I press the button on the base, making it beep obnoxiously until I can locate it. I need a base. With a button. That triggers some kind of locating device.

Probably, I just need more sleep.

Most definitely, I need a cheering section. I'm beginning to feel like I can't do this anymore - any of it. I need to hear a voice outside my head tell me that this, too, shall pass. [Yes, I've seen the new 'OK Go' video/song, no reference needed here.] I need to feel like the darkness will end. And that morning will be bright and wonderful. I'm losing my ability to see and understand all that on my own.

My words are all mixed up - in my head, in my speech, in my writing. This is deeply frustrating to me. I wonder if this is how people feel when they almost understand a foreign language. Actually, the craziest real thing happened the other day, and it was exactly how I feel. I was in church, trying to pay attention. Shane was talking about the parable of the mustard seed. He directed us (or I heard him direct us) to page 697. Which is where I found Mark 4:30, the parable of the mustard seed. But when Shane started reading aloud, he read from page 679 (notice the subtle difference), where you can find Matthew 13:31, the parable of the mustard seed. Only, as one might expect, the language of the verses was slightly different. Confused? I was. For a long time. This is where I am in life. Confused by subtle differences. Or just confused.

And rambling.

If you expect me to know what day it is, you might be disappointed. Or not.

It's been awhile since I've been this kind of crazy. It's a unique experience, this hormonally imbalanced, sleep deprived, stressed out kind of crazy. A special crazy, that comes with special things - like a newborn.

It's been three weeks. Exactly, to the day, that everything changed all over again. Mutated. Shifted. It feels like years, like hours. My sense of time is skewed, my brain is slow, my emotions are either on full or off. Once in awhile, it all seems good. Then some realization hits and I just want to sit there and cry.

Welcome to the hormone roller coaster, sleep deprived horror of my emotional existence. It will get better. In the meantime, I've started stuttering. Not a good sign.

None of this really means much of anything in the long run. Or maybe it does, but I won't really know for awhile. I can't tell how much of this will simply be fixed by time.

As an aside, Happy Birthday Mom. It's been a long time. We miss you.

Somewhere back there, I took a different turn.

Four days ago I walked into an operating room. 45 minutes or so later, they rolled me back out, drugged, stitched, and now finally able to look at the unexpected turn life took awhile back. His name is Oliver, and he's awesome.

Sure. I admit to bias. But it's all true.

There are relevant details... 20 inches long. 8 pounds, 13 ounces. Dark hair. Dark blue eyes. Interestingly, all these details change. He's already lost a pound. His hair color and eye color may change. The fact that he's awesome? Not budging on that one.

Awesome, as in awe inspiring. He reminds me of good things. Love and patience and light. He reminds me to look at my other children and savor, even when I'm frustrated and angry and overwhelmed.

Despite some sound advice, I spent as much of the first 24 of his life out here in the scary world as I could just being with him. A smart person probably would have sent him on down to the nursery and get some sleep. And the following day, my body was screaming at me. But my heart needed to cushion the transition from being pregnant to having an infant. It did my soul good to stare into that tiny face and breathe it all in.

Like most people, I revert to old habits while under stress.

It was a rough weekend. There's really no getting around that or hiding it. Being involved in a significant car wreck at 36 weeks of pregnancy sets off all sorts of alarms and problems. And I've got the refrain down pat: we went to the hospital, we got checked out, we're all fine. And we'll be fine. Don't worry. We're fine.

Only, I'm not fine. And the best I can seem to do about it is lie to everyone. It's so easy to say that I'm fine. Except at 2am last night, when I just sat there broken and sobbing, hiding in the dark.

Physically I will be fine. Seat belts can leave a bad bruise and mine did, so I can't lift anything or move too quickly or even sleep comfortably. But it will go away and the laundry can wait until it's better. And that's about it. A nasty, hurts when I breathe, bruise across my chest.

Emotionally, however, I'm just broken. It's not the accident, not really. Yes, it sucked and yes it ruined my weekend and yes I feel horrible that my friend's brand new car may be junkyard bound. But realy, I think this experience is just enough to push me beyond my limits. I was already operating at maximum capacity. Now, we're on overload.

Having some measure of control over things like laundry and housekeeping was keeping me sane. And those things are beyond my ability to impact right now. I felt like I could keep going a few more weeks until things are radically different, and then I could blame hormones and exhaustion and all of it on major surgery and a newborn. And that was ok. Because no one expects you to be all together after major surgery and a newborn, not even me. But I'm falling all apart, with no good excuse, and I'm pretty sure that I can't just keep going anymore. Which is making the whole situation so much worse.

Despite all that, when well meaning people ask if they can help, I tell them "we're good." In part, I say this because there's nothing they can do. Sure, the house is a mess but asking them to clean it would make everything unbearable for me. In part, I say this because I cannot face that level of weakness at this time or I might never recover. It feels like the fake persona I'm letting everyone see is the only thing that's saving me from going over the edge forever.

I'm tired of my own drama but I'm not sure how to change it. So I'm just going to keep trying to ignore it all until it goes away by itself. Or until I hit the point in a few weeks when it's acceptable for me to be an emotional wreck.

Once upon a time, I would have thrown a fit. I accept this as progress.

The thing about family is that we all have some expectations built in. No matter our personal circumstances, experiences, or set up, we come into the situation with stuff. Expectations, judgements, bias. It's part of basic human nature in this societal construct. The word alone evokes such a range of stuff in our head. It's inescapable.

Sometimes I want to confuse the concepts of expectations and hope. But when I consider my extended family, I find those two areas clearly defined. Over time, I've probably lowered my expectations of them. A classic defense mechanism against being hurt by them. I tend towards expecting the not so great outcome. Most days, however, there's spark of optimism in me, and that spark is responsible for hoping that they will exceed my expectations. It seems that once in awhile it works all the right ways and I'm overjoyed. It also seems that most of the time it works out all the wrong ways.

History is a funny thing. It doesn't matter what my father, sisters, brother might say today. Today's words don't change sharing a lifetime together. A part of the puzzle that works into my soul are those people. Nothing changes that, not even death. We change the present, or the future. We can forgive, accept, move on from what's happened before. But changing it - no, that doesn't happen. It's already done.

And so today I find myself in that place where thing worked out the wrong way. My expectations were met while my hopes were dashed. And part of my maturity is acting out as a grown up instead of as a child. That's the expectation I have of myself. It doesn't really soothe that part of me that's quietly crying, feeling rejected and unloved but that is somewhat irrelevant. Only by acting as an adult do I preserve any opportunity to change the future.

For now, though, I'm just going to take a deep breath and try to move on. Sometimes, it's the only path I can see.