Something More

Over 3 months…Some moments flew past and others stood still long enough for me to soak in through every pore…

As I sit here, I wonder how relevant it would be to try to explain such a long absence. I wonder how important it is to recap for all of you the events—the mundane and the tragic—that have transpired in the past 3 months …I wonder how important these words really are to a random pair of eyes, these words that I nurture and tend like delicate paper-mache flowers. These words...these words. At the end of the day these are just words aren’t they? To anyone reading, these are just letters and words and sentences attempting to give you some piece of information. Only that’s not what I wanted to give you. I wanted to give you something more...Something More. I wanted to give you the release a childhood’s worth of sadness and fear when my sister called on a windy October night. I wanted to give you the depth of my mourning on the November afternoon we buried a beautiful 19 year old boy. I wanted to give you the drowning sense of my desperation when I didn’t know how I was going to feed my family. And a few weeks ago, I wanted to give you my juvenile awkwardness on the Tuesday I began wearing glasses.

I wanted to give you more than words because these are much more than words to me. These are my pages, my moments, my days. And I wanted them to translate me; I wanted them to matter somehow. It’s an impossible task, I know that now. It exhausted me and turned this release into a burden. I not only began to question the style of my narrative, but I began to question the merits of the experiences themselves. I must do things differently in order for this blog to survive.

Politics

If you don't want a man unhappy politically, don't give him two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. Better yet, give him none. Let him forget there is such a thing as war...If the government is inefficiant, topheavy and tax-mad, better it be all those than people worry over it. ---Fahrenheit 451 one of my most favorite books e.v.e.r.


McCain decided to show up to the debate...Tell me you all are gonna watch???

34 days, 10 hours, 54 minutes and 36 seconds

There is this GREAT piece written on Jezebel talking about the moment women realize they’ve turned into their mothers. Here is an excerpt that hit a nerve:

“We're both intensely pragmatic creatures who have built a measure of self-esteem around being the Reliable One. We take comfort in the routine of the mundane, in the Zen of the minor physicality of cleaning and organizing. We find some measure of unfounded faith in the idea that bringing order to clutter can bring psychic order to cluttered thoughts — even as we know that it never really works like that. And, to a great degree, we do it because we're both terrible at openly expressing our actual emotions. It might seem easier to cry in grief or tell someone you love them or are proud of them, but she and I both know it's far easier to yell when someone of whom your proud disappoints you than to admit to being proud in the first place, or to scrub burnt bits off the stove than to cry on someone's shoulder.”

• I am now unemployed. Yes, recession nay sayers, I HAVE NO JOB. But I don’t want to talk about that because I start to hyperventilate.
• I painted my kitchen because it finally pissed me off. (Cream with sage green and sunshine yellow trim…I’m not sure I like it)
• I purged my home of all its unwanted, unused belongings.
• I organized ALL of my books by category Fiction, Non Fiction, Poetry, Text books, etc. I did the same with my kids’ books too. (why?)
• I also organized the kitchen junk drawer, my shoes, the kids’ toys, the pantry, the linen closet, and my desk. Oh yeah, the DVDs and CDs too…by genres.
• I then moved on to appliances: I cleaned the refrigerator, dishwasher, oven, microwave, coffee pot, stereo, phone, cell phone and computer keyboard.
• I recycled every scarp of paper, plastic, and glass that I could find in my house. I then proceeded to argue with the recycling man about whether or not LEGOS are recyclable. Me: “Are they or are they not PLASTIC? Ummmm???” Insanity.
• I sewed my self some new curtains. (And hemmed Sofia’s new jeans because she’s a shorty, took in Joaquin’s pants because he’s too skinny, and made a bedskirt, and 2 throw pillows and a valence …but I didn’t want to mention all that because it seems a little over the top.) Yes, I sew. Thank you Mother for yet another domesticated trait that serves NO PURPOSE other than to perpetuate domesticity. The feminist in me hates you.
• I’ve dusted every surface, Windex-ed every window (in & out), tidied and re-tidied every room…

On and on and on…I haven’t been able to sleep, which is a bizarre turn of events because for the past several months (due to my hyperthyroidism) all I've been able to do is sleep. Even though my energy level is still low, I can’t seem to shut off my cleaning/organizational impulse. Suddenly I’m Katy the fucking Cleaning Lady. I stay up until 4 in the morning watching PBS and reruns of Gilmore Girls while organizing something or other. A few nights ago, I managed to rearrange the living room furniture and then put it back the way it was.

And then there is the tiny detail of me not having spoken to any of my three sisters in 34 days, 10 hours, 54 minutes and 36 seconds. I guess this

[.................................….ALL OF THIS……....................................]

is what mind-numbing heartache reads like.

**I really am sorry that I dropped out of blogville with out an explanation...you all deserve much more than that. Sorry, sorry, sorry. **

God, I Hate This Woman

“How are you.” It was said as a statement, she really had no intent on listening to my response.

“Oh, you know…” I reluctantly pushed back my chair and stood up. She had walked right up to where I was sitting even though I made no attempts in hiding the fact I wanted nothing to do with her when we first made eye contact.

“And what is this” she motioned with a fast flick of her fingers towards the other occupied chairs, as if flicking away buzzing flies. Filling up my chest with air, I cocked my head to my left and smiled. Civility, I told my self, civility.

“The what are my children. This is Sofia and this is Joaquin. We were just out enjoy—”

“That’s nice, so nice.” She cut me off with a slight raise in her volume. “So, what have you done with yourself lately?” Her favorite song is her own mocking tone but I had no desire to dance.

“Oh, more of the same I’m afraid. You see Chris (i wrote about her here) every day don’t you? I’m sure she’s filled you in…I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

“Yes, of course but you’re taking business classes, right? At the community college? That’s nice, so nice. And your…children, Chris gushes about them often…” she trailed off just then and looked vacantly at my children. A sly smile slithered across her taut face as she turned back towards me. “You know, so many assumed your name would be in print by now, you know a couple of books under your belt for sure.”

“Well…I did only turn 30 this past year, my clocks not done ticking yet! It’s not like I’m pushing on retirement…or the daises!!” But she is. She just turned 52 and suffered some kind of stroke or heart attack last year. Or maybe it was a near fatal o.d for freebasing snark and bitterness. “How about yourself, still teaching?”

“Of course,” she said in a type of self-important sincerity. I could tell we were on a subject she really enjoyed talking about, “That and writing. I published, several books, as you may remember.”

“Yes, yes of course. E-books, right? ” I fake furrowed my brow in mock recollection.

“Well…not e-books, they’re fully published books…only available online.” She stopped abruptly and looked down at me, as if her considerable height was suddenly supposed to mean something. Her thin, painted lips remained pursed together, suppressing back-handed praises, I was sure. I just smiled. “Still, I bet it must have felt overwhelming for you… those were some high expectations!” At which point she laughed a hearty chuckle at what seemed like a remembered inside joke. Bitch “I remember how unsure you were when you took my course. How careles—”

“And yet still, so many assumed I’d make it.”

“Yes, well, writing is not for everyone. It takes more than—”

“Talent? Guts? Wit? Dedication, stamina, perseverance? …I know. I honestly don’t know how real authors do it most of the time.” Scorekeeper, that’s one for me. I was fast approaching my freefall into fury.

“Tell me, Ana, do you still write?” she asked, almost apologetically.

“Sure, a little. I enjoy the freedom of blogging…it fits my needs. For now.”

“Ahhhh yes, those who can not publish, blog!! Who said that??” She laid her hand on her chest, heaving with ridicule. “Anyway, I’m sure you’re more than happy with this little life you’ve carved out for yourself, huh?”

Ugh.

*read this, she's the DESPISED woman on bullet point #4

Family Dynamics: A Continuing Catharsis

My father trickled back home, it wasn’t as abrupt as his departure. And something about that always bothered me. As if he had to reacquaint himself with how to love us again. But this perspective is seen through the eyes of me as a 9 year old. I can’t say for sure if this was the case… As a little girl I remembered his absence in terms of years. Long Years. But in reality it was 5 months. In Five months he missed so much: their wedding anniversary, my 10th birthday, Laura’s 12th birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas…

In those short five months girls turned into women.
In those five short months my brothers became providers.
In those five short months my mother became so distant.
In those five short months we lost what we were unprepared to lose and gained too many things we couldn’t handle.

I suppose this moment in our history is what you would call a watershed moment. I can retrace the insecurities, fuck-ups, fears, anger, resentments of so many of us to that one shared familial moment.

My older sisters’ impression, however, has remained tattooed on her psyche. It fuels her hatred towards my mother and her worship of my father. Since then, Christina has NEVER been able to get along with my mother. She has always maintained that our mother caused our fathers absence. There is something to be said about the impressions we form as children, the child eyes with which we see the adult world around us. In order to make sense of the things around us, we use what ever method and means to make it nice again. A child doesn’t see a trauma like an adult does: shattered broken pieces that can never be made whole again. A child sees trauma like a jigsaw puzzle: the pieces of which have been abruptly kicked about the room, jumbling the once pretty, complete picture. And in the attempt to make the picture whole again, a child uses child reason to make all the pieces fit together. The rough shards suddenly become smooth rounded pieces that snugly fit side by side; regardless of the slightly askew picture it’s portraying. The tears suddenly become suspect and reshaped into guilt for wrongs committed. Half heard whispered conversations become complete explanations. Silence becomes impregnated with resurrected memories of could this have been why?… At least that’s what happened with all of us, especially Christina. My parents have never talked about that time. They never offered an explanation, reason, or defense. In absence of any explanation, we all dealt and made sense of it as best we could.

All I know was that I was afraid of him leaving again…nervous of the way his boots pointed away from the door, towards the road. That made me so restless. I was on perpetual “good girl” mode for years…Until I left home a few months shy of my 15th birthday. I had enough of …of all the things that make family drama so dramatic.

So many lives, all intertwined and dependent on each other, all of them wanting autonomy.

My Need to Fix: An Epiphany

*******
I was 9 when my father abruptly left. It was late September. He came home from work that day, packed a few things, said goodbye to my sister Vicky (she was always his favorite) and left before I even came home from school. Late that night, I could hear my older sisters whispering with my mother and my older brothers standing silently around like sentinels. Something’s happening; I felt it like a slow buzzing electric current snaking in and out through everyone and everything. Through my mothers silent weeping; through my brothers’ solemn faces; through my sisters hurried movements about the house; through the empty recliner that sat in the living room; through the work boots covered in earth just outside the front door; through the cold stove that waited for its 5 pm dinnertime date with my mothers humming hands. It felt like something was slowly dimming. And I lurked in the shadows, waiting for someone to tell me how to help fix the thing that had suddenly became so broken.

It happened on a Wednesday. None of us went to school for the rest of the week. My older sister pulled us girls to the back laundry room and gave us orders on how we would help make the situation better. I was in charge of the living room—keep it tidy and neat and of my two baby brothers—keep them entertained and quiet. We were all in charge of keeping our lives in some semblance of order…though, strangely, nothing seemed out of place or chaotic, we just kind of kept going. My mother worked the graveyard shift at the local Green Giant factory at the time and after my father left it took 3 of my brothers, my silently exhausted mother and a kind neighbor to fill in my fathers’ shoes at the 15 acre ranch he managed. But we made it seem so effortless, so natural…everything looked so normal.
*******
I’ve had the phones turned off since Sunday night. I have 36 messages on my answering machine, 42 missed calls on my cell phone, 39 voicemails, 27 unread text messages, and a million emails. It’s a communication vacation from my family and select friends. I told myself it was because I was tired of them using me, of not appreciating all that I do for them….But that’s not it, not really. I have a need to fix things…to sweep in and make situations better--I’m The Fixer. This excommunication is more to see if I can refrain from trying to control the lives of those I care most about. I think I’ve been on “Chaos Prevention and Control” for a really long time, I’ve exhausted myself and those around me. My older sister and I exchanged words this past Saturday over this need of mine and I feel so raw about it. I hate fighting with them. It cuts me like broken glass.

I cry as I type this, but I feel like that little girl back when my father left…wanting to put everything back together. Doom was always around the corner, chaos was always at the door, someone was always going to walk out and leave a mess that needed to be cleaned up………………….I’m done, can’t write anymore.

Wishful Makeuping*

*a Scooby Snack for anyone who can name where that is from

I was meeting someone at a Starbucks that I had run into a couple weeks ago. She’s from another life, another me. I woke up in the morning overly excited and nervous. I tried to be productive, but I was watching the clock.

Later that evening, before I headed out, I straightened my hair, brushed and re-brushed my teeth. I took the charcoal grey eye shadow and made my eyes look dark and mysterious; the mauve blush swept carefully across my check bones; shinny pink color on my lips. I stared at my reflection in the mirror…and for a split second I questioned what I was doing just now.

I met her at 5:30 and we sat and talked about our lives since we had last seen each other. We covered careers, relationships, marriages, children, mutual friends, the typical banter that erupts between refound friends. And then she said his name and my breath caught in my throat.

“How is he?” I asked. Why did I ask? Why did I need to know? I wasn’t supposed to ask…I’m not doing this right. The thoughts stuttered in my brain and I felt embarrassed all of a sudden. I felt the paint on my face like a mask and I wanted to take it off. I looked down at my now cold drink.

“He’s…ok. He’s the same. It’s all lateral moves with him, you’re always moving you just don’t get anywhere…you remember.” Yes, I do. I nodded and she tapped my hand affectionately. We said our goodbye’s and made empty promises to keep in touch; we got what we wanted out of each other. She wanted reassurance, absolution maybe. Me? What exactly was I expecting out of this meeting? Was I expecting him? No. Was I expecting her to tell him about our reunion? A resounding YES. And that, my friends reeks of a need for validation…in some deep, dark place inside me that knows no reason I wanted him to remember me and feel the loss of not having me. I wanted to present him all my shiny, polished accomplishments on a platter and say “you see, you could have shared this with me.” I wanted him to hear a stellar review of my effortlessly striking appearance that would plunge his cheating, nasty heart into an abyss of regret…

But these are wishes of the insecure girl that was with him NOT of the woman I am today. And making me feel insecure was all he was ever good for.