During a week of tech hassles, I sought refuge in one of my favorite viewing pleasures, Colonial House. PBS did a variety of these shows: Frontier House, Texas Ranch House, Manor House, 1940s House (though that might have been the BBC.) I like and recommend all of them. (If you loved Upstairs, Downstairs, Manor House is a must see.) I watch Colonial House most often because I own it and because I love watching a Baptist minister and Berkeley theologian try to run the colony together and separately, often with too much input from the Berkeley theologian's wife. I especially adore it because, since my dad has worked in academia most of my life, I just crack up at the theologian. Even if they didn't say he was a Berkeley professor, if you had shown me his picture, I would have said "That guy has tenure somewhere, probably at Berkeley, and will speak slowly and profoundly, often about nothing." Not that all academics are like this, but there's at least one (usually more) in every department. But I digress...
Anyway, the concept of these shows is that 20th-21st century people go back and try to relive history, which makes for great t.v., though you'd never catch me actually signing up for one. (Without fail, the majority of people who sign up seem to have romantic, hazy ideas about the experience and no clue that it's going to be harder work than they'll ever see again and they will spend most of the time miserable. Why they don't realize that is beyond me.)
It also makes me wonder what people from the past would think about it. I imagine a woman on the frontier thinking, "Ok, so these people can go to a store and buy butter, put it in an appliance that keeps it cold, but they'd rather milk the cow and then churn the butter for the experience? Clearly, our descendants are stupid."
It's not that I don't see the allure of the past. In fact, I spent several years in the SCA. (Society for Creative Anachronism...you know, the people in the park dressed up like they're in the Middle Ages.) I thought it was a delightful way to spend an hour or two. And then I'd look at the really dedicated ones, those who were camping out in tents and lining up for port-a-potties, and washing up out of a bucket of water, and I'd say, "It's been really nice being medieval with you, but now I have to go home to my indoor plumbing, cable t.v., air conditioning, and Internet" --which was dial-up back then and as close to the ancient past as I ever hope to be again.
Invariably, these t.v. programs have varying success at authenticity. Manor House replicates life best, I think, which means the servants wind up hating the family they serve while the family thinks the servants adore them. Uh, yeah. They're just lucky it's not set in the French Revolution.
My beloved Colonial House participants don't do so well at becoming history. Some of them do better than others. The servants do best. But the non-servants spend a lot of time fighting over mandatory church attendance and dress codes. It is fun to watch them stake each other out (literally) and i also enjoy the representatives of two Native American tribes. The first tribe, who coordinated with the project, worry that the colonists won't make it through the winter. The second tribe, who stumble upon them, sort of hope they won't.
And I sit in my comfy recliner, eating junk food, laughing and rolling my eyes, and periodically pausing it so I can check Facebook, play Words With Friends, or add to my blog. Hmm. Three hundred years from now, is that what participants of 21st Century House will do? And will they wonder aloud how anyone survived with only a couple of hundred t.v. channels?
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Saturday, October 27, 2012
A Bit Of Magic
First off, let me say that this blog has not been what I expected it to be. I thought I'd blog about art--which I've done little of, but maybe I will--and thought I'd blog very little about my mom. I certainly didn't expect so many grief blogs and yet that's what I seem to write about most. All I can say is that she heavily influenced my life and still does. I guess that's part of it, too...when I'm not missing her like crazy, I'm caught up in the magic of still feeling connected to her.
A few days ago, I was sorting through books, looking for the next volume in a mystery series. While I kept most of her book collection, Mom would be quick to point out that I have not kept them in good order. She went to a lot of trouble to sort by author and subject. With me, well, books are lucky if they get back on a shelf and not just in a stack on the floor or, worse, under my bed. (I think that's where my copy of Quiet: The Power of Introversion is, though I haven't been brave enough to look for it just yet.)
Anyway, I was looking for the next book in a mystery series, and came across The Grass Dancer by Susan Power. What struck me was how worn it was. Granted, it's a paperback, but to be that worn, she must have read it a dozen times. And actually I remember seeing it on her bed, or in her hand, or on the shelf, but I don't remember us ever discussing it. Maybe we did and maybe she encouraged me to read it, but....I just don't remember it.
So I started reading it and fell in love with this novel set on the Sioux reservation with multiple points of view, including several generations of women in one family, and laced with magic.
I admit it's been bittersweet. I keep wishing I had read it years ago, so I could have discussed it with her. On the other hand, mostly I feel like I've stumbled upon a gift.
A few days ago, I was sorting through books, looking for the next volume in a mystery series. While I kept most of her book collection, Mom would be quick to point out that I have not kept them in good order. She went to a lot of trouble to sort by author and subject. With me, well, books are lucky if they get back on a shelf and not just in a stack on the floor or, worse, under my bed. (I think that's where my copy of Quiet: The Power of Introversion is, though I haven't been brave enough to look for it just yet.)
Anyway, I was looking for the next book in a mystery series, and came across The Grass Dancer by Susan Power. What struck me was how worn it was. Granted, it's a paperback, but to be that worn, she must have read it a dozen times. And actually I remember seeing it on her bed, or in her hand, or on the shelf, but I don't remember us ever discussing it. Maybe we did and maybe she encouraged me to read it, but....I just don't remember it.
So I started reading it and fell in love with this novel set on the Sioux reservation with multiple points of view, including several generations of women in one family, and laced with magic.
I admit it's been bittersweet. I keep wishing I had read it years ago, so I could have discussed it with her. On the other hand, mostly I feel like I've stumbled upon a gift.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
October 15th: Then and Now
When I was very little, October was about cool nights, falling leaves, and the countdown to Halloween. The year I was eight, October exploded, and echoed for years to come.
On the morning of October 15 1985, a man named Steve Christensen picked up a package outside his office and a woman named Kathy Sheets picked one up outside her garage. Neither could have expected that they were holding pipe bombs which would kill them instantly.
At the time, my mom was a reporter for the Deseret News in Salt Lake. My dad, a historian, worked at Weber State University in Ogden. Neither knew Steve or Kathy, though they knew people who did. I'm driving myself crazy trying to piece together that day for them, but....I keep reminding myself not to, just to stay on my part of the story.
The only thing I remember clearly, was the warning--I think from my mom, calling from a loud and chaotic newsroom--that my siblings and I should not pick up or go near any boxes. We heard it again the next day, when another bomb exploded, seriously injuring Mark Hofmann, a dealer in Mormon historical documents.
My memory of the days and weeks later are a blur of news reports, phone calls, and conversations (which sometimes interested me and sometimes didn't) as apparently-normal Mark Hofmann turned out to be the bomber as well as a forger. An energy--an odd mixture of stress and adrenaline--settled in our house and changed things in big and little ways. My mom left her job at the Deseret News to co-author a book about the case and for years wherever she went it seemed someone wanted to ask her about it of tell her about their connection to it.
In little ways, long after the warning was lifted, I remained hesitant to pick up boxes. I also learned to hate the song "My Favorite Things." (While the bombs were not tied up in strings, they were most definitely brown paper packages.) In fact, I learned to hate--or at least dread--pretty much anything to do with the case. And for decades, I had nightmares about Mark Hofmann, even after I learned to decipher those dreams and saw they had nothing to do with him. He was just the face my unconscious slapped on anything stressful or frightening.
Some years as October 15th rolled around, I was aware of it, and some I wasn't. Sometimes, when a story or conference about the case was announced, I'd roll my eyes and wonder what was left to say. Any time, I heard about a new historical document being found, I'd wonder if it was a Hofmann. And I'd feel anxiety swell in my gut.
My therapist--come on, you had to know there was some therapy here--assured me I could desensitize myself to it. I sort of believed her, but put that off into the future and dealt with more practical things. And somehow doing that, I undid the dark energy I'd carried so long. I didn't even realize it until I found myself watching an episode of "Who The Bleep Did I Marry" (a most excellent show) featuring Hofmann's ex-wife. They went to file footage and there was Hofmann himself. I looked at the boogeyman of my childhood and felt nothing, except mild curiosity.
Nothing is a hundred percent, I guess, because a few days later, I walked down the driveway to get the mail. I stopped and glanced up at the sky and mountains and thought "What a gorgeous day." And as I bent to pick up the package under the mailbox, I shivered, wondering if that had been Steve's or Kathy's last thought.
On the morning of October 15 1985, a man named Steve Christensen picked up a package outside his office and a woman named Kathy Sheets picked one up outside her garage. Neither could have expected that they were holding pipe bombs which would kill them instantly.
At the time, my mom was a reporter for the Deseret News in Salt Lake. My dad, a historian, worked at Weber State University in Ogden. Neither knew Steve or Kathy, though they knew people who did. I'm driving myself crazy trying to piece together that day for them, but....I keep reminding myself not to, just to stay on my part of the story.
The only thing I remember clearly, was the warning--I think from my mom, calling from a loud and chaotic newsroom--that my siblings and I should not pick up or go near any boxes. We heard it again the next day, when another bomb exploded, seriously injuring Mark Hofmann, a dealer in Mormon historical documents.
My memory of the days and weeks later are a blur of news reports, phone calls, and conversations (which sometimes interested me and sometimes didn't) as apparently-normal Mark Hofmann turned out to be the bomber as well as a forger. An energy--an odd mixture of stress and adrenaline--settled in our house and changed things in big and little ways. My mom left her job at the Deseret News to co-author a book about the case and for years wherever she went it seemed someone wanted to ask her about it of tell her about their connection to it.
In little ways, long after the warning was lifted, I remained hesitant to pick up boxes. I also learned to hate the song "My Favorite Things." (While the bombs were not tied up in strings, they were most definitely brown paper packages.) In fact, I learned to hate--or at least dread--pretty much anything to do with the case. And for decades, I had nightmares about Mark Hofmann, even after I learned to decipher those dreams and saw they had nothing to do with him. He was just the face my unconscious slapped on anything stressful or frightening.
Some years as October 15th rolled around, I was aware of it, and some I wasn't. Sometimes, when a story or conference about the case was announced, I'd roll my eyes and wonder what was left to say. Any time, I heard about a new historical document being found, I'd wonder if it was a Hofmann. And I'd feel anxiety swell in my gut.
My therapist--come on, you had to know there was some therapy here--assured me I could desensitize myself to it. I sort of believed her, but put that off into the future and dealt with more practical things. And somehow doing that, I undid the dark energy I'd carried so long. I didn't even realize it until I found myself watching an episode of "Who The Bleep Did I Marry" (a most excellent show) featuring Hofmann's ex-wife. They went to file footage and there was Hofmann himself. I looked at the boogeyman of my childhood and felt nothing, except mild curiosity.
Nothing is a hundred percent, I guess, because a few days later, I walked down the driveway to get the mail. I stopped and glanced up at the sky and mountains and thought "What a gorgeous day." And as I bent to pick up the package under the mailbox, I shivered, wondering if that had been Steve's or Kathy's last thought.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
The Elephant Graveyard
When elephants come across the bones of another elephant, the whole herd stops, reaching out their trunks to smell, then lift each bone, passing them one to another, searching it for identity and memories, rumbling softly. It starts with the matriarch of the herd--for elephants follow the oldest and wisest female--and goes to the youngest calf. Only when each has searched the bones, do they go on.
I do this myself in a way, not with bones, but with memories, fragments of stories, and vibes of loved ones who have died, even if, like tonight/today it's 4 a.m., and I need to sleep, but I'm too busy trying to remember a particular conversation, not just the words, but the inflections of their speech, the expression on their faces, what they said and what went unsaid but heard, and what I might have heard then, but couldn't understand until now.
2010...no, I have to go back to 2009, when a cousin committed suicide, and stunned the family. We reeled into the angry and baffled grief specific to suicide. (One of the lessons I took from Matthew's death was that whole side of the family--myself included-- is way too stoic and stoicism can be deadly. You have to be willing to call out in pain so that the herd can rush to help.) Later in the year, my aunt Susan's cancer went from "we can treat this" to "there's nothing more we can do." At the same time, my mom's illness and chronic pain worsened, leaving us desperate to hold on to her, but wondering how much she would have to endure.
In the last few months of Susan's life, I could barely even process what was happening. I was so focused on caring for my mom, so afraid that this loss would take what strength she had left. My mom and Susan were born fifteen months apart and died less than three months apart. After my mom died, over and over, I'd think "I need to call Susan" and then I remembered I couldn't, and reality hit me so hard that I sank to my knees. Somehow we had lost them both in that short span of time and they took with them so much knowledge and wisdom and history.....the thought of it was unbearable.
In 2012, I feel like maybe I have my feet under me again, and then I'll have a night when I roll over, waking from one dream and before sliding into another, I find myself back in the elephant graveyard, remembering fragments of a conversation, trying to keep the words in order, straining to recall if something unspoken slipped in among them, like an elephant searching for the wisdom of matriarchs who made this journey before me.
I do this myself in a way, not with bones, but with memories, fragments of stories, and vibes of loved ones who have died, even if, like tonight/today it's 4 a.m., and I need to sleep, but I'm too busy trying to remember a particular conversation, not just the words, but the inflections of their speech, the expression on their faces, what they said and what went unsaid but heard, and what I might have heard then, but couldn't understand until now.
2010...no, I have to go back to 2009, when a cousin committed suicide, and stunned the family. We reeled into the angry and baffled grief specific to suicide. (One of the lessons I took from Matthew's death was that whole side of the family--myself included-- is way too stoic and stoicism can be deadly. You have to be willing to call out in pain so that the herd can rush to help.) Later in the year, my aunt Susan's cancer went from "we can treat this" to "there's nothing more we can do." At the same time, my mom's illness and chronic pain worsened, leaving us desperate to hold on to her, but wondering how much she would have to endure.
In the last few months of Susan's life, I could barely even process what was happening. I was so focused on caring for my mom, so afraid that this loss would take what strength she had left. My mom and Susan were born fifteen months apart and died less than three months apart. After my mom died, over and over, I'd think "I need to call Susan" and then I remembered I couldn't, and reality hit me so hard that I sank to my knees. Somehow we had lost them both in that short span of time and they took with them so much knowledge and wisdom and history.....the thought of it was unbearable.
In 2012, I feel like maybe I have my feet under me again, and then I'll have a night when I roll over, waking from one dream and before sliding into another, I find myself back in the elephant graveyard, remembering fragments of a conversation, trying to keep the words in order, straining to recall if something unspoken slipped in among them, like an elephant searching for the wisdom of matriarchs who made this journey before me.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Culture Clash
One of the challenges of being an INFJ in a 99%-of-people-are-not-like-me world is dealing with the local etiquette. Things that are perfectly acceptable to most people seem downright rude to me. One of the worst of these? Door bells and/or unannounced visitors. I hate both.
Here's the deal: unless I am expecting you or you are bringing me something I ordered--pizza, mail, art supplies, books--than I'm going to get really terse when you show up unannounced and ring the door bell... repeatedly. Or knock. And knock. And knock.
I had one of those moments today. (How did you guess?) Actually, two of them. First was this morning. I was enjoying a lovely Sunday morning, still in bed, and window shopping on Etsy when someone rang the door bell....and rang it again...and rang it again...and then pounded. Since it was Sunday morning, I was not expecting anyone, and it couldn't be mail or UPS, and since I was still in my nightgown, I ignored all the ringing and pounding and finally whoever it was went away. Bliss.
You've got to remember that I'm someone always in search of solitude and silence. I can go days not socializing with anyone in person and, well, those are very happy days. Sometimes people ask me if I get lonely. My response to that is only if the Internet goes down, the cat's asleep, and the Peanut Gallery is not answering...and really it would take all three for me to get lonely....well, and for the cable to go out, too. What some people call loneliness, I call paradise.
Which is not to say I don't sometimes choose to socialize in person and enjoy it....it's just that afterwards, I go home, close all the drapes, and don't say a word out loud for the next twelve hours. My mom once worked with a Ute medicine man, who told her in his half-joking and half-absolute-truth way, "Indians only talk to change the subject." I've thought about cross-stitching that and hanging it on the wall. Though not Indian, I can have whole unspoken conversations with people and only realize later, that unless they're one of me, they didn't know we were having a conversation.
Back to door bells, as I'm always reminding myself, I don't have to answer the door (or the phone.) Except sometimes, when someone comes back an hour and a half later, and I'm now dressed, and busy with an art project, but they're leaning on the door bell, I might answer it just to make the noise stop. And then I may inform you that no, I don't want to pay you to wash my windows, no, I don't want you to come back another day, and if you see anyone else around, selling goods, services, religion or politics to stay away from this house.
In the guy's defense, he's perfectly nice, has washed our windows before (though not because I answered the door and paid him to wash them. The non-INFJ of the household was home that day.) And, by his etiquette code, he's within bounds (though Sunday mornings....well, that might be pushing it.) By my etiquette code, he has interrupted my thoughts, and my art, and threatened to invade my space. On Planet INFJ, you can get a prison term for that. In fact, since art was interrupted, it's probably an aggravated charge.
And he wouldn't be doing time alone. The other day, someone came and pounded on the door and wanted to introduce herself because she was running for office. Astonishingly enough, she was a Democrat, and I didn't know any Democrats ran for office in Ogden, Utah, but I might wind up voting for the Republican just because he/she hasn't bugged me. (To make it worse, it was at the start of the performance finale of So You Think You Can Dance. Uh, yeah.)
I've thought about getting one of those clever "Go Away" door mats, but I'm too afraid the pizza/mail delivery person might think it applied to them. I've also thought about a sign that says "The last person who knocked on this door uninvited got shot," but I'm pretty sure that goes against non-INFJ etiquette.
Maybe I'll just look on Etsy for some fancy ear plugs, preferably ones that have matching fairy wings........
Here's the deal: unless I am expecting you or you are bringing me something I ordered--pizza, mail, art supplies, books--than I'm going to get really terse when you show up unannounced and ring the door bell... repeatedly. Or knock. And knock. And knock.
I had one of those moments today. (How did you guess?) Actually, two of them. First was this morning. I was enjoying a lovely Sunday morning, still in bed, and window shopping on Etsy when someone rang the door bell....and rang it again...and rang it again...and then pounded. Since it was Sunday morning, I was not expecting anyone, and it couldn't be mail or UPS, and since I was still in my nightgown, I ignored all the ringing and pounding and finally whoever it was went away. Bliss.
You've got to remember that I'm someone always in search of solitude and silence. I can go days not socializing with anyone in person and, well, those are very happy days. Sometimes people ask me if I get lonely. My response to that is only if the Internet goes down, the cat's asleep, and the Peanut Gallery is not answering...and really it would take all three for me to get lonely....well, and for the cable to go out, too. What some people call loneliness, I call paradise.
Which is not to say I don't sometimes choose to socialize in person and enjoy it....it's just that afterwards, I go home, close all the drapes, and don't say a word out loud for the next twelve hours. My mom once worked with a Ute medicine man, who told her in his half-joking and half-absolute-truth way, "Indians only talk to change the subject." I've thought about cross-stitching that and hanging it on the wall. Though not Indian, I can have whole unspoken conversations with people and only realize later, that unless they're one of me, they didn't know we were having a conversation.
Back to door bells, as I'm always reminding myself, I don't have to answer the door (or the phone.) Except sometimes, when someone comes back an hour and a half later, and I'm now dressed, and busy with an art project, but they're leaning on the door bell, I might answer it just to make the noise stop. And then I may inform you that no, I don't want to pay you to wash my windows, no, I don't want you to come back another day, and if you see anyone else around, selling goods, services, religion or politics to stay away from this house.
In the guy's defense, he's perfectly nice, has washed our windows before (though not because I answered the door and paid him to wash them. The non-INFJ of the household was home that day.) And, by his etiquette code, he's within bounds (though Sunday mornings....well, that might be pushing it.) By my etiquette code, he has interrupted my thoughts, and my art, and threatened to invade my space. On Planet INFJ, you can get a prison term for that. In fact, since art was interrupted, it's probably an aggravated charge.
And he wouldn't be doing time alone. The other day, someone came and pounded on the door and wanted to introduce herself because she was running for office. Astonishingly enough, she was a Democrat, and I didn't know any Democrats ran for office in Ogden, Utah, but I might wind up voting for the Republican just because he/she hasn't bugged me. (To make it worse, it was at the start of the performance finale of So You Think You Can Dance. Uh, yeah.)
I've thought about getting one of those clever "Go Away" door mats, but I'm too afraid the pizza/mail delivery person might think it applied to them. I've also thought about a sign that says "The last person who knocked on this door uninvited got shot," but I'm pretty sure that goes against non-INFJ etiquette.
Maybe I'll just look on Etsy for some fancy ear plugs, preferably ones that have matching fairy wings........
Thursday, September 6, 2012
A Silly Aside
Ok, this is just an example of what my life is like....
I ran out of art trading card blanks. (I'm addicted to making and trading these miniature works of art.) I had already placed an order with dickblick.com (another addiction) and had spent more than I should have on various items including more trading cards, but it wasn't going to arrive until next Tuesday. Since there was no way I could wait that long, I went to my studio to get some sheets of card stock, figuring I'd cut some down with my paper cutter. One problem: no card stock. I keep forgetting to get it.
I called a nearby craft store and they had the pre-cut blanks. I thought, "Great. I'll ask Dad to pick some up on his way home."
But then the Peanut Gallery said, "No, you go."
Now, while I've learned to trust them, I don't do so unquestioningly, especially if I think I'm right, so I presented my case. First, me going into a craft store...well, that's just way too temptation. Plus, I've been tired, and--although the craft store isn't huge and it wouldn't be a ton of walking--I try to avoid going out when I'm already tired.
It didn't matter. They just said, "You go" again.
Fine. I figured at least if I went, I could buy some single sheets of card stock, too, to get my stock pile growing again. Dad picked me up, I found the trading cards, got a few packs, plus a couple of Prismacolor markers, which was silly as I have those coming on Tuesday, too, and they were twice as much as at dickblick.com, but.....well, that's the temptation factor. Then I headed over to the card stock, admiring all the lovely shades I could buy for 49 cents a sheet...
Which was when they said, "Don't."
"But I'm out of card stock and it's only 49 cents a sheet," I thought back.
And they said, "Don't."
I sighed, figured my guides were feeling thrifty, and I put back the markers, then came back to the card stock and started choosing colors of card stock, and they said, "Don't."
At this point, I was very close to talking to them out loud, which I try to avoid doing in public. I mean, here they'd insisted I run the errand myself, and I was pretty sure the reason was to get card stock. Now they wouldn't let me buy it?
Too tired to fight, I put the card stock back.....which was when I saw the pack of assorted colors of card stock. It was pushed way back on the shelf and marked down to a ridiculously low price.
And that's why I listen to those smug spirit guides of mine.....
I ran out of art trading card blanks. (I'm addicted to making and trading these miniature works of art.) I had already placed an order with dickblick.com (another addiction) and had spent more than I should have on various items including more trading cards, but it wasn't going to arrive until next Tuesday. Since there was no way I could wait that long, I went to my studio to get some sheets of card stock, figuring I'd cut some down with my paper cutter. One problem: no card stock. I keep forgetting to get it.
I called a nearby craft store and they had the pre-cut blanks. I thought, "Great. I'll ask Dad to pick some up on his way home."
But then the Peanut Gallery said, "No, you go."
Now, while I've learned to trust them, I don't do so unquestioningly, especially if I think I'm right, so I presented my case. First, me going into a craft store...well, that's just way too temptation. Plus, I've been tired, and--although the craft store isn't huge and it wouldn't be a ton of walking--I try to avoid going out when I'm already tired.
It didn't matter. They just said, "You go" again.
Fine. I figured at least if I went, I could buy some single sheets of card stock, too, to get my stock pile growing again. Dad picked me up, I found the trading cards, got a few packs, plus a couple of Prismacolor markers, which was silly as I have those coming on Tuesday, too, and they were twice as much as at dickblick.com, but.....well, that's the temptation factor. Then I headed over to the card stock, admiring all the lovely shades I could buy for 49 cents a sheet...
Which was when they said, "Don't."
"But I'm out of card stock and it's only 49 cents a sheet," I thought back.
And they said, "Don't."
I sighed, figured my guides were feeling thrifty, and I put back the markers, then came back to the card stock and started choosing colors of card stock, and they said, "Don't."
At this point, I was very close to talking to them out loud, which I try to avoid doing in public. I mean, here they'd insisted I run the errand myself, and I was pretty sure the reason was to get card stock. Now they wouldn't let me buy it?
Too tired to fight, I put the card stock back.....which was when I saw the pack of assorted colors of card stock. It was pushed way back on the shelf and marked down to a ridiculously low price.
And that's why I listen to those smug spirit guides of mine.....
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
My Side Of The Story
That's actually the name I wanted for my blog, but it was taken. I'm a big Criminal Minds fan, and one of my favorite episodes is the one where Prentiss investigates a friend's death committed by a priest who is murdering people in the guise of exorcism. The episode ends with lyrics: "this is my side of the story, only my side of the story" and the first time I heard them, I thought, "Wow. I wonder if you can do that? Just tell your side of the story and not bother explaining everyone else's side? Maybe just tell it and not feel like you have to justify it? Just say....this is my side of the story." It made me feel so liberated.
See, I grew up too aware of everyone else's feelings and needs and too inclined to put them ahead of my own. I desperately wanted everyone to be happy and thought I could--and should--finesse that. But some people are determined to be unhappy, so it's a waste of energy trying to change that.
When I learned one of my recent posts upset a relative, my first thought was "She's lucky I didn't blog about..." and then I started thinking....maybe I should, not to be petty or hurtful, though I'm sure she'll take it that way, but because maybe I've carried that pain around long enough.
Starting about the time I was eleven, this relative's marriage started to unravel, and I got dragged into it more than I should have, which was not entirely her fault. My mom was the one in the best position to help her, which means we took her and her two children in several times, and there were seemingly endless conversations and phone calls and stress. I couldn't help pick it up both consciously and unconsciously. But the biggest mistake came the summer I was twelve, when I wound up spending fifteen hours a week, babysitting for her, mostly to give another relative--who was her main babysitter--a break.
My relative was all too willing to fill me in on lots of drama about her ex-husband, his abuse, and the fact that he was stalking her. She assured me he spent most of his time watching the house. Meanwhile, I spent fifteen hours a week in a house full of tense, fearful, and miserable vibes with two small children, one who reflected the misery with anger and defiance, the other with clinginess and tears. I could not take them outside. I could not even open the drapes. And every time I heard the slightest sound, I was sure that my crazy and abusive ex-uncle had turned up, possibly with a gun and possibly with an accomplice, to kill or kidnap the kids and it was my responsibility to keep them safe.
At the time, I hated this, but didn't question it. Years later, when I realized that what was being asked of me was unfair for a twelve-year-old child, I confronted my mom about it. She sighed and asked me if I really thought she and my dad would put me in that position. It took me a minute to figure out what she meant, which was that I was never in that situation. It might have been how my relative perceived it, but it wasn't how everyone else did.
My mom said, "He was crazy and abusive, but he wasn't coming for those kids. If I knew you'd bought into her PTSD so much I would have tried to find another alternative....though I did try to find another alternative and I just couldn't, but I wish I could undo it."
So do I. Often I've wanted to confront my relative to see if she believed her own rhetoric and, if so, why she put me in the situation. In fact, once, at a family party, when I looked at her oldest daughter and realized she was exactly the same age I was that summer, I wanted to ask "Would you have put her in that situation?" But I also realize it wouldn't do any good. She still sees things the same way and would respond by rattling off all her own wounds, while ignoring mine, or maybe she'd add mine to her list of grievances against him, but she'd never admit she was at fault.
Forgiveness is supposed to be about accepting that the past can't be any different and I struggle with that. Part of the problem is that I had so few summers left, at least healthy ones. By the time I was sixteen, I was chronically ill. It might have been nice to have spent fifteen hours a week the summer I was twelve doing something else.
As I approach twenty years of chronic illness and thirty-six years of life, I've come to a few decisions. One is that I am going to surround myself with people who love and understand me, who bring out the best in me, who reflect what I believe, who honor my truth. See, it turns out that, as adults, family relationships are optional, and I'm opting out of a few. It also turns out that I can delete comments, ignore emails or phone calls, and only have people I actually like on Facebook. I can say what I want and, if people don't like it, they can go away.
I can tell my side of the story and that's what I'm going to do.
See, I grew up too aware of everyone else's feelings and needs and too inclined to put them ahead of my own. I desperately wanted everyone to be happy and thought I could--and should--finesse that. But some people are determined to be unhappy, so it's a waste of energy trying to change that.
When I learned one of my recent posts upset a relative, my first thought was "She's lucky I didn't blog about..." and then I started thinking....maybe I should, not to be petty or hurtful, though I'm sure she'll take it that way, but because maybe I've carried that pain around long enough.
Starting about the time I was eleven, this relative's marriage started to unravel, and I got dragged into it more than I should have, which was not entirely her fault. My mom was the one in the best position to help her, which means we took her and her two children in several times, and there were seemingly endless conversations and phone calls and stress. I couldn't help pick it up both consciously and unconsciously. But the biggest mistake came the summer I was twelve, when I wound up spending fifteen hours a week, babysitting for her, mostly to give another relative--who was her main babysitter--a break.
My relative was all too willing to fill me in on lots of drama about her ex-husband, his abuse, and the fact that he was stalking her. She assured me he spent most of his time watching the house. Meanwhile, I spent fifteen hours a week in a house full of tense, fearful, and miserable vibes with two small children, one who reflected the misery with anger and defiance, the other with clinginess and tears. I could not take them outside. I could not even open the drapes. And every time I heard the slightest sound, I was sure that my crazy and abusive ex-uncle had turned up, possibly with a gun and possibly with an accomplice, to kill or kidnap the kids and it was my responsibility to keep them safe.
At the time, I hated this, but didn't question it. Years later, when I realized that what was being asked of me was unfair for a twelve-year-old child, I confronted my mom about it. She sighed and asked me if I really thought she and my dad would put me in that position. It took me a minute to figure out what she meant, which was that I was never in that situation. It might have been how my relative perceived it, but it wasn't how everyone else did.
My mom said, "He was crazy and abusive, but he wasn't coming for those kids. If I knew you'd bought into her PTSD so much I would have tried to find another alternative....though I did try to find another alternative and I just couldn't, but I wish I could undo it."
So do I. Often I've wanted to confront my relative to see if she believed her own rhetoric and, if so, why she put me in the situation. In fact, once, at a family party, when I looked at her oldest daughter and realized she was exactly the same age I was that summer, I wanted to ask "Would you have put her in that situation?" But I also realize it wouldn't do any good. She still sees things the same way and would respond by rattling off all her own wounds, while ignoring mine, or maybe she'd add mine to her list of grievances against him, but she'd never admit she was at fault.
Forgiveness is supposed to be about accepting that the past can't be any different and I struggle with that. Part of the problem is that I had so few summers left, at least healthy ones. By the time I was sixteen, I was chronically ill. It might have been nice to have spent fifteen hours a week the summer I was twelve doing something else.
As I approach twenty years of chronic illness and thirty-six years of life, I've come to a few decisions. One is that I am going to surround myself with people who love and understand me, who bring out the best in me, who reflect what I believe, who honor my truth. See, it turns out that, as adults, family relationships are optional, and I'm opting out of a few. It also turns out that I can delete comments, ignore emails or phone calls, and only have people I actually like on Facebook. I can say what I want and, if people don't like it, they can go away.
I can tell my side of the story and that's what I'm going to do.
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