Getting the Power Up

The scene is this: it’s the day before Thanksgiving, 2008. A Wednesday, naturally. Over the four days prior to this particularly dreadful day, my heart and mind had been trampled by a vast array of assorted traumatic events and emotions: having potentially lost one of the most important people in my life, dealing with new breeds of stress at work, trying to decide whether to stay in grad school or not, several family issues cropping up here and there. And in dealing with this, I found sleep impossible. So Tuesday night I took my standard three over-the-counter sleeping pills. Long story short, by the next night I no longer trusted myself to be alone. So a benevolent friend invited me on a short road trip the next night and my immediate mental reaction was “Of course I’ll go. That increases my chances of being hit by a large truck.” Sharp as she is, friend made me take one of her kids in the car with me. Good call.

Grateful for the change of scenery and happy to see this friend’s sister for the first time in ages, I was already feeling a tiny bit better by the time we got to Columbus. I hauled my overnight bag into the guest bedroom and friend and I collapsed across the bed while her two kids piled on top of us. The oldest (7), snuggled up next to me as I stared at the ceiling fighting back tears. He looked at me, took a deep breath and said, quite randomly:

“Hey, Leslie, you know how when you’re playing a video game the first level is really really easy? Then the next level is still easy, but not as easy as the first one? Then the next one is a little bit harder than the second one? And then the next and the nextandthenextandthenext….”

“Yes, Sean, I know…”

“Well, they do that on purpose, don’t they?  They make the first level really easy so you’re ready to do the second level, then the second level is a little harder so that you can handle the third level. So each level is just like practice for the next level. So if you can get through this level, you know you’re ready for the next one.”

Then he got up and ran into the kitchen.

I remained there for quite some time after my friend, too, departed for the kitchen, ceiling-staring and thinking about what Sean had said. Either he’s very intuitive and perceptive or totally random, or I’m reading way too much into what he said. Regardless, I stayed still, trying to imagine what level could possibly be worse than this, and the last of the tears I had for that situation fell from my cheek onto the nondescript, guest-bed comforter. Then I wiped my eyes and stood up, shook it off, and followed the crowd into the kitchen.

I beat this level, but not without sustaining some pretty major damage. But that’s okay. I’m taking time to heal, and when I’m powered up again, I’ll get back in the game. Significant health already restored, prognosis promising. And as much I hoped that week would be the hardest level I’ll have to get through before beating the game, I keep in mind now that it’s just practice for the greater challenges that lie ahead.

A New Tradition, Perhaps?

Precursor – If you’ve endured an emotionally devastating, suicide attempt-inducing breakup in the week leading up to the holiday, just go ahead and arrive at The Green Compound drunk. At least you can hope for alcohol poisoning by the end of the day.

1. Each time Dad asks a perfectly straightforward question that Mom misconstrues as a criticism or insult, take a drink.

2. Each time a family member nearly trips over a cat, take one drink.

3. Each time a family member nearly trips over a doll or other inanimate object, don’t drink anything, for the love of God, you need your kidneys!

4. Each time Mom throws out a perfectly good dish because “it just doesn’t taste right,” take a drink.

5. Each time Mom throws any object ranging in size from a wedding band (2008) to a five-pound bag of cornmeal (2004), take a drink.
5a. If it was aimed directly at you, finish your drink and go get another.

6. Each time Mom throws anything larger than a five-pound bag of cornmeal, go outside and take a drink and wait until all goes quiet before re-entering the house.

7. Each time furniture is thrown (by Dad or Mom), take all of your drinks and go home. It’s pretty much over until next year.
7a. Kyle, you’re pretty much screwed on this one.

8. Each time a parent threatens to divorce the other, touch glasses in cheers with all siblings and take a nice, long drink.
8a. If one parent actually gets in the car to leave as if to make good on this threat, take one drink     every minute until said parent returns.

9. For each broken dish, one drink.

10. For each time one of the offspring tells Mom to shut the fuck up, give Mom your drink, as she will need it to ease the shock.

11. For each time one of the offspring tells Dad to shut the fuck up, bring all alcohol in the house to that offspring to chug immediately, to mollify the pain that Dad is about to inflict on this offspring.

12. Any time a weapon is pulled (gun, baseball bat, slingshot, paring knife), put down your drink and back away slowly. They’re serious, people!

13. If the family has a nice, calm, uneventful, pleasant meal and no drama ensues, don’t even think about touching a drink until next year. You’ll want to remember this.

Coming out of it

I can’t believe what a difference a day makes. Or an hour. Or a conversation, for that matter.

One night when you meet someone new.

One conversation over grilled chicken salad that finally wakes you up.*

One hour during which you laugh instead of cry.

One evening spent loving life with the people who always get you through it, without judgment, without pretense or guile, and without making you feel worse instead of better. Those who have been there from the start, and will be there at the end.

Suddenly, for the first time in weeks, I don’t want to sleep. And I can’t wait to wake up.

*To my fellow HR associate – I checked Hallmark, and they don’t have anything like a “thanks for forcibly extracting my head from my ass” greeting card, so I’ll just say “Thanks!”

Friday Five – A Little Pick-Me-Up

I know this is a few days early/lots of days late, but I’m needing it right now. Originally, this was going to be the top five most hurtful things anyone has ever said to me, but I’m rebelling against my own self-destructive tendencies in an effort to avoid the therapy couch. This list turned out to be slightly more challenging to come up with than the aforementioned version, but I still had trouble narrowing it down. That made me realize how fortunate I am.

Five Sweetest/Kindest Things Anyone Has Ever Said To or About Me

5. “You are my hero.”

4. “Figured I would go ahead and emotionally slap you around, to avoid you having to do it to yourself.” (In what I perceived to be half-jest)

3. “Leslie would have killed the guy; [my sister's name here] would have sat there and been killed.” (In reaction to the Virginia Tech shootings)

2.”We’re in this together, whether you like it or not.”

1. “I’m your biggest advocate.”

Honorable Mention:

“Even though you’re fat, I still love you.”

“She’s hard-headed enough that she just might make it.”

“You should be proud of her; her lips are sealed, everyone trusts her.”

“I will never leave you alone with my children, I promise.”

“I’m totally going to leave you alone with my children.”

I will refrain from crediting those who doled out these blessings. If you see something you recognize as yours, ku-dos, and thanks; you touched my life in a way you may never fully comprehend. I can only aspire and hope to enrich your lives the way you’ve enriched mine.

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The Days Go Marching One by One

I have very few memories of childhood, especially before age nine, but the ones I have are vivid as daylight. My mother kept the sugar in the largest of five porcelain graduated canisters shaped like mushrooms. The second largest held flour. The middle one held old necklace chains, reading glasses, and other miscellaneous items that needed repairing. The second smallest was always stuffed with the bright pink packets of the artificial sweetener that my mother dumped into her coffee in pounds, back before saccharine caused cancer. The smallest was perpetually empty.

In the largest, the sugar mushroom, there lived a small bluish-green plastic teacup from the tea set that my mother played with as a small girl. I remember it whole and complete, but when I found the cup recently, now safely ensconced in the large Tupperware canister full of flour in the fridge, it was torn down the side, soft and pliable and irrevocably discolored. I felt myself frown at the state of disrepair in which I discovered this relic of my youth while a thousand fragmented memories tornadoed through my mind with startling clarity as I slid a finger along the tiny broken handle.

When I was a little girl, very few things delighted me more than feeding the colony of ants that lived underneath my grandmother’s flower box on our front porch. I remember doing this well into my teens but my mother says that I began around five or six. As she narrated, an image flooded my mind’s eye: a five year old version of myself, with lighter, platinum hair, the same chunky thighs and endless curiosity. She would have carefully maneuvered a brown steel chair away from the kitchen table and leveraged her entire body weight to shove it over to the counter that remains, to this day, covered with bright orange Formica. She would have awkwardly climbed onto the chair to bring herself to enough height to lean across the counter to reach for the largest mushroom canister and life the lid. Knowing better than to plunge a tiny, germy hand into the whole of the sugar, she would have artfully scooped up a heap of the stuff and poured the entire contents directly into her hand, most of it simply overflowing and landing back in the canister, germs and all. Then, she would drop the blue/green teacup and clench her chubby fingers around her prize as she jumped from the chair with more confidence than she should have and ran, trailing sugar from her eager fist, all the way out the door and to the flower box on the front porch.

From there, I filled in the images with real memories from the later years that I can recall. I would deposit the loot in a small pile near the bottom of the flower box and then lie on my stomach, prop my chin up on my hands, and wait. On the best days, the sun would drizzle down as a warm, buttery glow that would cast a cool shade over me as it set behind the house. The bobwhites would coo and I would think about my grandmother, who simultaneously taught me to braid my hair and imitate the bobwhite in one afternoon. The mild summers were clean and comfortable, leaving the air so weightless that nothing stirred. Soon, the ants would discover the unbidden abundance and the fascinating ritual would soon follow. I would watch them for hours on end, each one carrying one single grain of sugar back to his colony. Often I would fall asleep there on the cool concrete and in the still air and wake up when my mother would call my name at that magical moment just before day becomes darkness. And all the sugar would have gone.

Those were good days.

As a sad smile played on my lips, I scooped and measured two cups of flour for the recipe in progress. Before I put away the canister, I turned the teacup over in my hands a couple of times. I looked at my mother and considered the gray that would fleck her hair if she didn’t fastidiously combat it with color and the lines that grace her face and the resigned mixture of sadness and wisdom in her eyes. I wondered what she remembered when she touched this cup.

Along with the cup, I put away thoughts of woebegone memories and rooted myself back in the present. In this life, a million miles away from the girl whose greatest happiness was feeding the ants, and in this world where people don’t live on curiosity alone. Glancing at my flour-covered hands, I started toward the sink to wash them. Then stopped. And dusted them off on my new jeans instead.

There are still good days to come.

Dreaming Fields

I’m not going through some strange Trisha Yearwood phase, I swear. But I have always loved her music, and our vocal range is about the same so I can usually sing along with her songs pretty well. I stumbled across her new CD in Borders tonight and picked it up. And such I have found the saddest song in the world. It reminds me of my father. I’ll post the lyrics, but you really need to listen to it to understand how haunting and horrible the melody is. There’s a very strong Celtic influence in the melody that just goes straight to the heart. (The rest of the CD is fabulous as well)

Dreaming Fields

Oh, the sun rolls down, big as a miracle
And fades from the Midwest Sky
And the corn and the trees wave in the breeze
As if to say goodbye
Oh, my grandfather stood right here as a younger man
In nineteen and forty three
And with the sweat and his tears, the rain and the years
He grew life from the soil and seed

Oh I’m goin’ down to the dreaming fields
But what will be my harvest now
Where every tear that falls on a memory
Feels like rain on the rusted plow
Rain on the rusted plow

And these fields they dream of wheat in the summertime
Grandchildren running free
And the bales of hay at the end of the day
And the scarecrow that just scared me

Now the houses they grow like weeds in a flower bed
This morning the silo fell
Seems the only way a man can live off the land these days
Is to buy and sell

So I’m goin’ down to the dreaming fields
But what will be my harvest now
Where every tear that falls on a memory
Feels like rain on the rusted plow
Rain on the rusted plow

Like the rain on the roof on the porch by the kitchen
Where as my grandmother sings, I can hear if I listen
Running down, running down to the end of the world I loved
This will be my harvest now

And the sun rolls down, big as a miracle
And fades in the Midwest sky
And the corn and the trees wave in the breeze
As if to say goodbye
As if to say goodbye

Confused

I feel like I’m losing all the people who are closest to me. What am I doing that is so wrong?

Things we never forget

A beautiful September Tuesday. I needn’t mention the day or the year.

 I’m surprised sometimes to re-discover how it affected me. And when I saw “United 93″ on the gallery rack during Free Movie Thursday at the local Movie Gallery, I thought I was ready to watch it. Surely six years of war and embittered distrust of a government that failed to protect its people would have desensitized me enough.

But the truth is, even just last month, I stumbled across a picture online. A tower of smoke, stark against a perfect blue sky. My heart skipped a beat. Time slowed and flashes played in my head. Three thousand people I did not know, whom I had never met, nor loved. Yet I had cried. But that image isn’t the most vivid one burned into my memory from that day.

My mother, in her white robe with pink flowers at the lapel, standing in front of the kitchen sink, staring out the window with a cup of coffee in her hand, her hair disheveled from interrupted sleep. She turns instinctively towards my father as he enters from the living room. He stops at the table. “The tower fell.”

Mom sets her coffe cup on the counter. “But they got everyone out, didn’t they?” she asks with a hint of panic in her voice.

“No, honey, they didn’t.”

And she cries. And he hugs her. And I? I just stand in the living room and stare. At them, at the television. Feeling completely alone. Fifteen minutes ago, life had been one way. Now, it would never be that way again. From that moment on, those images would invoke the same feelings in me that I felt at that moment. I would never see a plane fly over Louisville again without involuntarily considering a possibility that, fifteen minutes ago, did not exist.

But I didn’t think at the time that there would be a night, six years later when I would sob uncontrollably about these events. Nor did I think that, until that time, similar nights would be scattered here and there, after happening upon an anecdote or an image to trigger the replay of that day. I didn’t think that the image of my father holding my mother would, for the rest of my life, make me remember anything except how much they love each other. But now, when he does, I turn away.

How could I have gone about my day? How could I have gone to class, gone to work, when I should have been there with them? How could I have cried for three thousand strangers but not my own mother’s grief? The girl I was then seems so much older than the memories themselves; she has faded while they have not. They’re more real than she is. Why is that? Maybe that’s what ages us; the things we can’t forget.

Last night, my phone rang. My mother.  Nothing new.

 I answered, taking care to keep my eyes on the road and hands on the wheel as much as possible. Her anxiety shone in her voice.

“Jim Jones had a major heart attack. He died a few minutes ago.”

Jim is a family friend; he’s lived just down the road from us for as long as I can remember. Literally. I remember being there when I was little; some of my earliest memories.  Most members of my family have worked in his trophy shop at one time or another in their lives.

The news shocked me, yes. But as it always does when one mentions death, my mind went immediately to one thought and one only and settled there, rendering me silent.

 Someday, my mother will be making this phone call again. Only it won’t be an obscure family friend. It will be my father.

A lump formed in my throat as she described what had happened, who had called her, how she found out. Tears threatened and blurred the road in front of me. Suddenly, nothing seemed more important than to talk to my father. To see him, to hug him, to let him reach out and shake up my hair.

There is more to this, but I am finding it much too difficult to write at the moment. To be continued.

Lessons Learned

I’ve long held fast to the notion that every person we meet comes into our lives for a reason, and we have things to learn from each and every one of them.  For going on six months now, I’ve been trying to figure out what I’m supposed to learn from him.

And I think I may have found it.  An extraordinarily unconventional relationship, it is, but it is a relationship, nonetheless.  We’re companions more than lovers.  And when times are good, they are very, very good.  And when times are bad, they are harsh and brutal.  But in this short, roller coaster relationship, I’ve learned more about myself, what I want, and most importantly, things that I need to change to be a better partner.

I voiced an opinion today about something that had bothered me and sparked a small spat between us. My intent was to be open, honest, and communicative; to make a proactive effort to voice a concern to avoid letting it sit and fester until I eventually exploded, all the while with him not knowing why.  And I don’t think that’s a bad thing to do, but I didn’t do it very well.

So, what I learned was that, when dealing with situations like that, I need to be *much* less accusatory and more investigatory.

I find that I’m also getting much better at letting things go.  For instance, after said misunderstanding was clarified, I didn’t give it another thought.  Until I sat down to write this.  Also as a result of conversations he and I have had, I plan to reach out again to my estranged sister (again).  I’ve made effort after effort to have a relationship with her but it never seems to work due to major incompatibilities on both parts.  So maybe we don’t have to be buddies, but maybe we can get back to being sisters.

His closely-knit relationship with his family is amazing.  I’ve always wanted my family to be closer, and I’m getting closer to them as I get older, especially my brothers.  But I never understood why we were so different from other families that I observed as I was growing up.  I suppose as a way to compensate, I’ve always thought that I would marry into a really close family.  I do so desperately crave those connections; they’re just very hard to cultivate after generations of neglect.

All of this being said, I know that God has reasons for bringing us back together time and again.  Obviously there are still lessons to be learned from one another.  I don’t know what I’m supposed to teach him, but I know what he’s taught me and continues to teach me every day.  I’m grateful for that, more than he’ll ever know.

Sad Story

This story reminds me of my dad.  My father is the kind of guy who would get out of the car in subzero temperatures and try to find help for his family.  He would risk his life so that we could have one smidgen of a chance to live, and he’d do it without thinking twice. 

With so much about war and car bombs and killing and Paris Hilton in the news today, it’s easy to become so desensitized to all this horror that it renders us nearly numb.  I’m guilty of it.  Yet, I cried when I read this story.  Real, honest-to-God tears fell from my eyes when I read that this man died trying to help his family. 

Read the story.  Then pick up the phone and call your father.

Elements of My Life

A conversation I had a few days ago got me thinking about the roles that we play in each other’s lives. I made the allusion to this individual that I need my best friend like I need air. “Who are your land and sea?” he asked. Good question. Let’s take inventory, shall we?

Air – Jennifer, obviously. I can’t breathe without her. I would die without her. And yet I think I take her for granted sometimes.
Earth – Dad. The firm foundation on which I stand. The one who holds me up and keeps me from sinking.
Wind – Mom. She keeps me up and flying, takes me where I need to go, and keeps me floating when I can no longer soar.
Sea – Lori. She keeps me honest and young, keeps me guessing. She reminds me that I’m not invincible, and makes me feel small (in a good, grounding way)
Fire – Linda. I burn for her, and she burns for me (and Jenn). She sparks our imaginations, comforts us, and we shine in her light.
Sunshine – L.E.S. He helps me grow and makes me smile every day. He dries up the rain and warms me.
Rainbow – Alex. He is the greatest joy, the purest beauty, and the greatest promise of all. Looking at him is like looking into the face of an angel. Then he bites your leg.

Trite? Maybe. Corny? Yeah. But this is how I see these people in my life. I need them all to survive. If I lost any of them, I would be an incomplete and inoperable person. I wish that I could find words adequate to express to these people how they have impacted my life and what I would give up for them if I had to. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for any of them, and I’m the luckiest person alive to have them all in my life.

Ahoy

I just had a dream that my father and I had killed someone and hid the body in the attic of this old school building. Analyze that!

Defining Moments in Time

I took an inordinate amount of time today at work to think about and reflect on the significance of this day. I suppose that’s rather cheesy, but why should it be? It burdens me that only five years later, with the devastation still so fresh in our minds, people have regressed to the mirthless cynicism with which we viewed our world, lives, and country before the attacks on the World Trade Center. Yet, true, I have been party to that cynicism myself.

I was a patriot long before September 11, 2001. A very dear friend of mine had taught me the importance of understanding and appreciating our country and how lucky we are to be a part of it. She taught me to love the flag and everything it stood for. She taught me what it meant to be a good citizen. So when I arrived at work on this day five years ago, she and I grieved together.

I thought about her today, though I haven’t spoken to her in several months. I spent some time reading about my company’s response to the attacks, even though I was not an associate at that time. I was impressed by their reaction and compassion, and moved to tears by the stories of members of our executive committee who were in New York that day, only a few blocks from the WTC. I have always had a very strong sense of empathy, and just to imagine what they and others had gone through that day burdened my heart with an immutable heaviness.

How does a country grieve? As a whole, does it engage the same five steps as the individual? Strange it is to think that 9/11 won’t have the same significance to the children of my generation that it does to us. They will experience it as we experienced Pearl Harbor; through textbooks, through interviews on TV and stories from their parents. And over time the stories will fade and become distorted and lost in memory. By the time our children’s children have children, the last survivors will be close to death. And with them will die the magnitude of that day. Legends last only as long as the last person who remembers them.

Having a photographic memory is a double-edged sword. Sometimes I wish I remembered sounds more than pictures. But I remember this:

Standing, toweling off my hair after my shower, in my parent’s living room, eyes fixed on the television. Watching the dual smoke plumes rise and fly away from the scarred, invincible towers. Thinking it was horrible, a tragedy, but seemingly. . . manageable. It would be okay. It always was. Loss of life would be large, but tragic, not statistic. My ears vaguely registered my mother shuffling into the kitchen for coffee, murmuring about how horrible it was. I looked at her, in her pink fleece robe, and smiled. On the inside, not the outside. She and I had no kind of relationship at that time and what we did have was laden with acrimony. Still, I knew she had the same heart I did, and I knew she felt this as I was. I looked back just in time to see the first tower begin to crumble to the ground so far below. My jaw dropped. It was then that I, and I think the country, realized the enormity of the situation. Numbers began to run through my head. How many? Thousands. It had to be. Thousands of people had to be in that tower. I heard my father walking into the kitchen where my mother still stood at the window, unable to watch the tragedy unfold any longer.

“The tower fell,” he said simply, and put his hand on her back.
“What?!” my mother shrieked incredulously. “But everyone got out, right? They all got out!”
“No, honey, they didn’t.”

I stood in the living room and watched my mother burst into tears and my father take her into his arms and rub her back. I stood there wanting to burst into tears, too, to go to them and hold them and be held. I wanted to feel safe, and the only place I’d ever felt that was in my father’s arms. I wanted to. But I didn’t. I set my jaw, squared my shoulders, and finished getting ready for class.

Why did I go to class that day? Why did I go to work? Why didn’t I run to my parents and tell them that I loved them? I was heartless then. I got into my car and drove to school, listening to the news on the radio. Howard Stern had the best coverage that day. As I was passing through Borden, he announced that the second tower fell. Up until then, I had expected that the first was a simple fluke; surely both of them couldn’t fall. My hand flew to my mouth as tears blinded me. I cried. I wailed. I sobbed.

And I felt like I was the only person in the country that day crying alone.

I wish I could say that after 9/11 I softened up, had a better relationship with my parents, took less for granted. But I didn’t. It would be a full four years after that until I had a relationship with them. But I think that day was a turning point. For me and for many thousands others.

I don’t remember what I felt for the rest of that day. A numbness, I suppose. But I remember how nice it was to feel *really* united with the rest of the country. For all our citizens to rally around the flag. To put the United back in United States. I thought that’s what it must have felt like before the signing of the Declaration of Independence and the Revolutionary War. United.

Now five years later, my only wish is to have that back.

This should be a national holiday

I think I’m becoming genetically re-engineered to wake up every morning at 4:30. It has happened for the past week or so now. Sometimes I can get back to sleep. Sometimes I can’t.

I talked to my mother last night for a long time. Every year on my birthday she tells me the story of when I was born, and I never get tired of hearing it. When Mom’s contractions started, I was in a breech position and remained that way right up until it was time to go. Then I did a somersault and dove headfirst for the light. Damn. I was even a genius in the womb.

My parents didn’t know if I was a boy or a girl when Mom went in for delivery. Having three boys already, Mom desperately wanted a girl (I think Dad secretly wanted a boy, but he loves his little blonde girls so much it doesn’t matter). The nurses asked her what she wanted and asserted that it didn’t matter; she’d love it no matter what. Mom said “No. I won’t. I want a girl. Put it back if it’s a boy.” This freaked the doctors out quite a bit. So I was a girl. (I think I was switched.)

That night, Mom woke up late and asked the nurse to bring me to her. Even though she wasn’t supposed to, the nurse went and got me and let Mom hold me for a long while. Mom talked to me and told me all about the stuff we would do and the things I would have and the places we would go. And I didn’t listen. I slept. Not a lot has changed. All those years they spent encouraging me to speak, and all the subsequent years they’ve spent trying to get me to shut up. It’s funny.

They brought me home to the house Dad had built. It wasn’t quite finished when I was born, and they told me I was home. I opened my eyes and looked around with my lip curled up like “THIS is it? I wanna go back.” The boys all gathered around me and ooed and aahed. They wanted a little baby sister so bad they couldn’t see straight. Turns out they wanted one so they could WWF it and it wouldn’t fight back. Tommy loved me though; he was my ally.

I apologized to Mom last night. I told her I knew she wanted a pageant queen, a sweet, demure little girl who would wear ruffles and lace, and instead she got me. I felt like maybe I disappointed her a little. She told me that I was the greatest person she knew, and that what she loves most about me is that I’m everything she’s not – I’m adventurous, independent and brave, and witty and smart, and I have my own mind and my own personality. That she had her fun and put me in ribbons and bows when I was little, and that was enough. That she is proud of who I’ve become. I cried a little. If she only knew.

I had it all, man. I had an opportunity to be a little princess, to have three brothers who would beat up anyone who looked at me wrong. I have a mother who would have given me anything I wanted, and a father who worked his ass off to take care of me. I could have been the most spoiled, privileged little brat you’ve ever known. Who knows. . .maybe I am. But I have busted my ass to get where I am 24 years later. That, if anything, is what I’m proud of.