Note: I'm typing out this post on my phone, rather than a computer, so please forgive any formatting errors.
My mom died 2 years and 3 months ago. More specifically, she ended her life 2 years and 3 months ago. I miss her. I want so much to talk to her, to tell her all about what's happened since she's been gone. Does cyberspace transfer to the afterlife?
I realize, two years later, that something was born in me when my mother died. Not right away; there was a long gestational period. At first, I was in functional shock, both at having lost her and at my new reality. This reality included having money, and quite a bit of it. One less thing to worry about, because I had plenty of other things to occupy my thoughts.
The thing that was born became viable while I sat nearly comatose for about 9 months (oddly enough). It was fed with PTSD, depression and the accompanying hopelessness. It was fed with realizations that I would not do the things I thought I would do if only given chance. It was fed with worry for my daughter and her own series of internal crises. During this time I also had to fight external battles, or rather, one very big external battle. I didn't handle it well.
I spent much of my time trying to evade intrusive, repetitive thoughts and memories from the circumstances surrounding my mother's death. I did this by numbing my brain with literally the dumbest shows one can binge. I did this by decorating virtual houses on an app while my own house became a cluttered mess, echoing my state of mind. I gained about 35 pounds, half of which I've thankfully now lost.
My gestation period was long. It was soul sucking and left me reeling. It took me about a year and a half to pull myself free of the tangled mass that fed me like the roots of a tree. But like a tree, I grew. I grew taller, stronger, finally glimpsing heights I didn't think I'd ever see. I had to shake off the dust and dirt that had settled during my sedentary period.
About the beginning of this year, fresh from 6 months of weekly therapy and having dipped my toes into working again, I was nearly ready to reemerge. But to where? I was terrified to rejoin a life already lived, business as usual.
A longtime, dear friend offered to me a suggestion. He had been attending a series of "self help" seminars and thought it would be transforming for me. Right place, right time, and I was receptive to his suggestion. I signed up. I am not naming the seminar because this isn't a sales pitch. I paid the fee and awaited my March seminar.
I also began looking for a full time job, as my two part time jobs would not be enough to pay the bills once my nest egg dwindled. Synchronicity and serendipity helped out and a new friend recommended me for a position with a company I had wanted to work for, and had previously applied to. She got my foot in the door, and I got myself hired.
Confidence was building in me once more, I realized within my first few weeks that I was not the same person I was when I held a similar position with a different company a few years earlier. This was a good thing. I felt driven. The ensuing seminar built on this and added (and removed) layers, layers I didn't know existed. Birth was happening.
Really, and I'm realizing this now, the me that was born was the me I really was, void of the bullshit and lies I told myself. I had been forced to look honestly at my broken pieces, to shine a light in all my dark places. A terrifying yet necessary thing to do. But once done, it's less scary. It becomes EMPOWERING.
I could no longer rely on the excuses that had carried me thus far. My relationship with my mom was complicated, it was as troubled as it was loving. Those that know me well knew my emotional well being suffered as a frequent and direct result of dealing with my mom, or rather, my mom's mental illness.
Though she was gone, her shadow still lingered. I still yearned for her approval and acceptance. Anything I did, I would run through the filter of her predictable reactions, good or bad.
In the beginning, I heard her lecture me about my foolish financial decisons. Two years on, I visualize her beaming with pride at my accomplishments. Both are actual bullshit. Yet it persists.
I'm still trying to find myself in who I know I am. For years, for 40 years to be exact, I defined myself by how my mom defined me. This was obviously problematic but even more so because of my mother's Borderline Personality Disorder. One of the trademarks of BPD is black and white thinking... either all good or all bad. I was always either the devil or a perfect angel. There was no grey. But I looked to her for that constant and changing definition. I didn't know who I was until she told me. That's a hardwired habit to break.
In many ways I'm still looking for her to define me, hence the automatic mom-app I have going on in my brain to filter all life events through.
It's getting better. Mostly it becomes a daydream of a conversation that would most likely take place, and usually about positive things. I know she would be over the moon with pride to the point of bursting in regards to my relatively new job as a Team Leader. I can hear her excitedly giving me leadership advice (which I would welcome. She was a tremendous leader in her career). I can hear her excited shouts and hand claps as I tell her that (finally) her grandaughter is living with me full time. I can almost feel her jubilation as I inform her that I'm dating a "nice Jewish boy".
I hardly ever hear admonishment anymore. And yes, I've studied enough psychology to know that it's ME, all me, reflecting these judgments back on me.
But since she's been gone, I've learned more about who I am, and who I'm not. Those judgements (good or bad) are with us all. I've been given the opportunity to deeply examine this, but it's available to everyone. I suppose it's a very Zen way of thinking, to strive to be judgement free especially in regards to one's self. The truth, I think, is maybe there is no "good" and there is no "bad". I am not good. I am not bad.
I just am.
I just AM
Saturday, August 11, 2018
Friday, October 28, 2016
Member Berries
The new season of South Park is profoundly spot on and timely. I don't want to go into an entire synopsis of the season, so I'll just tell you to go to Hulu, catch yourself up, and meet me back here. I'll wait.
Ok... see what I mean? I want to talk specifically about the "Member Berries" that are wreaking havoc in South Park's America. These little delicious berries whisper as they are eaten, reminding the consumer about days gone by, and how amazing things used to be. Now, I'm not direct quoting here, but it wouldn't be a stretch to say that they could say things like, "member swing sets?" or "member riding your bike until dusk... that was fun" or "member MTV when it played videos?" And these sweet little berries are ADDICTIVE because yes, we DO remember these things, and they were great. In these uncertain times (I'm talking to YOU, 2016), we are all searching for familiar, safe, warm places. Member berries are all that and more ("member when we said 'all that and a bag of chips?').
In the show, Member Berries are blamed for Donald Trump's successful bid at the nomination, convincing the people that things need to be made "great again". You know what? It makes sense.
Trey Parker and Matt Stone and whoever else thought of this... my hat is off to you. This is the most brilliant analogy I can remember (pun intended), and a glorious view into the human psyche.
For a few months now, I have been fascinated by the reasons why people collect antiques and vintage items. It started when I couldn't get my hands on enough macrame plant hangers, consciously realizing I was trying to find a connection with my mother, who passed on May 20th of this year. Little by little, my home has turned into a time capsule, full of 1970's furniture and decor (you should see my Merry Mushroom kitchen canisters. Member them?). Today, after scoring some vintage houseplant posters at an estate sale, I realized I'm totally recreating the apartment from the show "Three's Company".
I'm trying to make myself safe. My mom took her own life, right after a fight with me. That's probably one of the most unsafe things that can happen to a person. I want things to make sense again, so my Member Berries began telling me all about the 70's, when I was just a little girl, safely tucked into the warmth of being oblivious. The Member Berries reminded me how my mother and grandmothers houses were decorated, what music was playing (gimme some 70's lite rock and disco), even what food tasted like. I have been eating a LOT of Chef Boyardee homemade pizza... which, by the way, I have never in my adult life made until a few month ago. But my mom sure made them ALL THE TIME.
So what does it all mean? We are scared and feeling very, very unsafe. I've taken my love of thrifting and vintage "stuffs" and turned it into a business of sorts, selling some of my finds online. It turns out there are a LOT of people who want to 'member the good old days, to recreate their own safe place. We've progressed (?) as a civilization, our technology and means of communication are mind-blowingly different then they were even 30 years ago. Progress has historically come a lot slower, in regards to such advancements. We have been thrust into this new reality, and it doesn't seem to be slowing down any time soon. We now have 3D printers, virtual reality is becoming disturbingly realistic, it wouldn't be a fantasy to say that we could see AI companions in the next 30 years.
We are seem to be shouting "WAIT! SLOW DOWN! I'M NOT READY", but not out loud. In our heads, while we take a xanax and browse Etsy and eBay for relics of our childhoods. We want things to make sense again. I want things to make sense again.
Ok... see what I mean? I want to talk specifically about the "Member Berries" that are wreaking havoc in South Park's America. These little delicious berries whisper as they are eaten, reminding the consumer about days gone by, and how amazing things used to be. Now, I'm not direct quoting here, but it wouldn't be a stretch to say that they could say things like, "member swing sets?" or "member riding your bike until dusk... that was fun" or "member MTV when it played videos?" And these sweet little berries are ADDICTIVE because yes, we DO remember these things, and they were great. In these uncertain times (I'm talking to YOU, 2016), we are all searching for familiar, safe, warm places. Member berries are all that and more ("member when we said 'all that and a bag of chips?').
In the show, Member Berries are blamed for Donald Trump's successful bid at the nomination, convincing the people that things need to be made "great again". You know what? It makes sense.
Trey Parker and Matt Stone and whoever else thought of this... my hat is off to you. This is the most brilliant analogy I can remember (pun intended), and a glorious view into the human psyche.
For a few months now, I have been fascinated by the reasons why people collect antiques and vintage items. It started when I couldn't get my hands on enough macrame plant hangers, consciously realizing I was trying to find a connection with my mother, who passed on May 20th of this year. Little by little, my home has turned into a time capsule, full of 1970's furniture and decor (you should see my Merry Mushroom kitchen canisters. Member them?). Today, after scoring some vintage houseplant posters at an estate sale, I realized I'm totally recreating the apartment from the show "Three's Company".
I'm trying to make myself safe. My mom took her own life, right after a fight with me. That's probably one of the most unsafe things that can happen to a person. I want things to make sense again, so my Member Berries began telling me all about the 70's, when I was just a little girl, safely tucked into the warmth of being oblivious. The Member Berries reminded me how my mother and grandmothers houses were decorated, what music was playing (gimme some 70's lite rock and disco), even what food tasted like. I have been eating a LOT of Chef Boyardee homemade pizza... which, by the way, I have never in my adult life made until a few month ago. But my mom sure made them ALL THE TIME.
So what does it all mean? We are scared and feeling very, very unsafe. I've taken my love of thrifting and vintage "stuffs" and turned it into a business of sorts, selling some of my finds online. It turns out there are a LOT of people who want to 'member the good old days, to recreate their own safe place. We've progressed (?) as a civilization, our technology and means of communication are mind-blowingly different then they were even 30 years ago. Progress has historically come a lot slower, in regards to such advancements. We have been thrust into this new reality, and it doesn't seem to be slowing down any time soon. We now have 3D printers, virtual reality is becoming disturbingly realistic, it wouldn't be a fantasy to say that we could see AI companions in the next 30 years.
We are seem to be shouting "WAIT! SLOW DOWN! I'M NOT READY", but not out loud. In our heads, while we take a xanax and browse Etsy and eBay for relics of our childhoods. We want things to make sense again. I want things to make sense again.
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Classroom 2016
The year 2016 has been, well, a shit show for a great many people, including myself. There are memes portraying the vice grip 2016 has on our collective, figurative balls... and they are popular because they are so relatable. It's as if there is a cosmic force at work that decided that this year would be the one to REALLY test us, to throw a metaphorical flaming bag of poop at our front door... day after excruciating day. I'm not attempting to figure out what this force is (yet), I'm far too busy processing and alternatively distracting myself from processing. If my own personal drama were not compelling enough, we also have an orange lunatic running for president, clowns terrorizing schools, and that woman with ass implants being bound and gagged while the gang from Ocean's Eleven steals her jewels. Seriously, what the fuck?
However, this year of insanity, death and disbelief also has had moments of pure joy and life changing milestones for many. You see, it's not ALL bad. But it's become more and more difficult to allow our perception to focus on these "good" things while Hollywood's newest disaster movie plays out live before our eyes.
Maybe that's why, despite being given the opportunity to do nothing all day but write (my dream), this is the first bit of writing I've done since May. On the occasions that I am actually able to focus, I focus on the wrong things. I focus on what is wrong. I focus on what is lacking.
Before I truly "dive in", I am breaking the ice with this simple request. Let's all try to remember to focus on what is right and good and happy in our lives. Let's put away our phones, turn off the news, maybe go for a walk outside and enjoy the sweet, crisp autumn air. Do not let what is broken, insane and sensational dictate to you what you should FEEL. You are in charge. You HAVE power. Take it back... set your focus... smile at the flaming bag of poop at your door as you walk on by... just for a while.
Saturday, April 30, 2016
Poetry Transfer (Old Poems from FB Notes)
Poetry and somewhat coherent prose from 2009-2014 in descending order. Watch me revert emotionally and back again.
ramble ramble
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