When I found out she was going to exist, I wasn't expecting it and I cried. It was beautiful, it was scary, it was unfair, it was poetic. It was a lot of things I didn't understand. I knew it would all fall together in a very simple joy the moment she was born.
It wasn't like that at all.
I still don't understand a lot of things about her. She turned my sister into a different person--someone a little less selfish and a lot more grown-up. She turned my mother into someone who was actually happy. The strangest thing is what she did to me.
I expected, after holding this tiny perfect little thing with *my* nose, the baby cravings would hit with the weight of a neutron star. I would be smitten with her cuteness and want to play with one of my own. Instead, she terrifies me. I'm not a person who loves easily and the intensity of my feelings for this little lump of Clay I met, literally, yesterday, fills me with an ominous dread. If this is how I feel with someone who is, by all definitions, extended family, how could I be expected to function with one of my own?
I've known this feeling before. The thought of loving someone more than I love my husband has always scared me, although that is beginning to wane a bit (not because I love him less, but because I trust us more). This just reopens that fear. I mean, I met her just over 24 hours ago, and I would not only throw myself under a bus for her, but relish the fact that *I* was the one who got to do it! I cried today because I miss her. For some stupid reason, I miss her. How would I let one of my own go to that first day of kindergarten, or, god help us all, college? Clearly, it takes someone made of tougher stuff than I to be a parent.
So maybe J. had it better by it being a (fortuitous) accident. Because who in their right mind could intentionally walk into the kind of evisceration that motherhood literally is? So welcome to the world, Baby Girl. I've already given you your first skinned knee, and you've already given me an oddly broken heart.
14 March 2009
12 February 2009
The Complexities of Forgiveness
*I actually started this post months ago and never finished, but a conversation last night about being "Friend Dumped" made me want to get it out there.
Seven years ago, I had my heart broken so badly it still hurts to think about it today. I've thrown away all old photographs and trinkets and can't even think about the good times without having them tinged with an anxious pain. I can't even be angry, just terribly, terribly sad. Nothing hurts worse than breaking up with a friend, and this was a particularly ugly breakup.
We were joined at the hip my last two years of college. We felt sorry for each other, which, retrospectively, is a recipe for disaster. I should have known what would happen. In fact, if my college experience can be described as anything, it's a toxic waste dump of spectacularly bad relationship choices and a deep underestimation of myself. She carried with her a string of "betrayals" by best friends that she viciously hacked from her life--and I really, truly believed she'd been wronged for being too kind. I knew she had been heavily medicated in the past for emotional problems, but really, truly believed that she'd "prayed herself better." I was 21. I was sad. I was dumb. It happens.
I feel even sorrier for her now. She was unable to blame men for anything, especially the horrible things they'd done to her. So she rained her fallout down on those who tried to help her and braved the explosions of her rage and insanity. And she always managed to find someone who would. It's like she sought out the caring-but-hesistant, a little naive, deeply devoted girl she used to be, then destroyed her over and over just like she was destroyed.
When I got her horrible, brutal email outlining all my sins and faults (many of which were blatantly untrue or intentionally misunderstood, leading me to question her rather tenuous hold on reality), I felt ripped open, exposed, vulnerable, humiliated...and utterly at fault for it. While not comparable in horror, the emotions afterward were unsettlingly rape-like. I wanted to tell everyone so they could tell me I was still good, but I was also so very ashamed and guilty that I wanted to hide it away forever and maybe just forget it ever happened. But mostly what I wanted was for her to like me. I begged forgiveness to no avail. I read back to her the script she'd written with those awful, unforgivable men who'd hurt her.
I'm not saying I was blameless. I'm sure I'd said stupid things or was a bit of a pain from time to time. What I didn't get at the time was that friendship is not reliant on perfection and nobody has the right to brutalize you if you never meant to hurt anyone. This was like beating a child with a belt for knocking over her milk. She contacted everyone we both knew and threatened them if they spoke to me. She had a friend of hers call and terrorize me in the middle of the night months later. And all this time, she herself hid behind an impenetrable wall of silence. I can just now say to myself that even if I did something wrong, I didn't deserve that.
It's taken every second of the time since then to move past those feelings. Before, my friends had been the cornerstone of my life--my one and only constant. Suddenly, I felt like I had nothing, when someone you love so very, very much could just disappear in a flash of anger one night, completely out of the blue--and so soon after the friend I'd had the longest disappeared herself in a flash of headlights plowing into her one night, completely out of the blue. But the people I'd know all along, my true best friends kept me grounded. And then I made some new friends, who patiently ignored my paranoia until I could slowly trust them. And then someone decided to legally obligate himself to being with me. I'm better now and I can make friends like a normal person, for the most part. It comes back, now and then, but fainter and fainter every time. Soon, maybe, I will be able to tell stories about the fun we had with an eye roll and a quick wish for her healing.
I've forgiven her, that much is true. But what startled me is that I'm no longer afraid of her. She showed up on Facebook not long ago as a suggested "Someone You Might Know." I looked at her picture, one'd she'd taken when we were still in college. The same bright black eyes, the same mischevious smile. I felt an instant of panic, and then an intense rush of pity. I stared at her for a moment, then clicked X. No, I don't know her. I never really did. At least now I know me.
Seven years ago, I had my heart broken so badly it still hurts to think about it today. I've thrown away all old photographs and trinkets and can't even think about the good times without having them tinged with an anxious pain. I can't even be angry, just terribly, terribly sad. Nothing hurts worse than breaking up with a friend, and this was a particularly ugly breakup.
We were joined at the hip my last two years of college. We felt sorry for each other, which, retrospectively, is a recipe for disaster. I should have known what would happen. In fact, if my college experience can be described as anything, it's a toxic waste dump of spectacularly bad relationship choices and a deep underestimation of myself. She carried with her a string of "betrayals" by best friends that she viciously hacked from her life--and I really, truly believed she'd been wronged for being too kind. I knew she had been heavily medicated in the past for emotional problems, but really, truly believed that she'd "prayed herself better." I was 21. I was sad. I was dumb. It happens.
I feel even sorrier for her now. She was unable to blame men for anything, especially the horrible things they'd done to her. So she rained her fallout down on those who tried to help her and braved the explosions of her rage and insanity. And she always managed to find someone who would. It's like she sought out the caring-but-hesistant, a little naive, deeply devoted girl she used to be, then destroyed her over and over just like she was destroyed.
When I got her horrible, brutal email outlining all my sins and faults (many of which were blatantly untrue or intentionally misunderstood, leading me to question her rather tenuous hold on reality), I felt ripped open, exposed, vulnerable, humiliated...and utterly at fault for it. While not comparable in horror, the emotions afterward were unsettlingly rape-like. I wanted to tell everyone so they could tell me I was still good, but I was also so very ashamed and guilty that I wanted to hide it away forever and maybe just forget it ever happened. But mostly what I wanted was for her to like me. I begged forgiveness to no avail. I read back to her the script she'd written with those awful, unforgivable men who'd hurt her.
I'm not saying I was blameless. I'm sure I'd said stupid things or was a bit of a pain from time to time. What I didn't get at the time was that friendship is not reliant on perfection and nobody has the right to brutalize you if you never meant to hurt anyone. This was like beating a child with a belt for knocking over her milk. She contacted everyone we both knew and threatened them if they spoke to me. She had a friend of hers call and terrorize me in the middle of the night months later. And all this time, she herself hid behind an impenetrable wall of silence. I can just now say to myself that even if I did something wrong, I didn't deserve that.
It's taken every second of the time since then to move past those feelings. Before, my friends had been the cornerstone of my life--my one and only constant. Suddenly, I felt like I had nothing, when someone you love so very, very much could just disappear in a flash of anger one night, completely out of the blue--and so soon after the friend I'd had the longest disappeared herself in a flash of headlights plowing into her one night, completely out of the blue. But the people I'd know all along, my true best friends kept me grounded. And then I made some new friends, who patiently ignored my paranoia until I could slowly trust them. And then someone decided to legally obligate himself to being with me. I'm better now and I can make friends like a normal person, for the most part. It comes back, now and then, but fainter and fainter every time. Soon, maybe, I will be able to tell stories about the fun we had with an eye roll and a quick wish for her healing.
I've forgiven her, that much is true. But what startled me is that I'm no longer afraid of her. She showed up on Facebook not long ago as a suggested "Someone You Might Know." I looked at her picture, one'd she'd taken when we were still in college. The same bright black eyes, the same mischevious smile. I felt an instant of panic, and then an intense rush of pity. I stared at her for a moment, then clicked X. No, I don't know her. I never really did. At least now I know me.
06 February 2009
I Need a Buddy
Would someone pretty please become a fan of The Pierces so I can talk about them? I <3 them and have no one to squee with :( I'll even make you a CD if you think you might be able to love them a little. They sing about revenge, murder, and S&M in sweet little voices. They make me be happy.
20 January 2009
When We Find Ourselves in the Place Just Right
The inaugural ceremonies were running a bit behind today. What was so carefully orchestrated to have president Barack Obama take the oath exactly at noon, when he officially became president, instead had him become our first black president as a quartet of the most talented musicians in the world played an air based on this Shaker hymn:
-
- 'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free,
- 'Tis the gift to come down where you ought to be,
- And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
- 'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.
- When true simplicity is gain'd,
- To bow and to bend we shan't be asham'd,
- To turn, turn will be our delight,
- Till by turning, turning we come round right.
- 'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free,
One day after we celebrate Dr. King's achievements, less than 50 years after we received his call to join his dream, just over a hundred since Lincoln freed the slaves, we've come 'round right.
16 January 2009
How CAN'T You Be a Hero With a Name Like "Sully"?
Everybody lives, Rose! Just this once, everybody lives!"
The Doctor, Doctor Who "The Doctor Dances".
I grinned like an idiot the whole time I watched this on the news.
I grinned like an idiot the whole time I watched this on the news.
09 January 2009
Rites of Passage
In Promiscuities, Naomi Wolf talks about the lack of rites of passage in Western culture between childhood and womanhood. I think she has a valid point about the place they fill. It also made me realize that, as atheists, MS will raise our children with even fewer mile markers than the already depleted stock of options we have in America: no baptism, no confirmation, no bat mitzvah, nada.
In my head, I've devised all manner of interesting things that could be placeholders, but I'm curious about others' perspectives. I know there's a part of infant baptism that I love that comes from its basis in pagan naming rituals: right before the baby's name is announced, the preacher asks "Who will stand up with this child?" Then, people chosen by the parents OR (and I like this one) anyone willing to take a stake in it, stands up with the family and vows to help teach the child to be a good person and to be there for them and to be a positive role model. Then, you drop some water on the kids and tell everyone their name.
Similarly, some tribal cultures re-name a child with a name they choose themselves at some coming of age point. I like that, too, and I see a variation of that a lot--not a full scale name change, but at a certain age, many kids with diminutives ask to be know by their full names or a more adult nickname (Pams become Pamelas, Jackies become Jaclyns, Wills become Williams, Dannys become Daniels; even I lobbied at about age 13 to change my diminutive name to the original name it was supposed to be but that was vetoed by my dad for being to masculine. I was supposed to be a Holland). I think it would be cool to have some kind of announcement in a rite of passage ceremony. But that's just me.
So tell me--what rites of passage have you seen that touched you in some way? How does one who bases life on logic navigate the spirit world of growing up? What was your moment?
In my head, I've devised all manner of interesting things that could be placeholders, but I'm curious about others' perspectives. I know there's a part of infant baptism that I love that comes from its basis in pagan naming rituals: right before the baby's name is announced, the preacher asks "Who will stand up with this child?" Then, people chosen by the parents OR (and I like this one) anyone willing to take a stake in it, stands up with the family and vows to help teach the child to be a good person and to be there for them and to be a positive role model. Then, you drop some water on the kids and tell everyone their name.
Similarly, some tribal cultures re-name a child with a name they choose themselves at some coming of age point. I like that, too, and I see a variation of that a lot--not a full scale name change, but at a certain age, many kids with diminutives ask to be know by their full names or a more adult nickname (Pams become Pamelas, Jackies become Jaclyns, Wills become Williams, Dannys become Daniels; even I lobbied at about age 13 to change my diminutive name to the original name it was supposed to be but that was vetoed by my dad for being to masculine. I was supposed to be a Holland). I think it would be cool to have some kind of announcement in a rite of passage ceremony. But that's just me.
So tell me--what rites of passage have you seen that touched you in some way? How does one who bases life on logic navigate the spirit world of growing up? What was your moment?
06 January 2009
Shut Up, Oprah
Dear Oprah,
You have spent the last of my good will. When you were howling and gnashing your teeth because you'd gained weight, I felt sorry for you for being so sad about yourself. Then it started to get old. Then, today, you kept saying you "fell off the wagon" and accused others of "falling off the wagon" and you used that phrase over and over and over.
A little riddle for you--
Q: How is being kind of fat like relapsing into drug and alcohol addiction?
A: IT'S NOT!
I've learned an awful lot about addiction and what it does to people over the last few months. Let me tell you something. It takes some real gall to compare your inability starve yourself into some ridiculous cultural beauty ideal to the hell that is addiction. Last time I checked, you getting fat effected, uh, let's see...there's you. Then there's you. Oh! And of course, you. I think that about covers it. Meanwhile, alcoholics and drug addicts can cause their families to become homeless, force their children into foster care, commit crimes to feed the addiction and even mutate or kill their fetuses! When you relapse, you have to go to Macy's and buy some new pants. You do not have to get lost and abused by the justice system, beg for the right to even visit your family, or lose everything you have.
It really sucks that society has the kind of pressure on you that you must discount all your myriad accomplishments based solely on a number on a scale. I mean, it really sucks. But trust me, it doesn't crystal-meth-habit suck, ok?
So please, before you start really hurting people, shut up, Oprah.
-
You have spent the last of my good will. When you were howling and gnashing your teeth because you'd gained weight, I felt sorry for you for being so sad about yourself. Then it started to get old. Then, today, you kept saying you "fell off the wagon" and accused others of "falling off the wagon" and you used that phrase over and over and over.
A little riddle for you--
Q: How is being kind of fat like relapsing into drug and alcohol addiction?
A: IT'S NOT!
I've learned an awful lot about addiction and what it does to people over the last few months. Let me tell you something. It takes some real gall to compare your inability starve yourself into some ridiculous cultural beauty ideal to the hell that is addiction. Last time I checked, you getting fat effected, uh, let's see...there's you. Then there's you. Oh! And of course, you. I think that about covers it. Meanwhile, alcoholics and drug addicts can cause their families to become homeless, force their children into foster care, commit crimes to feed the addiction and even mutate or kill their fetuses! When you relapse, you have to go to Macy's and buy some new pants. You do not have to get lost and abused by the justice system, beg for the right to even visit your family, or lose everything you have.
It really sucks that society has the kind of pressure on you that you must discount all your myriad accomplishments based solely on a number on a scale. I mean, it really sucks. But trust me, it doesn't crystal-meth-habit suck, ok?
So please, before you start really hurting people, shut up, Oprah.
-
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)