Whatever it takes, right?

So let's take a minute and make sure I got this right...

You, (mother), said that you would be here Friday so that you could take care of my dogs this summer. Then you called to say it would be Saturday, but you would totally be there, so all I had to do was have them at the house and you would be there by 7PM to let them out and feed them (riiight...)...

Now you want me to drive five hours up and meet you halfway at a hotel and give them to you... Tomorrow...

So I am calling friends to see who can help give mom extra time... She swears she'll be here by Wednesday...

Note me not holding my breath...

Dear Mr. Bird.

It is a strange thing for me to actively dislike someone. It really is. For the most part I try hard to see the good and value in someone. It is my firm belief that everyone has a place and purpose in life. There are students I do not care for, but I still love them and in some ways, like them. They are our future after all and by calling or choice, they are my responsibility. There are some people I enjoy being around more than others, there is no denying that. But it is strange for me to actively dislike.

It is true that I dislike you.

While I do believe you have value as a person, I feel that you are often rude, disrespectful and ignorant of those around you. Often I think you make your own life more difficult by your refusal to really look at a situation before you jump to conclusions or more detrimentally open your mouth. You frequently hurt and offend people. While I do not believe it is your actual intention, I think you mistake being disrespectful for commanding respect. It is funny to me that your counterpart is respected for precisely the opposite reason. He thinks before he speaks and is humble. He fosters true loyalty because of that choice.

The irony in all of this is that I still want to help you. Or more specifically, you ask for my help and I am willing to give it. I wonder if that must bother you. It is frustrating to me to help you, because I don't like you, but i still feel obligated to give it. Probably because I do not think you are beyond help or hope... maybe that is a form of affection?

You said I wouldn't ask someone I liked to ask my permission before entering my room. I only demand that of you because I don't like you. Actually that is true. However, I need to also point out that those I like frequently if not always ask permission anyway... So in some ways it isn't true. You see they show me respect, you only do when you need help.

It is my belief that you value my opinion or at least respect it, or you wouldn't ask it... but you only seem to value or respect me whey you need the help, often when there is no one else who would help you, much less advise you... That in itself is a lack of respect. So on that count, then, we are even and maybe you should keep that in mind too...

It is my sincere hope and nightly prayer (seriously) that you improve on your endeavour to be a better person. Your success or failure is not my responsibility but my help is available. Right now, however, my friendship, is not.

And that's just the way it is.

Why I haven't written

There were so many stories I wanted to tell.

When I looked up from the counter of the hotel and noticed that my van, with Nana in it, was moving. Now I knew the keys were in the car and that it was on, but there was no driver. So I swore at the clerk and went racing out the door, my heart in my throat, to discover that my brother, the big jerk, had snuck up, gotten behind the wheel and driven off expressly to scare me witless. Did I mention he's a big jerk!

That Nana had one of her loopy phases and kept announcing that she needed to get home and putting on her coat when we were at my brother's apartment, so we hid her coat. She simply put on mine.

That the young man who did that horrific thing to me got fired, or he decided to leave, or whatever, but he's gone. Theoretically I never have to see him again. He e-mailed me to tell me this was a big "miscommunication" (he wasn't let go because of me, by the way, there was another issue) and I wrote him a detailed e-mail explaining why that was the dumbest thing I had ever heard and explaining in detail how he hurt me... I stood up for myself and it was a good thing.

That one of my dearest friends is engaged and I am so excited for her.

That once again everyone around me is getting pregnant and I'm afraid I am a fertility goddess... Which just confirms that I better be careful who I choose to be intimate with, I would probably get pregnant the first time, therefore...

Anyway, I wanted to talk about all of those things and more, but I can't.

Because.

Something is wrong. I don't know what, or why, or how to explain it, but there is. Maybe it has nothing to do with me, but something worries me that it does. I have this thing with paranoia, but that doesn't mean someone isn't out to get me... j/k.

What I mean is I think there is something wrong with someone I am friends with. I don't know if I did something wrong, or if they are hurting or if it's something completely unexpected, but I feel that there is something not right. But I can't ask or push. So I have to wait and see. That is really hard. (Update: Turns out I really am just a paranoid freak... Nevermind!)

Further, I fear that I am about to hurt another friend. Something that I thought would work, now seems that it won't, and I have to tell them. I am disapointed, and I think they will be too, but I know it's the right thing. Course, I also am still hoping they will be my friend and even help me out on another, but related cunundrum. How big a jerk does that make me?

Nana will probably go into a retirement home in May and I will be alone, at least till camp, provided I go, which might not work the way I wanted it to either. Being alone terrifies me in ways I can't explain and while I know this is the right step I feel so guilty for not being strong enough to keep Nana longer.

Then of course there is the general camp politics. People never do things the way I want them to, when I want them to. There is this really terrific opportunity in the north for camp, for my assistant for three weeks, and everyone agrees that it is a terrific thing, and they want it too, willing to go the extra mile and all that, but when "they get around to it..." and I want them to take care of it now, so it's settled.

Anyway.

All this, especially the paranoia, is why I haven't written.

So I told her

I called my mother this morning to explain to her that while she was welcome at my house, because of the things she said on Friday I was not comfortable with her being here alone with Nana. The premise of her being here while I am gone is so that I won't worry and now, frankly I will worry more, so...

Mom said she was hurt, and that she was busy anyway so she just wasn't coming at all. I guess that's fine. I really had been looking forward to her visit, with the exception of the vacation issue, so I am disappointed, but I understand. It must have been an awful thing to hear. It is the closest I have come to outright saying I don't trust her. Which, is more true than not.

I suppose I should be proud for standing up on this one.

But I'm not. Not this morning. Maybe not for a long time.

I'm sorry, Mom, but I had to. Forgive me, but I just couldn't handle it, otherwise.

I still love you.

Do you ever wonder...

My mom asked me Friday, on the phone, as we were discussing her plans to come visit and help take care of Nana while I am on vacation,

"Do you ever think about just not giving Nana her medications?"


No, Mom, I don't. I never think about that. Frankly I am disturbed and disgusted that you do. Especially when you add to the discussion your feeling that it is a shame that all of Nana's assets will go to pay for her health care costs over the next ten years and how that isn't fair because her family, aka you, should get it instead.

Today I am ashamed to be your daughter. You are no longer welcome to be alone with my grandmother.

You can visit, but I will be here while you visit.

Just so we are clear.

My grandmother will not go home until God takes her and not a day or minute before and not because of your machinations.

No, Mother, I never wonder.

Hopeless

Today in therapy my therapist was asking me about a situation that occurred some time ago and he asked me if I felt hopeless.

I told him no.

Then I realized that I have never been hopeless.

Never.

I think maybe that is a result of God in my life, not even maybe, but certainly.

This was a line of thought I wanted to pursue for a while. So we did.

The fact that I have felt trapped, cheated, and even alone, but never believed there was no way out, no answer, no possibility was a real surprise as a realization to me.

Not like I was upset about the idea, just surprised.

People often tell me that I am one of the happier people they know, and I find myself very flattered, but thinking they are a little crazy. I was also told by a wonderful friend once that it was because I was bubbly and out going. Another friend once told me that with one exception no matter what happens I bounce back. She said that this quality was one of the things she admired most about me... as I laid on the floor of the church office whining about the one thing it took me a bit longer to get over... anyway!

I was struck by the idea as I sat on the couch that a lack of hopelessness might be what other people see and translate in ways that surprise me...

Today, I think I was happy with myself. This therapy is unlike anything else I have done and I am learning more about myself than I thought I could. I am also looking at a point of completion. It is a ways away, and it is not easy, but it is there. This burden that I have been carrying is something I seem to have simply stood around and held. Sometimes it was added to, and I held it, but I wasn't looking for the place to dump it, so I continued to carry it. Sometimes I was even so distracted to set it down, and rested, but... Now I feel like I am finally walking toward the dump off point and there will be an end to this.

Today I found myself incredibly hopeful!

Welcome to the Real World

Just for the record, today I hurt. I did lunges yesterday and my thighs are on fire! My shoulders are killing me too and I still have to work out again today. Further I have now been on this new diet for two days. The food (delivered every morning to my house) isn’t half bad at all. Overall, I’m pretty impressed. However I am adjusting. The portions are huge and the calories are right and everything, but I am still hungry. I think it will just take a little time…

So now, with the exception of finishing up my writing samples for PhD, I am a free agent. No plays, classes or big dramas going on. It’s kind of strange really. I wonder how long I can manage it. We’ll see.

The play went really well. It was strange to sit in the audience and just watch. I had written it and directed it, and yet I found myself profoundly affected by the story. The whole experience ended up being rather surreal. Almost strange. Most of all I was just so proud of the kids and what they accomplished, the fruit of their hard work. We raised nearly $1500 for youth missions in two showings.

Mostly, I feel kind of disconnected, today. There are some odd things swirling around me and I am mostly just watching. My team teacher has never had the luck I did with our assistant principal and is now rather fighting for her job. On the flip side, my evaluations have never been more glowing. I think the assistant principal is wrong and frankly misguided in her persecution of my good friend, but there is little I can do about it and mostly I feel guilty to be succeeding in comparison.

Then there is therapy. This past week my therapist wanted to talk about a past relationship. That was a long time ago, the way I felt about that, and while people are still a part of my life, that particular facet was put to rest a long time ago. Yet here we were discussing it and there I was crying. I don’t know why I was crying. What I felt back then was very real, very deep and is now very over. I mean, I still have a lot of affection for him, I mean, that is love too, but we aren’t really “friends” and seeing him now I know that it would have been a bad match, if it had ever even been a possibility, which I don’t even really believe it was. The tears on that whole mess were dry long ago such that now it is mostly a somewhat funny chapter… And there I was crying. I don’t think it was about that relationship at all, really. We are getting to the problem now and the infection is big, and sore and swollen and we brushed it and it hurt. I am bracing myself for the extraction because I think we are about to get to the biggest, hardest part soon.

Now for the funny. Nana. Oh my. My poor father. He called Nana to get some information, even though she is not his mother, they are still friendly and she does live with me, his daughter, after all. Anyway, he called and Nana talked his ear off for thirty minutes about Mom’s boyfriend. How much he was just like Dad and clearly Mom is trying to find a replacement. My parents haven’t spoken in over a decade. My father was polite with Nana, but had no idea what to say, so Nana kept talking. Dad and I laughed about it later when he called to tell me about it.

Lastly, camp. Camp is blowing full bore with rumor, espionage, back-stabbing, miscommunication and big surprises everywhere. Several of us are really hoping that the soap opera stops soon and that several of our leaders mature quickly before summer starts. Mostly I guess I just think it is funny now, but I am in the minority on that one. My prayer is that we will find someone suitable to be my assistant. I need help.

Anyway, that’s my post for today; I promise the next one will actually have a connection or theme…

Dilemma

So now I am faced with a Dilemma. It may not seem like much of one, but it’s there for me, none the less.

My therapist and I have pretty much agreed that the way I deal with relationships, specifically romantic entanglements, is pretty much a survival mode kind of thing. For the most part I don’t get involved; I keep myself out of the game and keep myself too busy to notice. Then I go around mothering people. All of this is making me very tired, too tired to miss what I don’t have except on the rare occasion when I sit still too long… But for the most part this system works. Except not exactly right now because I have managed to get myself a little more entangled with several people a little more than I usually do or meant to this time even, and these relationships aren't romantic, exactly, but they are getting rather intimate emotionally and I am a bit confused and overwhelmed sometimes because I don’t exactly know how to deal with it, them, whatever!

If we fix it, which supposedly we are trying to do, I should be able to actually have effective romantic relationships (just one would be fine with me, though). However, being 6’3, large framed, educated, opinionated, not to mention (dare I say it!) a fundamentalist Christian, and that I would rather be alone than with the wrong person, and the odds of me finding someone become slim to none. So I’d be fixed, and capable, but incredible lonely, possibly, because I wouldn’t have my survival techniques anymore.

So while intellectually the thought of healing is one I see a worthwhile and valuable, I find that my heart is rather rebelling against this idea of change.

Change is hard, and scary…

How’s that for psycho-babble!

Commited

Now I have been challenged, as in, three people have complained about my lack of blogging, and I am trying to really open myself up on some issues, so I am recommitting myself to blogging. My goal is to blog three times a week. Not my previously usual five to seven, but I believe that three may be do-able. If we are approaching the end of the week and you have only seen one, you have my permission to send me sarcastic and snotty e-mail messages reminding me of my commitment, or lack there of…

To say that this past month (January, I mean) has been hectic, stressful, wonderful, excruciating, wouldn’t cover all the possibilities, and seeing as I don’t only speak in adjectives you’ll just have to take my word for it.

The first big issue/leap is that I have begun therapy. No, this does not mean that the men in white coats finally caught me with their great big butterfly net, I decided to do this on my own, for me, because I am worth it. Of course I figured I could just go in for a couple months get a quick “mind tune-up” on be back on my merry way by Easter. Yeah, OK, any more bright ideas, Sandy?

The therapist was very nice, very polite and very to the point. It doesn’t work that way. Several metaphors come to mind, and were used, but my favorite it the splinter. If you have a particularly big, nasty, painful splinter there comes a point of decision. Pulling it out will be excruciating, the most painful thing to do, more painful than just leaving it there, where it may only hurt if you bother it and occasionally when it becomes infected. However, if you pull it out, once allowed to heal, it will never hurt again. So, being a medic, I have opted to go for the pulling route. This is the point when the therapist then warns me, “You need to know, if we dig all this stuff up, it may get worse before it gets better.” OK. Let the pain begin!

Then there is my love life. Oh wait, that’s all in my head. Or more correctly, I was worried someone who I couldn’t date had feelings for me, but he doesn’t, which is good, because I can’t date him, for lots of good reasons, only now I feel a little let down to find out that he was never really interested to begin with… Good thing I am already in therapy.

Meanwhile I have officially submitted my online application for my PhD, meaning I am now officially in the process of seeking those three stupid letters which also means I have to get off my butt and correct, type and format three writing samples highlighting my academic writing ability. This is my least favorite kind of writing and now I really have to do it.

Not to mention they took away my team teacher… who, by the way, is now pregnant with her fourth child (and she is two years younger than I am!) while her youngest is only five months, making her pregnant twice in the same school year(!)… and so I feel like my right arm has been cut off and I’ve been cut off from my best friend. Oh, wait, that’s right, there are always my boys to talk too… Yeah, the drama of camp is in full gear with intrigue, espionage, betrayal and general macho stupidity all running amok over my phone and internet!

So, as you can see, we really are all full up of crazy here. Even Nana.

Oh, Nana! Poor Nana! We have had to label every cabinet in the house. Every appliance has a set of typed directions taped to it. Honestly I think her visit with my mom seriously undermined her confidence in herself. It’s getting better, but she still does odd things and then gets frustrated. Putting her bra on backwards was one of the funniest moments I’ve had in weeks, but she was understandably upset. Also, Lindsey lets her go to the Young Professionals Sunday School Class (My class) when I am not there and Lindsey takes Nana to church, but if I am in church I want Nana to go to her own class. So then she whines about the old fuddy duddies and how all they talk about is their painful hips! Also, she keeps insisting on wrapping the dogs in blankets to keep them warm. They are shelties! With huge thick fur coats! Piper puts up with it, but Roo is really not interested in being covered and keeps hiding from Nana… It’s kind of cute, but it frustrates Nana.

Lastly the workouts are going well. I work with my trainer four days a week now and we have even added running to the whole process. My waist is changing, but not very fast and not like I’d like, though everything else is going great. It’s hard not to consider some chemical options and I haven’t decided what I’m going to do about that yet… But either way, I am making progress for all that I am tired all the time and ache perpetually.

So, that’s all for this week, but next week, three blogs by Friday at 5:00PM.

I promise!

Painfully Honest

Why does honest have to be painful? The other day I read a blog post about someone feeling they needed to say something "in love" to a friend of theirs who was over-weight. They were shocked and outraged that the friend got angry at them. They considered themselves righteous for being brave enough to step up on the issue. I'm not so sure I agree with that one. Frankly that part of this discussion is a bit of a quagmire so I am going to avoid it at all costs.

The question in my mind though, is why, if the truth will set you free, is the truth so painful? Hang on, I know that is actually a stupid question, but let me explain.

On my GRE one of the things I had to do was write an essay on my opinion of the idea that all political leaders had to lie in order to be effective. I wanted to say that wasn't true. By the end of the paper I still thought it didn't need to be true, but that in today's world it had become true. Why does the truth have to be painful?

Then there is this other issue of why does the fact that I disagree with someone have to mean that I am not seeing the truth? My Dad and I had a conversation on Friday (yes, the wonderful Dad I usually write so glowingly about, none of that has changed, this was just a conversation.) He thinks I am not dealing with something correctly, that I can't see the truth. Personally I just think he doesn't understand what I am expressing as everything he said makes sense to me, but is not exactly the issue... So who is not "seeing the truth" here? And why does that truth have to be painful.

No, I'm not telling you what the argument was about because it wasn't an argument and there is a good chance I am PMSing which nullifies everything said anyway...

Mom gets here Monday. We leave for Nashville and the NCTE conference Thursday. Pray for me and pray that my mother lives... Talk about Painful! (Yes, posting will continue to be erratic for a while...)

Petty for the sake of Petty

I picked a fight with my brother on Saturday. There was really no reason to, I had just gotten fed up with a quirk of his personality and I decided to have it out with him. I'm sure he appreciates the gesture. I have an overwhelming urge to call everyone I have ever known and justify myself, but I know that in and of itself this issue is petty. It's the larger issue behind it that is not. My father thinks my brother is upset by the argument as much as I am. I doubt it. Overall I doubt he cares about it one way or the other, which is why I picked the fight. Now, I am going to explain. You have been warned...

My brother is three years younger than I am. He likes people to think he is three years older, so when people ask who is older he always says, "there are three years between us." and people assume he's older, he's the boy after all. My brother, let's call him G, is also the over-achiever, the good student and the one everyone in the family always thinks is wonderful. Well everyone except those of us who have ever lived with him. We think he is a good guy too, I could tell some amazing stories, in fact I probably will for the sake of balance, but, he is just as flawed as the rest of us, just as arrogant (as Dad says G and I come by that honestly...) and just as stubborn as my father, my mother, for the most part my step-mother and I. We all also have self esteem issues, abandonment issues and can get pretty hot tempered (though we all have different kinds of tempers, really... that's another post.)

To start out, let me tell you the good story, for the sake of perspective and balance. When G was 12 and mom was leaving us, mom insisted on taking my comforter because it matched her sheets. At 15, oddly enough I was distraught by the whole idea. My brother, the very miserly of the two of us, went to my father and announced, "I will give mom everything in my bank account if Sandy can have her blanket back..." Sweet, isn't he? When I had to move he came down from college and helped me apartment hunt in my new town, though I had to get him his own hotel room... We couldn't share well even then... He has said some of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me, though he has also said the meanest.

Now he is a minister, in Vermont. He is the head pastor of a church plant, formerly a mission. He has a congregation and lives in a pastorum. Personally, while we have some differences of opinion on peripheral theology (women's role in the church being the most significant) I consider him of great faith and wisdom.

But, there is a massive problem... (obviously, or why would I be writing?)

He is rude to family. He is self important, rude and condescending and I don't think it's OK for him to treat family that way and then turn around and preach about love, honor and family. We come to visit and he parades us around like proof of his superiority... See, he loves his family... yet he treats us like second class citizens.

The argument is about one way he expresses that rudeness. His phone.

Saturday I called him to ask a quick question.

G: Hello? (actually he said his full name, but I won't print that... But I want to be truthful so...)
Me: Hey, G.
G: This is not a good time, I'll call you later.
Me: Well, I've just got a quick question.
G: That's not appropriate. I call you later.
Me: Don't bother.

35 minutes later, he leaves a message. I didn't answer it so I could cool off.

In the message he detailed how he was in the room of a dying woman, and he listed her symptoms, condition and vitals, and that he was praying with the family. He answered the phone because he didn't recognize my number and had to be sure it wasn't an emergency.

I got a grip and called him back.

Me: I listened to your entire message, now I need you to listen to me, please.
G: OK
Me: Obviously that was a very good reason to not talk to me. Though I would say that it's odd that you don't have my number in your phone so that know it's me and just didn't answer. Which brings me to the point. Out of the past twelve times that I have called you, ten of them you said you can't talk, you'd call me back. (This is over the past several months by the way...) You make me feel like a second class citizen and I'm tired of it.
G: Ask Dad, I do it to him too.
Me: I've talked to Dad and am already aware of his opinion on the issue.
(Dad thinks it's as rude as I do by the way... but that's Dad's argument with G, not mine...)
G: Well, I'm sorry.
Me: While I appreciate the fact that you just said that, you are not sorry. You are sorry I'm upset, but you are not sorry about the behavior or you would change it.
G: I am not going to continue a conversation with someone who called me a liar. I'll talk to you another time. ~Click.

See. Petty. The thing is, he does always get off the phone when I call, he only calls me when he intends to "Pastor" me, like I'm younger, dumber and need his guidance. He doesn't return messages, sometimes for as much as a month and I'm tired of what that implies about his family.

So, my brother and I are arguing. Have no idea how long it will last. Dad essentially offered to mediate and I told him to let G and I have it out. It needs to happen.

Dad agreed.

Matricide

I'm going to admit something pretty horrible here. Sometimes I'd really love to just, at least, pop my mom one. You know?

Every time I think I've reached her. Every time I think maybe I get her, she turns around and makes me wrong. It hurts in ways I can't begin to describe. I wrote to a friend today:

Oh, the overwhelming desire to have the mom we dreamed of. The supportive, honest, wholesome mom who makes us feel good about ourselves and lifts us up before God. The Mom who other girls want for their mom's, but who is both a mom and a friend. The mom with morals and a sense of humor and perspective. It's hard, because she does exist. They are out there, right? I've met them. Only when I talk to their real daughters it's never that simple... but their moms are still better than mine... I think. Why can't my mom be like my Dad? He's so perfect at this... Now. But then that's good because for all my mom's faults and problems, when I sit down and "chronicle" the destruction of my self esteem as a child, Dad is just as big a factor as mom, sometimes bigger... So even his current "perfection" came at a terrible price.

So maybe all moms are awful. No, they can't be, because as I said, I've met the good ones. They are still human, still flawed, but they are good. They are a blessing to watch. I'd like to believe that my Nana was too. A good mom. Can't tell by her children though. How is that fair?

It really is a toss-up between being angry at her for making me feel like this and angry at myself for letting her make me feel this way. Every time I think I've got this nonsense licked... Here we go again.

This is why I am not married. This is why I won't have children. What if I'm just like her. Even if I'm not, why would I bring some one else (And then children) into this mess! Mental illness is really and truly the gift that keeps on giving...

Obviously I would be sad, hurt, devastated if my mom was gone and yet I've started dreaming about what my life would be like without her. Then I feel awful for the thought. I actually dared her to go ahead and kill herself once. I was so tired of the threats and the manipulation. Her therapist called me and asked that I not help like that in the future. I was 24 at the time. It was my first year teaching. I was wearing a heart monitor because we were trying to figure out if I had MVP and mom was more interested in having the world focused on her... I guess I lost my temper.

When I was in high school I wrote a poem about mom. When I read it you could have heard a pin drop. There were jaws open all over the room.

But the word truth has no meaning.
Past her lips the promise dies,
leaving me alone in heartache
because I believed her lies.

It's the most depressing and dark poetry I've ever written.

The worst part about this is that I love my mom so much. More than anything I wanted us to be close. When I was little, my Dad was my hero, but my mom was my example, my template and my best friend. She could build, fix or make anything. She tiled floors, painted the house, made crepes and home made pasta, created paper mache' works of art, knew where the best flowers were, could make dresses and dolls, she went to nursing school, grade school, nurse practitioner at one of the best medical schools in the nation. Who wouldn't want to be like her?

So tonight, I'm just angry and hurting and maybe even a bit broken.

I'll be fine tomorrow. I always am. I am my mother's daughter and I'll live. I just wish I could be more my father's daughter and learn to quit this.