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Archive for the ‘Musings and Epiphanies’ Category

Gentle reader, if you are more consistent at reading this than I am at writing it you may recall that October is Poe month in our house. While we read at least one new story each year, we always read “The Raven”. It is one of my most beloved pieces of literature ever.

 

John Cusack as Edgar Allan Poe in The Raven

 

You may also know that I am a firm believer in Rosenblatt’s concept about the reader and text. Each time a reader engages in the dance of reading with a text the two create a unique poem. When you read first read a book you make one poem. When you read it again, later in life, with new experiences, you make a new poem.

Tonight’s reading of “The Raven” proved that true again for me. The loss I have experienced since last October brought out new, dark, deeper layers in the poem than I have ever experienced. Since last October the relationships with my mother and sister have become estranged (to put it politely). Then I lost my brother to suicide. He and I had just reconnected a little under two years prior. I wasn’t done getting to know him again. My sons weren’t done getting to know their uncle. My husband wasn’t done getting to know the brother-in-law he had always wanted to meet. With the death of my beloved Bear two years prior, the entire family of my childhood living experience, the household, was gone. Both Bear and Bro were taken in such sudden ways that the shock has yet to wear off. I am still looking for readings or such that talk about grieving a suicide in a way that is helpful for me. I know I am not the only one who lost Bro, and that I wasn’t the closest, but I do grieve what could have been and what I stupidly missed out on for so many years.

And so while I continue my quest for the suicide grief handbook, I found that “The Raven” gave me an outlet for my grief that I would never have expected. I could barely read it. I cried throughout. I fooled myself for years that I understood the poem. That I grasped the grief and sadness.

Tonight I finally began to understand the poem. Particularly the last stanza.

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted–nevermore!

Oh, I do hope my soul is lifted out of the shadow that lingers over it. I hope the grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore leaves me, alas I know it will not be forevermore. But at least for a while.

We’ll have to read a different Poe story tomorrow night.

 

 

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opens today. I do hope to see It in the theater. It should be exciting, although I am a die-hard Tim Curry/Pennywise devotee. Still, with the release of the new It, I have been thinking about the long dance I have had with this book. 

I think of my childhood, the good and bad parts. I’m seeing it through new eyes as I’ve been discovering truths and alternate versions of history. It’s been changing so much for me. I don’t like it, truthfully, but it is also refreshing. I should embrace the lightness it can offer me.

1986 was a difficult year for me, an awkward teenager. I didn’t feel comfortable at my high school, didn’t feel that I fit in or was liked that much. Reading It when it came out in the fall of that year helped me understand that so many people feel that way. And when like finds like, you form a group of friends, even the Losers.

And the adults, in the book and in my life at that point, couldn’t see what was happening. They couldn’t see my pain, my sadness, my illness. As I’ve been thinking on that concept, I’ve started to ask myself what do I not see in my sons’ worlds? What am I turning a blind eye to? I’m attempting to open my eyes to their perspectives, the very real struggles and challenges and rewards and fun of being a teenager.

I’ve thought a lot about Stan and what happens to him. How childhood events haunted him so much even in adulthood that he just couldn’t bear it.

I think of the power of a promise when you are younger. 

I think of balloons, floating, and how I still think that’s a waste of a noble gas. My sons’ quote Pennywise all the time, about floating, yet they’re not allowed to have helium balloons. Now there’s a mean childhood memory they’ll have to deal with.

I think of simplicity, brothers, birds, spiders, and lost innocence. I think of lost opportunities. I work through regrets of my childhood. 

Some books stay with you for a lifetime. You dance with them, you create a new poem together each time you revisit each other. I haven’t read It for over a decade. I couldn’t, not once I was the mother of two sons. But they’re teenagers now. I think it’s time I revisit It. And let It see where I am today.

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Since my brother’s death I haven’t really wanted to know anyone better. It’s not the right choice, but it’s the right choice right now. A lot has changed in my life since Bear died. So much good stuff has happened, and I do celebrate all of that. But there is sadness, there is grief.

So when my brother died too, again unexpectedly, it was just such a hard blow. Grief books talk about all kinds of grief, but not grief from a suicide. I suppose when I am ready I’ll remember that there’s a world wide web out there and find materials about that. But I’m back to denial and am content to sit there for a bit. It’s better than playing the “what if” game, which nobody wins.

My cousin gave me a lamp that belonged to our grandmother. A friend just finished repairing it. I am excited to hang it in my room and have a visual reminder of so much good in my life. 

I thought again the other day that I wish I didn’t think about stuff as much as I do. But clearly that isn’t changing. I need to carve out time each day to process it. Perhaps letting myself think about the “stuff” a little each day will help alleviate the days when it becomes all encompassing. I’d rather be living, doing things, than sitting and thinking. 

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When folks ask me what political party I align with my response is that I am an American. So, dear sporadic reader, I hope you will read this from that perspective.

Ms. Griffin, the first amendment does protect you and allow you to make an ass out of yourself. It does not protect you from the consequences of choosing to make an ass out of yourself. I don’t want to hear you boohoo because the First Family isn’t keeping quiet about your disgusting choice, no matter which party is in that position.

Your apology video didn’t impress me at all. Didn’t seem sincere, seemed like a perfunctory social media game you were playing.

You didn’t think. Once the idea went through your mind, “hey, you know what would be funny? Holding a bloody mask of a sitting US president?…No wait, that’s not a good idea.” And move on. That’s what you should have done.

But since you were trying to catch a little press, you did a disgusting parody. Isn’t that what you called it? A parody?

And now lots of companies, theaters, clubs are cancelling the contracts they had with you.

You want to know why? It’s not because you’re a formerly edgy comedienne who crossed a line with the President and then posted a standard social media apology.

It’s because you didn’t apologize to the families of James Foley, Steven Sotloff, David Haines, Abbas Medlej, Herve Gourdel, Alan Henning, and so many other innocent people doing way more to protect rights like the first amendment. You didn’t apologize to those families who are trying desperately to not watch the television lest the story about the stupid comedienne is on the news again. And now you’re whining that someone is “picking on me”. Stop your whining. Ask yourself how you could have ever thought parodying that was funny in any way, shape, or form.

And you can get a famous lawyer, but sweetie, you did this to yourself. No one else is responsible, so suck it up and deal with it. Do not waste my tax dollars on bullshit trials against anyone who now chooses not to book you for shows. That’s your own doing. No one else.

Go sit and think. You’ll figure out why you’ve lost so many contracts. Trump didn’t kill your career. You did. And you owe an apology to all the families who have suffered through what you thought would be a good parody.

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My experience with extended family ended in my early teens. Around 1982 was the last time I spent time with aunts, uncles, and cousins at a family holiday thing. I spent a few weeks with an uncle and his wife in ’85 or ’86, but I was miserable. Plus their kids were little, I was a teenager.

So I never got the whole cousin experience. When I hear people talk about the close bond, the fond memories, the shared times with cousins, I usually zone out a bit. I just have nothing to relate it to, nor do I have any stories to contribute. 

Hubby’s nieces and nephews really wanted cousins. We gave them two, and there is love between them. There’s also 25+ years between them, so not a lot in common. It didn’t give me much pause, I didn’t grow up with that whole cousin phenomenon either. But Hubby did.

Now I have my cousins back. And some of them have kids, closer in age to my boys. We finally get to have that cousin experience. We’re going to try to go up to Maine later this year to visit family up there and the boys asked if their cousins would be there. How cool is that?

The other day my one cousin messaged me about something she was watching on TV. Again, how cool is that? I was able to explain that the green mascot thing was the Philly Phanatic and then we discussed how the Baby Cakes Baby mascot could kick the muppety Phanatic’s ass.

We talk on the phone…just because. How amazing is this? I get it now.

And I have aunts and uncles again! And they love me, they love my family. They are there for my dad, and it’s so great to see that. They are there for me. And I am there for them.

They waited 28 years for me to reconnect with my dad. 28 years. And my brother did it. Thanks to my brother, I know my little brother. Okay, he’s taller than me, but who isn’t?

And the love is unconditional. There’s no resentment. No reservations. Just love.

I am blessed. And I am thanking my brother, as I did when he brought us all back together, even now as I am missing him. And through my brother’s perseverance, I have aunts, and uncles, and cousins, oh my, helping me as I grieve losing him.

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I miss him. That’s the long & the short of it. It’s a better place than I’ve been. I’ve been angry. Sad. Resentful. In denial. Regretful.

I’m still angry at church & God. I finally made it through an entire service last Sunday and that was only because my sons were holding me up, along with the Spirit. I had my phone completely silenced on that day almost four months ago because I was at church. I didn’t see the text till about an hour later. I’m making myself leave my phone in the dining room. That’s where I always put it at night. But, confession, I’ve taken to leaving it on vibrate now at church. I know, closing the barn door too late.

And it wouldn’t have changed anything. Only would have added an hour of grief. But still. And the Spirit is patient. Will hold me up till I’m ready.

There were so many things my bro & I talked about doing, making up for lost time. There are so many familial wounds this has opened that sometimes I just sit and cry. And when I stop crying, I just sit, numb, unable to form a thought because I don’t know how to sort this much pain out. So I bury it down, get through my day.

I focus on my sons. I focus on my dog. I focus on the cats, when they let me. I lean heavily on Hubby, who is so patient and understanding. He knew from the get-go what he was signing up for and I haven’t disappointed yet.

I laughed, really laughed, for the first time last week or so. The dress scene in Bridesmaids, which I finally watched. Of course that same week, one of my supervisors walked by during one of those crying situations, the one when I can’t even form a word. I get paid for working with words. Not a good thing for your boss to witness, being completely incapacitated from forming a sentence.

This is one of the sentences I recently managed to form about my grief.

While it is not all through death, I have no one from my late childhood/teenage family left. In the span of eighteen months.

I know I have gained so much family back and I am blessed with that. I love them all so much. 

But there is still a lot of loss to work through. I wish I could be glib. Just say screw it, at least about some of it. Not my bro. Not Bearpaw. But to be glib would lessen what I have gained. That would demonstrate a major change in who I am. Then I wouldn’t deserve the future happiness with the family I’ve reconnected with. It would not mean the same.

I also want to learn from all of this. I want to be a strong, compassionate mother who loves her sons unconditionally. I want to love true & unconditionally in all of my relationships. So there are lessons to be learned.

But right now, as I pretend to sleep until I finally pass out for a few hours, as I have every night for almost four months, I simply miss my bro. I still had his message from last year’s Mother’s Day on my cell. I listened to it last week. Clearly never erasing that. It was nice to hear his voice, filled with love.

I miss my bro.

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I met this elephant trainer not too long ago. Only spoke with him for a brief time, but he was very polite and we shared an intense series of sentences about mental health (illness, disease) and stigma. He said I should be proud of what I live with, not ashamed. I think generally I am proud of balancing my existence with a mental illness. But yes, there are times I am ashamed, afraid, to mention it because of the stigma attached to it.

So many people live with a mental illness and the weight of the stigma is overwhelming. The weight of keeping up appearances is daunting. Think of any other illness. Really, right now, think of any other illness. Now imagine a person saying, “I just can’t do stuff today because of the ____________. ” Every single person would give that person a pass and probably some sympathy, maybe offer some help. Make a meal and drop it off.

Now fill in that blank with a mental illness.

Oh, chin up, it’s just work. You can get through it. Cheer up, it can’t be that bad. Oh, I didn’t know, sorry. Well, the weekend is coming.

Or nothing at all.

Not everyone will respond this way. The folks who respond with the same compassion as the “any other illness” scenario probably know or live with someone who has a mental illness.

The ones who respond any other way don’t know what it’s like to live with it and don’t know much about it. Why would they? It’s easy and acceptable to not know about mental illness because of the stigma. Because of the outlandish Hollywood portrayals that make a mockery of the day to day life with mental illness. Those portrayals set things back every time. You want to see a good portrayal, a understated, realistic one? Watch Love and Mercy.

Back to the example above. “I just can’t do stuff today.” But instead the person living with a mental illness will pick themselves, put on the socially acceptable happy face, the persona we assume each day to hide what makes others uncomfortable. Well, we get tired. Some get really tired. I’m tired of being tired. I’m tired of being ashamed. I’m tired of keeping it out of the way because folks would either have to educate themselves a bit or simply be sympathetic on faith, even if they don’t understand it.

I’ve written it before. Everyone knows someone who is living with mental illness, you just might not know it. But if you know me, in real life or just because you miraculously stumbled onto my humble blog, you know someone who lives (and quite well, thank you very much) with schizophrenia every freakin’ day. Ask me questions if you don’t understand something. Educate yourself and spread it around. Help to get rid of the shame, the stigma, the misconceptions. Read a pamphlet. Read a website (vett your sources, please!).

Remember, you know someone.

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My pastor gave me a book about grieving. I like the approach so far. It said in very plain language that when you suffer loss, it brings back to light previous losses attached to the recent loss.

That was a mouthful.

In losing my brother, it brought to light, in a bright glaring, white spotlight, so many losses over the past three decades. Some are very tiny, others are huge. They have impacted my entire adult life, the way I approach and work on my marriage, the way I raise my sons, the way I try to be the person I want to be.

Sometimes I’m tired of trying to be the person I think I should be. I see so many who just seem to glide through life, or others who really don’t seem, from my perspective, to be giving their all, or doing things as honestly or as ethically as could be done, and I sit and throw myself a little pity party. Then I pick myself up and remind myself that I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I did things any other way in my life.

Of course, I’m not sleeping well at the moment anyway, so I guess now would be the time to not follow the straight and narrow. I wonder how others do it. Make choices, knowing the bad ramifications it will have on others, and yet they still make those choices. Everyone knows someone like this. Every family has at least one person who is a bull in a china shop, not caring what damage is created as long as things go the way they want.

But the problem there is that damage is done. The person who suffers the damage may take years to recover from it, whether it be emotional, physical, or financial damage. And the person who caused it often seems to be living a glorious life, with minimal worry, or in some cases there is worry, but truly it was created by their own actions. That to me is just melodramatic worrying and they are reaping what they sowed. Sleeping in the bed they made. All those other clichés.

So since I try to bury so much during the day so coworkers don’t think I’m a total freak, it bubbles to the surface at night. Actually, on the commute to and from work. It just rises up to the front of my brain, and the emotions overwhelm me and I cry. Ugly cry. I was ugly crying in my cube today. Just this overwhelming sensation of what have I done? What is causing this shit-storm in my life? When will something go a little bit better? Some sign of the winds of change, and not another nor’easter. I’ve had enough emotional nor’easters this year. And losing my brother has stirred up so many squalls I don’t know what to do with them.

I’m journaling. Part of the reason the posts have been so lax. There has been shit going down since November. Then losing him two months ago just intensified the existing situations. In one sense, it gave perspective. I do not care nor do I have time to play those bullshit drama games, but in grieving him, I grieve the loss of others who are still living, but have stated how my choices will cause me to burn in hell.

It’s odd. The ones who are still living, I don’t miss them. Perhaps because they always want to remind me that I’m going to burn.

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Tea

“Instead of just having tea with him, I’m going to kick his butt.”  Youngest son talking to the video game.

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It breaks my heart sometimes that fairy tales aren’t taught as frequently in schools anymore. These amazing stories survived oral storytelling to eventually be culled and catalogued within so many countries, each putting their own spin on them. It seems though that here in America, we have no time for them unless they have been Disneyfied. There’s nothing overtly wrong with the Disney versions, but children, even adult children in college, don’t always realize that the stories are much older than the Ears would have you think. They didn’t make them up, and they usually change them to suit their needs, image, and marketing goals. What could be more American than that?

Without learning the old versions of the fairy tales, children miss out on learning about story telling, classic characters, and in some cases, a good fright. But I digress.

I did grow up reading fairy tales. I’ve read them to my sons, and not the watered down versions. I read the Zipes translations to my boys. I’ve taught the Zipes versions in one of the courses I taught for several years. I love fairy tales, particularly the Grimm versions. And as I have been trying to work through some pretty heavy shit in my life, I finally happened upon something that is helping me start to sort it all out. It is based in the archetypes and symbolism that run rampant in fairy tales, and while I’m no Bettelheim, it’s working for me.

HanselandGretel

Imagine if you will Hansel and Gretel. They are brought into the forest by their father and mother. They are poor, and the mother’s plan is to abandon the children in the forest. Not nice, I know. But we’re moving past that to another point in the story. The first try, the children outwit their mother and drop pebbles so they can find their way home in the moonlight. But the second time they drop breadcrumbs which get eaten by sweet woodland critters. No way to get home. Wander, wander, wander until a house made of candy, gingerbread, and delectable delights. The little old lady seems harmless enough. Plus, she wants to feed poor Hansel and Gretel and help them in their time of need.

Now imagine that H&G get trapped in the moment of being helped for years, decades. They know only the reality of what is told to them by the old lady, who is really a witch (and who some scholars theorize is also the mother). They completely buy into what she says because they know no “other”. It seems pretty cool, good food, light chores, she’s occasionally crabby, but still lots of sugar. They see snapshots of her in her true form, a witch, over the years, but they aren’t completely sure. They are also wrapped up in their own lives, as children tend to be. But she’s generally kind so they trust what she says to be truth.

Well, Hansel gets out. Not in the best way, but still he’s out. Over the years, he returns for a visit or two, but now the old lady/witch knows he knows “other” stuff, “other” truths. In her head, he can’t be trusted. He might tell Gretel that the old lady’s true plan is to eventually cook and eat Gretel. A plan that he escaped.

Now imagine decades later, Gretel escapes. She starts learning “other” stuff, “other” truths. Imagine the shock, imagine discovering that the old lady/witch was feeding her lies along with the candy for all those many years. Imagine her reconnecting with her brother, her family, and discovering the “other” life she could have had. How long would it take each of them to resolve all this new information? How long would it take to quell the “what if” questions and move forward from bitterness, anger, and regret for what could have been?

Hansel and Gretel would have two completely distinct realities that they had lived in. The one reality, the one of the old lady/witch, would be a false reality within the true reality. The strength of which was only ever as strong as the gingerbread house. Once they got out of there, the false reality starts to crumble, disintegrate. But so much damage was already done. Their sense of being and sense of value would be totally skewed. It would shape their perspectives for the rest of their lives. Each would have to work very hard to remember that not everyone is like the old lady. They can trust, they can love. They can celebrate their successes, learn from their mistakes, and lean on the rest of their family for support. Family who never gave up hope, always prayed to see them again, and always held love in their hearts for Hansel and Gretel.

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