Why is it that when things fall apart in your life, you lose interest in life? The pizazz fizzles and fades away and the stars fall out of the sky and leave the night an inkier black. Everything takes on a dull and lusterless sheen. Getting out of bed becomes a chore, getting dressed becomes the hardest thing of the day and food becomes tasteless.
Oh, don't look now, but I think a white van just pulled up to the curb and those big strapping guys getting out are all dressed in white! And they are carrying white ropes, a white jacket with long white straps and a pail of white golf balls and pulling a white wagon with a huge bottle of water.
Now that we have established that - #1 the fist paragraph defines and describes classic depression and -- # 2 - the second paragraph lines out the classic remedy and cure for that which is the loony bit and lots of medication.
Now that we have that clarified - we can move on to the serious stuff. I need - 1 - a good stiff drink, - 2 - a long vacation, - 3- a bottle of wine and - 4 - time alone!!
Well - so happens the liquor cabinet never got filled - couldn't afford it, same goes for the vacation, so that leaves 3 and 4 as viable options to be considered. The guys are walking up to the door step as we speak - they look a bit serious - as if this task is of some dire and undercover significance for the Federal Government!!
OK - where were we? Oh - lack of motivation - some of us just naturally go through slumps in life - Remember the Lynn Anderson song - I never promised you a rose garden? When a pin punctures our balloon - our bubble of life - the energy drains as surely as does the air from that punctured balloon which first shoots upwards and then comes floating to the ground, collapsing and shrinking as it descends to fall upon the earth. Much the same as our dashed hopes and dreams. I never saw one of those deflated balloons ever get up , re-inflate and rise back into the air within seconds of ground contact. Matter of fact, most of them get picked up and trashed. So what happens when our dreams come crashing down around our feet, the rug gets pulled out from underneath them and the floor collapses in our world? We 'melt' down. We pull inside of ourselves, hide from the world and try to find that little dark corner where no one can see the hurt, the heartache, the pain, the loss we are feeling. There we must rest, find the courage again to to step forward into the light and slowly but surely rise again to the surface of reality, facing the world and building new dreams, new hopes and setting new goals and new heights to reach for.
Shshshsh - I think they're trying to get in! Why don't they just knock, for crying out loud? I didn't lock the door to keep them out! I locked it to keep out the guy who wanders around the neighborhood trying to get into windows, doors, cars and anything else he finds open in order to help himself to what he didn't work to pay for.
Time - so it is said - heals all. Time - and love - and patience -
I'm not so sure it heals so much as it puts space between the event that caused the crash and your inner self preservation. The longer the space, the less the everyday expectation, touch, feel and emotion. The less of those - the more attention is turned to other people, other events, other interests. Until at some point the loss of the dream isn't noticed as sharply and painfully.
Oh! Now they get the idea!! 'Knock, knock' - softly as if they expect the noise to cause some extreme reaction!! Lets sit quiet and see how long they can be patient.............'KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK'! .Oh there's what I expected - the harsh, hard knock of authority that demands response and right of entry.
Do I open the door and let them in? I can see the slight hint of fear in their eyes - they do not think it is there - but how can it not be? They really don't know what to expect. Docility? Fierce and violent denial and fight?
Will they need the rope? The straight jacket restraint? All followed by those golf ball sized pills and lots of water or the needle?
Medication is the answer to all of humanity's ailments these days. Long term medication in order to control the natural flow of the body's own system. Oh, I will grant that these are sometimes the only means to balance a system that has failed to function as it was intended to. But in some cases, it blocks and inhibits the body's natural reaction to stress, loss and hurt. How does one face the crash after the removal of these blocks?
One still has to wake up and face the sunrise, slip the feet over the edge of the bed, find some clothes, take a shower and find something to stop that awful growling in the pit of the stomach. One still has to face the reality of a very changed life and life path - still has to struggle with the aloneness of stepping forward to recreate a path that now has a different structure - that is in need of re-direction and new goals and new hopes and dreams.
If I open the door, they will come in and begin the reprogramming sequence and God alone knows how and where that will lead and end. If I run - will they intercept me at the back door or can I make good my getaway? Can I hide and pretend they are not there and hope they will go away and give me time to walk out of the front door, head held high, so that no one can see what they think they saw?
Hiding and running from problems and fears never solved them. So it is best to open the door and face the fears and send them away -
Even from here the play can be rewritten, the cast redirected.
It is the very essence of life and hurt and loss and pain that opens the door to creativity - turns the spigot that releases the flow of words and energy. Pick up the pen and paper - lift the dusty cover from the old typewriter - push the button sending power to the computer key board and let the fingers fly across the keys - watch the words appear is if by magic - allow that which is the thread of life - the fabric of living - emotions - free flow.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
Uncle Joe Comes To Visit
In 1987, my parents planned a trip to Alaska - and brought my Mother's brother who was visiting from England. Now, I had met my Uncle Joe in the early 80's when he and his wife - my Aunt Til - came to visit Mom and Dad in Washington State. My Aunt passed after her second visit over here and now Uncle Joe was on his own.
When they arrived, everyone was - of course - excited about the visit. But we had to settle down to it first. My husband didn't plan on taking any days off from work - no surprise there. I took Mom to work with me for the one day that I planned to work during their visit - a planned day of course. So the first day, Mom and I went to work, Hubby went to work, Rod went with Dad to do some work on the airstream and that left T at home with Uncle Joe.
A couple of hours passed and I decided to call and check on things at home. "Uncle Joe isn't here." My daughter said. "He went out for a walk."
"How long ago?" I asked.
"I don't know. Not long after you guys all left."
"Don't worry." My Mom said. "Joe takes walks all the time. He'll get back OK."
So an hour or so later, I called again and still he wasn't back - and neither was anyone else. I hung up, my thoughts a jumble as I talked it over with Mom. "Where could he have gone to? He doesn't know the area, he couldn't have gone far. He should have been back by now." Mom talked me out of leaving, but try as I might I kept getting this mental image.
Now, understand that my Uncle Joe had a hard English accent that I couldn't begin to understand. I had been around Mom all my life and her accent to me was not even there until after I had been away from home a few years. Aunt Til had had a lovely accent and we teased her and repeated her accent constantly. But Uncle Joe? I smiled and listened and laughed when he did, but the rest was just plain some other language that made no sense at all to any of us - except Mom of course. And I could just see Uncle Joe trying to explain to a uniformed Alaska State Trooper that he was lost and didn't know where he was. Just as plain as day I could see that trooper listening with a puzzled look on his face, reaching up to lift his hat and scratch his head wondering how in blazes he was going to fix this problem! I couldn't shake that image and I couldn't work any more. I called it a day and we left.
As we drove into the driveway, Dad and Rod were pulling up coming from the opposite way and Uncle Joe was walking calmly up the walk - totally unaware of the concerns he had raised. We talked to him and I had to laugh - he had gone down the drive, turned right and walked all the way down to the corner and turned right and then right again - making continual right turns until he had decided he had best turn around and retrace his steps. Asking questions I discovered that he had turned around about two blocks from his second right turn! He laughed.
A few nights later, we planned on going out to the Malemute Saloon show and everyone got ready to leave only to discover that Uncle Joe had once again disappeared. We piled into the car and drove the route of his first walk - no Uncle Joe. We went back out to Airport Road and drove down to Alaskaland - no Uncle Joe. Baffled, we returned home, made a pot of tea and sat down to game of cards.
A couple of hours passed and the front door opened and in walked Uncle Joe. "Uncle Joe!" I exclaimed. "Where have you been? We've been looking all over for you!!"
"Oh I'm sorry, I went for a walk, you know. I've bean out to the airport - you know where all the big jets take off?"
"Uncle Joe! Do you know how far that is??" I asked in amazement.
"Aye! I know. I've just bean there." He stated.
When they arrived, everyone was - of course - excited about the visit. But we had to settle down to it first. My husband didn't plan on taking any days off from work - no surprise there. I took Mom to work with me for the one day that I planned to work during their visit - a planned day of course. So the first day, Mom and I went to work, Hubby went to work, Rod went with Dad to do some work on the airstream and that left T at home with Uncle Joe.
A couple of hours passed and I decided to call and check on things at home. "Uncle Joe isn't here." My daughter said. "He went out for a walk."
"How long ago?" I asked.
"I don't know. Not long after you guys all left."
"Don't worry." My Mom said. "Joe takes walks all the time. He'll get back OK."
So an hour or so later, I called again and still he wasn't back - and neither was anyone else. I hung up, my thoughts a jumble as I talked it over with Mom. "Where could he have gone to? He doesn't know the area, he couldn't have gone far. He should have been back by now." Mom talked me out of leaving, but try as I might I kept getting this mental image.
Now, understand that my Uncle Joe had a hard English accent that I couldn't begin to understand. I had been around Mom all my life and her accent to me was not even there until after I had been away from home a few years. Aunt Til had had a lovely accent and we teased her and repeated her accent constantly. But Uncle Joe? I smiled and listened and laughed when he did, but the rest was just plain some other language that made no sense at all to any of us - except Mom of course. And I could just see Uncle Joe trying to explain to a uniformed Alaska State Trooper that he was lost and didn't know where he was. Just as plain as day I could see that trooper listening with a puzzled look on his face, reaching up to lift his hat and scratch his head wondering how in blazes he was going to fix this problem! I couldn't shake that image and I couldn't work any more. I called it a day and we left.
As we drove into the driveway, Dad and Rod were pulling up coming from the opposite way and Uncle Joe was walking calmly up the walk - totally unaware of the concerns he had raised. We talked to him and I had to laugh - he had gone down the drive, turned right and walked all the way down to the corner and turned right and then right again - making continual right turns until he had decided he had best turn around and retrace his steps. Asking questions I discovered that he had turned around about two blocks from his second right turn! He laughed.
A few nights later, we planned on going out to the Malemute Saloon show and everyone got ready to leave only to discover that Uncle Joe had once again disappeared. We piled into the car and drove the route of his first walk - no Uncle Joe. We went back out to Airport Road and drove down to Alaskaland - no Uncle Joe. Baffled, we returned home, made a pot of tea and sat down to game of cards.
A couple of hours passed and the front door opened and in walked Uncle Joe. "Uncle Joe!" I exclaimed. "Where have you been? We've been looking all over for you!!"
"Oh I'm sorry, I went for a walk, you know. I've bean out to the airport - you know where all the big jets take off?"
"Uncle Joe! Do you know how far that is??" I asked in amazement.
"Aye! I know. I've just bean there." He stated.
Shattered Dreams
Come, go north with me - there we'll live and happy be.
We ventured forth - to the land up north.
Got a job and bought some land - with a little cabin, we thought grand.
First came Rod, our first born son - A mother's work is never done.
Then came Tam with golden hair - No finer children anywhere.
Abuse begins in the smallest way - with angry words and accusations every day.
I cried silent tears into the night - and shook with fear at every fight.
Rod suffered most for all he had done - then came the night when you pulled the gun.
A coldness began in the depth of me - and grew til at last I knew I was free.
Breaking the ties that God had made - to face life alone and unafraid.
The abuse, the threats, the blows in the past - have left unseen scars that forever last.
I wrote that poem many years ago. I included in a book of poetry I wrote to give to my family for Christmas.
My older sister called and told me that this was not a thing you advertised to the world.
I hid the book at home. For a time I hid the shame of my brazen act. How dare I - in her words - hang my dirty laundry out for the world to see?
But even as I withdrew into myself, I knew that what I had done was not wrong. The world needed to know about these events - not just mine - but all of them that had been swept under the rug for so many years by so many women and children for fear of being shamed, ridiculed, judged and found wanting.
When my daughter went through domestic abuse, I wrote letters to the editor - one was not published so I went to the newspaper to talk to them - he was afraid of being sued. "For what?" I asked incredulously. Libel was the answer. "Let me bring you court documents and police records." I replied. "Public documents that anyone can read if they want to." The letter was published.
I took part in a governors teleconference - speaking up about the issue in our state. Some of those present at the conference were from the local university campus and asked if they could use my writing in criminal justice class. I agreed, but heard nothing more. Imagine my surprise when several years later. the girl from across the street told me that she had taken a criminal justice course in which my material was used.
I have written a manuscript that I hope to see published. I have allowed others to read it - the overwhelming agreement is that the book should be published - it would help so many.
Usually I can - in a few moments of meeting a woman - know if she either is or has been the victim of domestic abuse. And I can tell - in a few moments of meeting a man - if he is an abuser. I am rarely wrong, but I have missed the clue once or twice about a woman. One I worked with - I never picked up the vibes that she had gone through anything - but she wanted to read the manuscript so I let her take it. She came back to my office a few weeks later, closed the door and set the envelope on the desk. "Can I talk to you?" She asked.
I had missed the clues - she talked for a good hour about what she had gone through. "I have never shared this with anyone." She said as she started out. "Not the police, not a counselor, not a doctor, not a pastor, not my parents. I was so ashamed of what had happened and I thought I was the only one it has ever happened to and I thought it was all my fault. Then I read your story and I knew that I was not alone, that what happened wasn't my fault." She continued with her story, telling all the details, holding back emotion, sharing. When she stopped, she looked at me. "Your story needs to be published. It will help so many people - as it has helped me. Except.....I hope you don't mind my saying this.....I don't think it's finished. You have come so far, accomplished so much and that all needs to be a part of it.
I shook my head. "Not yet. It doesn't feel done for me yet. I haven't quite reached the point where I can say that my life is complete, a success. Maybe someday there will a book two that goes from the court house steps to the present day, to where my life has gone and what I have done to overcome it all, but I don't think it is close yet."
She left and I thought about her words, her experience, her shame and hurt and the way she had buried it inside for so many years and I wondered how many more there are.
I thought I had buried all of my emotions - dealt with all of the things that happened - put them aside and locked them up. But a good twenty years after the gun incident, a situation occurred at work that broke the locks, opened the doors and let loose a flood of fear and emotions that kept me in tears to and from work and escaping work to the beach to pull back together during the day. A co-worker exhibited the same identical physical manifestations I had seen in my husband the night he pulled the gun and I was a basket case for over a month. To make matters worse, the situation at work erupted into violence. A disagreement, anger had festered and grown. I sat in my boss's office, my hands clinched tight in my lap, fear a cold knot in my stomach, a feeling of weakness spreading through my body. "Do you think he will do something here?" My boss asked, a bit surprised.
"I don't know." I answered. "But I can tell you that I have seen this physical reaction before and I can tell you that someone is going to get hurt -whether at home, at work or somewhere in between, someone will get hurt." I was not sure that he believed me, but a day or so later the human resources manager came to our office and called me for a private discussion.
"Are you afraid?" He asked.
"You bet I am." I replied.
"Do you think he will hurt you?"
"I don't know. His personality is so volatile. I believe that he is capable of hurting anyone. I don't think that they have to do anything to provoke him."
After both of these interviews, I excused myself, went to the beach a couple of miles away and fell apart, crying uncontrollably until I could cry no more. Pulled myself back together and went back to work. But as was now common, the tears flowed again as soon as I headed home after work. And again the next morning going in.
A week passed and just about time to go home one afternoon, I rounded a corner at work just in time to see my boss helping another man up off the floor outside of his office. I stopped, turned and ran because I knew it had happened. I hid in a back office, trembling and sobbing softly for some time. I was afraid to come out, afraid to see more. My boss was waiting as I approached his door. "Why don't you come in for a few moments? And close the door." He said.
I entered, closed the door and sat down, not wanting to look at him, not wanting him to see the fear, the remains of tears.
"I've let (blank) go." He said........and waited. I said nothing. I didn't look up. "You were right. Someone did get hurt. Here at work. I'm sorry that I didn't listen to you. I just didn't think this would happen. Didn't expect it to." I didn't want to know what happened, I just wanted to run, to get away - as far as I could.
It was another year before I learned that (blank) had picked the man up and thrown him into the wall - I had missed that part.
Fear didn't leave me for well over a month. But I was now more aware then ever that the past is always a part of the present. Some things just never go away, they remain under the surface until something happens to cause them to break the crust you think holds them back.
We may survive domestic abuse and violence, but we live with the scars and damages forever.
We ventured forth - to the land up north.
Got a job and bought some land - with a little cabin, we thought grand.
First came Rod, our first born son - A mother's work is never done.
Then came Tam with golden hair - No finer children anywhere.
Abuse begins in the smallest way - with angry words and accusations every day.
I cried silent tears into the night - and shook with fear at every fight.
Rod suffered most for all he had done - then came the night when you pulled the gun.
A coldness began in the depth of me - and grew til at last I knew I was free.
Breaking the ties that God had made - to face life alone and unafraid.
The abuse, the threats, the blows in the past - have left unseen scars that forever last.
I wrote that poem many years ago. I included in a book of poetry I wrote to give to my family for Christmas.
My older sister called and told me that this was not a thing you advertised to the world.
I hid the book at home. For a time I hid the shame of my brazen act. How dare I - in her words - hang my dirty laundry out for the world to see?
But even as I withdrew into myself, I knew that what I had done was not wrong. The world needed to know about these events - not just mine - but all of them that had been swept under the rug for so many years by so many women and children for fear of being shamed, ridiculed, judged and found wanting.
When my daughter went through domestic abuse, I wrote letters to the editor - one was not published so I went to the newspaper to talk to them - he was afraid of being sued. "For what?" I asked incredulously. Libel was the answer. "Let me bring you court documents and police records." I replied. "Public documents that anyone can read if they want to." The letter was published.
I took part in a governors teleconference - speaking up about the issue in our state. Some of those present at the conference were from the local university campus and asked if they could use my writing in criminal justice class. I agreed, but heard nothing more. Imagine my surprise when several years later. the girl from across the street told me that she had taken a criminal justice course in which my material was used.
I have written a manuscript that I hope to see published. I have allowed others to read it - the overwhelming agreement is that the book should be published - it would help so many.
Usually I can - in a few moments of meeting a woman - know if she either is or has been the victim of domestic abuse. And I can tell - in a few moments of meeting a man - if he is an abuser. I am rarely wrong, but I have missed the clue once or twice about a woman. One I worked with - I never picked up the vibes that she had gone through anything - but she wanted to read the manuscript so I let her take it. She came back to my office a few weeks later, closed the door and set the envelope on the desk. "Can I talk to you?" She asked.
I had missed the clues - she talked for a good hour about what she had gone through. "I have never shared this with anyone." She said as she started out. "Not the police, not a counselor, not a doctor, not a pastor, not my parents. I was so ashamed of what had happened and I thought I was the only one it has ever happened to and I thought it was all my fault. Then I read your story and I knew that I was not alone, that what happened wasn't my fault." She continued with her story, telling all the details, holding back emotion, sharing. When she stopped, she looked at me. "Your story needs to be published. It will help so many people - as it has helped me. Except.....I hope you don't mind my saying this.....I don't think it's finished. You have come so far, accomplished so much and that all needs to be a part of it.
I shook my head. "Not yet. It doesn't feel done for me yet. I haven't quite reached the point where I can say that my life is complete, a success. Maybe someday there will a book two that goes from the court house steps to the present day, to where my life has gone and what I have done to overcome it all, but I don't think it is close yet."
She left and I thought about her words, her experience, her shame and hurt and the way she had buried it inside for so many years and I wondered how many more there are.
I thought I had buried all of my emotions - dealt with all of the things that happened - put them aside and locked them up. But a good twenty years after the gun incident, a situation occurred at work that broke the locks, opened the doors and let loose a flood of fear and emotions that kept me in tears to and from work and escaping work to the beach to pull back together during the day. A co-worker exhibited the same identical physical manifestations I had seen in my husband the night he pulled the gun and I was a basket case for over a month. To make matters worse, the situation at work erupted into violence. A disagreement, anger had festered and grown. I sat in my boss's office, my hands clinched tight in my lap, fear a cold knot in my stomach, a feeling of weakness spreading through my body. "Do you think he will do something here?" My boss asked, a bit surprised.
"I don't know." I answered. "But I can tell you that I have seen this physical reaction before and I can tell you that someone is going to get hurt -whether at home, at work or somewhere in between, someone will get hurt." I was not sure that he believed me, but a day or so later the human resources manager came to our office and called me for a private discussion.
"Are you afraid?" He asked.
"You bet I am." I replied.
"Do you think he will hurt you?"
"I don't know. His personality is so volatile. I believe that he is capable of hurting anyone. I don't think that they have to do anything to provoke him."
After both of these interviews, I excused myself, went to the beach a couple of miles away and fell apart, crying uncontrollably until I could cry no more. Pulled myself back together and went back to work. But as was now common, the tears flowed again as soon as I headed home after work. And again the next morning going in.
A week passed and just about time to go home one afternoon, I rounded a corner at work just in time to see my boss helping another man up off the floor outside of his office. I stopped, turned and ran because I knew it had happened. I hid in a back office, trembling and sobbing softly for some time. I was afraid to come out, afraid to see more. My boss was waiting as I approached his door. "Why don't you come in for a few moments? And close the door." He said.
I entered, closed the door and sat down, not wanting to look at him, not wanting him to see the fear, the remains of tears.
"I've let (blank) go." He said........and waited. I said nothing. I didn't look up. "You were right. Someone did get hurt. Here at work. I'm sorry that I didn't listen to you. I just didn't think this would happen. Didn't expect it to." I didn't want to know what happened, I just wanted to run, to get away - as far as I could.
It was another year before I learned that (blank) had picked the man up and thrown him into the wall - I had missed that part.
Fear didn't leave me for well over a month. But I was now more aware then ever that the past is always a part of the present. Some things just never go away, they remain under the surface until something happens to cause them to break the crust you think holds them back.
We may survive domestic abuse and violence, but we live with the scars and damages forever.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)