I feel weird about this one. Not in a bad way, but in a "why the hell weren't you excited about the last one" kind of way.
The most recent SIL is nice enough. She's naive as all get-out, but she's nice. And we all know, I wonder very much about my BIL's actual feelings about it. Those feelings aren't at all alleviated by the numerous stories I've heard of things he said even on the day of the wedding. Something doesn't feel right.
But of course, I could totally be wrong. It's not like I know that BIL that well. He lives in friggin' Utah and I rarely see him. The signs, though. Anyway. I hope I'm wrong for their sakes.
This new girl is marrying the youngest boy in the family. I love this BIL--I love all of them, but this one has a special place in my heart. When I was in labor with my youngest, he gave up his bed for me. We lived in a town an hour away but I wasn't giving up my OB/GYN for anything. So when active labor began the day before Christmas, we made our trek to my MILs house to spend the night. For two awful, contraction-filled nights BIL gave up his bed. For three days BIL voluntarily and without any asking on my part took care of my kids. I never had to raise a finger. My SIL was amazing, too, but there was something special about BIL doing this. He also had to wake up every morning around 5am (if not sooner at least once) to my false alarms. He never complained.
My only regret about BIL is the boy he was when he returned home from his mission. Complete zeal, this boy. But we had all changed, the kind of change that just intensifies it all (if that makes sense). He was a believer before but now he was completely entrenched, quoting Spencer W. Kimball (?) and others regarding the evils of "socialism" and otherwise. It was, for me, disheartening. The boy who once played Grand Theft Auto (which, in an ironic way, bothered me back then). The boy who once watched South Park (again, ironic. how could he get away with watching that?). I missed that boy, but I loved him too. I've known him since he was a chubby little eleven-year-old boy. The eleven-year-old boy who, upon seeing my husband and I hold hands for the first time in his living room, lit up and ran upstairs to tell everyone. I hope I remember that forever.
This BIL has a special place in my heart. Sometimes, when it feels like a good time, I try to bring him back. Whether he likes it or not, he still laughs when we reference South Park.
I friended his fiancee on facebook last night, and she seems so goddamn sweet I can't hardly stand it. She's SO LITTLE (young!) but so sweet. Her friends are already calling her by her almost-new last name and it brings back so many fun memories. I'm excited to meet her and afraid I'll scare her off at the same time. I'm afraid I'll fall to the wayside. My in-laws are the most amazing people, but they're believers and we're not. It makes us the default black sheep, even if they still love us and treat us just as they always have. I've always been a bit of a black sheep--being a not-so-social girl in a Mormon world, whether you're a member or not--just makes you the weird one.
They're getting married in Idaho this September. I've never been to Idaho which makes the idea of going neat, but we're not exactly rolling in the dough at the moment so we're not sure we can make it anyway. There's hope, though. My husband may get a summer teaching job, and if he does we're definitely making the trip. And though we're pretty sure everyone--with the possible exception of the remaining BILs and SIL--knows we're no longer active, the prospect of sitting in the temple foyer while they get married is a hard one to swallow. Let's also toss in the idea that DH is working on the idea of resigning this summer. So, all I can think about is the embarrassment of the foyer (an interesting emotion, I think), and then the remembrance that I did the exact same thing to my own family. Karma is a bitch, kids. At least we'll be able to help the as-yet-endowed SIL with the loads of kids.
But I want to go. There are problems involved--days to take off, the aforementioned financial issues (there's also a planned Disneyland trip this November)--but this is something we'd like to attend.
There are just so many emotions involved here, but I'm happy for them.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
"Sacredness" of marriage
I know an LDS guy who is pushing 30 and is yet unmarried, a guy who recently brought a girl home for Christmas. Everyone wants this kid to marry the girl. As such, the two of them have been through a hazing. Initiation and all.
And you know, it's fun when someone you love is in a serious relationship. It's exciting.
That said, I have my thoughts about this particular guy, but I realize I could be wrong. Still. A single LDS man who hasn't (as far as I'm aware) gone on many dates and is pushing thirty...well. Flags raise.
Is that wrong? I've other hints I won't divulge here. Nothing huge, but hints.
Not that I'd care--but his family and friends and community sure as hell would.
So his family discussed his situation the other day. One declared he simply needs to "man up" and just ask the girl to marry him already. Everyone agreed. After all, he and his girlfriend are acting engaged. And they are. I guess. I suppose this is reason enough to put the ring on her finger already?
Who knows.
His father said his son has doubts, a lot of doubts. The kid knows what he needs to do, his dad said, but he's scared. It must be due to lovin' the single life, to freedom, to doing whatever he wants. Maybe it is. But maybe it's not quite that simple. After all, it's not as if he's out partying every night. He travels. He does charity work in South America. He's getting his master's degree. He works for the church. He has friends. You know?
But, his sister chimed, he loves children, and if he wants children he'd better do it now. After all, she has four children and she's only few months younger than he is. He'd better get to if he wants even one kid. If he waits too much longer, parenting will simply exhaust him. If he waits too much longer, kids will be out of the picture.
And forget children, they said. What of the marriage? All these people waiting to get married. Don't they know? The older you get the more set in your ways you become and therefore the less willing you are to compromise. "Man up" said that that's why you marry young, while you're still used to sharing with your brothers and sisters.
It's dangerous to wait until you know who you are before you marry someone because then you're an old dog who can't learn new tricks. In this situation, they reasoned, divorce is far more likely.
Nevermind that he wants to get married. Just maybe not to this girl. Maybe.
I bit my tongue throughout the conversation. So much was wrong.
If marriage is so sacred perhaps he ought to be completely certain he's ready for it. Maybe he ought to marry this girl because he wants to marry this girl. Maybe he ought to marry her because he loves her and wants to make a lifelong commitment--not simply to satisfy cultural, religious, and familial expectations.
After all, there will be kids to consider. The life of a girl he cares about. His own happiness.
His family has his best interests at heart. They want him to marry, to have children, to be happy. They think he's happy with her, that they're better when they're together. I have a feeling, though, that this girl could be any girl and his family would be foaming at the mouth for him to marry her.
Their rationale just sounded so selfish to me. The whole thing was striking given the sanctity of marriage schpeal I've heard so often over the last few years.
Some girl, any girl, JUST MARRY A GIRL.
You know?
I'm not about to say this family is completely wrong. They know him better than I do, but I have a different lens with which to view him. A lens not skewed by the church.
It just bothered me. So much for sanctity. After all, he's running outta time. For god's sake, soon enough he'll be part of the "Single Adult" group--*shiver*
Isn't that reason enough?
Thoughts?
And you know, it's fun when someone you love is in a serious relationship. It's exciting.
That said, I have my thoughts about this particular guy, but I realize I could be wrong. Still. A single LDS man who hasn't (as far as I'm aware) gone on many dates and is pushing thirty...well. Flags raise.
Is that wrong? I've other hints I won't divulge here. Nothing huge, but hints.
Not that I'd care--but his family and friends and community sure as hell would.
So his family discussed his situation the other day. One declared he simply needs to "man up" and just ask the girl to marry him already. Everyone agreed. After all, he and his girlfriend are acting engaged. And they are. I guess. I suppose this is reason enough to put the ring on her finger already?
Who knows.
His father said his son has doubts, a lot of doubts. The kid knows what he needs to do, his dad said, but he's scared. It must be due to lovin' the single life, to freedom, to doing whatever he wants. Maybe it is. But maybe it's not quite that simple. After all, it's not as if he's out partying every night. He travels. He does charity work in South America. He's getting his master's degree. He works for the church. He has friends. You know?
But, his sister chimed, he loves children, and if he wants children he'd better do it now. After all, she has four children and she's only few months younger than he is. He'd better get to if he wants even one kid. If he waits too much longer, parenting will simply exhaust him. If he waits too much longer, kids will be out of the picture.
And forget children, they said. What of the marriage? All these people waiting to get married. Don't they know? The older you get the more set in your ways you become and therefore the less willing you are to compromise. "Man up" said that that's why you marry young, while you're still used to sharing with your brothers and sisters.
It's dangerous to wait until you know who you are before you marry someone because then you're an old dog who can't learn new tricks. In this situation, they reasoned, divorce is far more likely.
Nevermind that he wants to get married. Just maybe not to this girl. Maybe.
I bit my tongue throughout the conversation. So much was wrong.
If marriage is so sacred perhaps he ought to be completely certain he's ready for it. Maybe he ought to marry this girl because he wants to marry this girl. Maybe he ought to marry her because he loves her and wants to make a lifelong commitment--not simply to satisfy cultural, religious, and familial expectations.
After all, there will be kids to consider. The life of a girl he cares about. His own happiness.
His family has his best interests at heart. They want him to marry, to have children, to be happy. They think he's happy with her, that they're better when they're together. I have a feeling, though, that this girl could be any girl and his family would be foaming at the mouth for him to marry her.
Their rationale just sounded so selfish to me. The whole thing was striking given the sanctity of marriage schpeal I've heard so often over the last few years.
Some girl, any girl, JUST MARRY A GIRL.
You know?
I'm not about to say this family is completely wrong. They know him better than I do, but I have a different lens with which to view him. A lens not skewed by the church.
It just bothered me. So much for sanctity. After all, he's running outta time. For god's sake, soon enough he'll be part of the "Single Adult" group--*shiver*
Isn't that reason enough?
Thoughts?
Friday, January 21, 2011
Ghostly Logic and Confidence
(yes, i know. but i found this in my drafts and thought "what the hell")
Had the in-laws over a few weeks ago. Big birthday party for all to be had.
The conversation in many ways proved interesting. As it often happens, talk went to how one family member loves to be scared but shouldn't be because she becomes SO FREAKED OUT. So we spoke of San Jose's Winchester House, Alcatraz, and then the TV show "The Ghost Hunters." This also, as it does now, leads to me telling others how much (cough) fun Eric is now when it comes to supernatural subjects. NO FUN. But, in this instance, it was also kind of sexy.
"You don't believe in ghosts?" someone asked him.
No apologies, just a very strong "No."
I swear, I wanted to jump him. There's something unbelievably sexy about that kind of unabashed confidence in the right kind of company. This company.
So we're talking ghosts and whether or not they're an actually existing entity when discussion turns to the logistics of a spirit moving physical objects. My first thought was: really? we're going to decide what's possible and what's not? how can you decide that when you believe what you do?
And then my husband's BIL says "Ghosts can't move physical objects because that's what bodies are for." Duh.
I just kind of looked at him. It spoke, for readers who don't know, to the teaching that everyone living on the Earth came here to acquire a body--a necessity for the afterlife.
This particular man is a good man--one of the best, but he can be a bit arrogant and pious. He's always right, you know? I grew up around this, so I have a bit of a physical reaction to it. So realizing that I knew that he wasn't necessarily right was a very good thing.
It's a matter of where my confidences lie. One of my biggest issues lies in not embracing my own beliefs. The fact that I felt sure enough in myself to not yield to his in the name of propriety was an exciting thing.
More and more I realize I need to sort out what I believe, accept it and love it in order for it to affect my relationships the way it ought to. I look forward to that. It only seems to be a process that lives on its own account and doesn't always seem to be something I can control. In a way that makes it better, but in a way that makes it worse, too. That said, last night it made it empowering, and I'm grateful for that.
Had the in-laws over a few weeks ago. Big birthday party for all to be had.
The conversation in many ways proved interesting. As it often happens, talk went to how one family member loves to be scared but shouldn't be because she becomes SO FREAKED OUT. So we spoke of San Jose's Winchester House, Alcatraz, and then the TV show "The Ghost Hunters." This also, as it does now, leads to me telling others how much (cough) fun Eric is now when it comes to supernatural subjects. NO FUN. But, in this instance, it was also kind of sexy.
"You don't believe in ghosts?" someone asked him.
No apologies, just a very strong "No."
I swear, I wanted to jump him. There's something unbelievably sexy about that kind of unabashed confidence in the right kind of company. This company.
So we're talking ghosts and whether or not they're an actually existing entity when discussion turns to the logistics of a spirit moving physical objects. My first thought was: really? we're going to decide what's possible and what's not? how can you decide that when you believe what you do?
And then my husband's BIL says "Ghosts can't move physical objects because that's what bodies are for." Duh.
I just kind of looked at him. It spoke, for readers who don't know, to the teaching that everyone living on the Earth came here to acquire a body--a necessity for the afterlife.
This particular man is a good man--one of the best, but he can be a bit arrogant and pious. He's always right, you know? I grew up around this, so I have a bit of a physical reaction to it. So realizing that I knew that he wasn't necessarily right was a very good thing.
It's a matter of where my confidences lie. One of my biggest issues lies in not embracing my own beliefs. The fact that I felt sure enough in myself to not yield to his in the name of propriety was an exciting thing.
More and more I realize I need to sort out what I believe, accept it and love it in order for it to affect my relationships the way it ought to. I look forward to that. It only seems to be a process that lives on its own account and doesn't always seem to be something I can control. In a way that makes it better, but in a way that makes it worse, too. That said, last night it made it empowering, and I'm grateful for that.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
My step-MIL
My husband's stepmom is a convert. She served in the Army (one of the branches...can't remember which one). She converted to the church in the mid 90s. She is a survivor of an abusive marriage.
This woman has a mind of her own. Someone you don't want on your bad side, but if you're on her good side she will take the best care of you.
She keeps rum in the house for hot toddies when she gets sick. It makes my FIL so happy (according to Eric. i don't think FIL would ever speak of this to anyone)
And she just told me that the best remedy for a persistent, 3-week-long cough is black tea with honey and whiskey.
I don't know what she's doing in the church. She tells me on occasion in efforts to get me to reconsider church that she goes (which she doesn't. not very often) because she loves the gospel of christ. I imagine she also stays because FIL is very zealous. Very. She is not. But don't suggest that to her.
She also has a list of reasons she "cannot" go to the temple when the family comes up with a trip idea.
I don't understand her, but I'm willing to try her cough treatment. The shit my stupid doctor gave me isn't working well enough.
This woman has a mind of her own. Someone you don't want on your bad side, but if you're on her good side she will take the best care of you.
She keeps rum in the house for hot toddies when she gets sick. It makes my FIL so happy (according to Eric. i don't think FIL would ever speak of this to anyone)
And she just told me that the best remedy for a persistent, 3-week-long cough is black tea with honey and whiskey.
I don't know what she's doing in the church. She tells me on occasion in efforts to get me to reconsider church that she goes (which she doesn't. not very often) because she loves the gospel of christ. I imagine she also stays because FIL is very zealous. Very. She is not. But don't suggest that to her.
She also has a list of reasons she "cannot" go to the temple when the family comes up with a trip idea.
I don't understand her, but I'm willing to try her cough treatment. The shit my stupid doctor gave me isn't working well enough.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
My grandpa died today.
Historically, I don't handle death well.
After today I wonder if that is just something I've always told myself. Truth, it has always been the idea of death that I didn't handle well. The idea that one minute they're there, the next they're gone. I'm horribly nostalgic, too. It's also the mystery of death. The thought about the pain that goes with it. The last, secret moments before relief.
I received the phone call on Thursday or Friday about his having a stroke and being at the hospital, how it was "not looking good." They said if I wanted to come, then I needed to come now. I couldn't. I've had bronchitis for a while and didn't think the hospital would smile on me coming down to see him and I didn't know if I'd just make things worse by doing so. The next day I was so out of my mind it scared me. I wasn't able to stand for more than five minutes until today, so when I was told he was on life support but that they were pulling the plug, there was little I could do. But I'm pretty sure my stepmom at least faulted me to some degree for not coming more quickly. It wouldn't be a lie to say that a part of me hesitated to go, but I've done a lot of thinking lately and, with Eric's help, began to look at this situation from a different angle.
Besides, my grandma and my dad--I needed to be there for them. I cannot imagine losing my husband or my father. I wanted them to know I was there for real.
So when my sister texted me earlier today to tell me his respiration was failing and his extremities growing cold, I called my mom and asked her to watch the kids for us while. We left at approximately 1pm. I didn't know what I was getting myself into. I prefer privacy when it comes to saying goodbye to somebody--something I'd only done once before, but then my aunt was more alive than dead (she had stage 4 cancer and liked to put on a show of strength for everyone). I also told myself he'd probably pass as we were on our way, and then what was the point?
But there was a point. I just wouldn't know until I was there.
My mom and Eric asked me if I'd regret not going. I knew I might. I thought about my grandma--she has a ton of land with a small farm quite a distance from town, and she's living with her abusive and possibly certifiably insane daughter. At 75, it feels far too much for her.
We walked in the room at about 2pm. I made my way to the side of his bed and watched him. I thought he was asleep. Alive, but asleep. His eyes were closed, his mouth agape. The nurse was there. It took me a moment to figure out what was going on. I quite literally missed him by about two minutes, if not less. It broke me up that we missed him by just seconds. Stories were told about his last days, his last moments, things I wished I could've been there for. Apparently just before he passed he moved both his arms up, something that surprised the family as he was brain dead on the left side and assumed paralyzed.
I've never seen a dead person before. Ever. I've refused viewings, all of that. I didn't want that to be my last memory of the person. I've also not lost very many people close to me. Two, maybe. Maybe.
Eric, having used the bathroom, came in a minute or so after I did. I didn't know if I should've said it out loud, but I did before I really knew what I was saying. "We're too late," I said. That was a hard reality to face.
See, this past holiday season we had opted to visit Eric's mom. It wasn't a big deal for Thanksgiving, so much, but Christmas. I had a feeling it'd be his last. You just don't suddenly deal with mini-strokes and dementia and falling down all over the place (to the point you're put in a nursing home temporarily) and not be swiftly on your way out. Even knowing that, though, I didn't go. First it was a matter of "I don't want to," but no decisions were made. I didn't want to deal with that side of my family--they can be rather labor intensive at times. When we discovered we had no money for gas, the decision, I figured, was made for us.
Besides, I think I figured him to last longer than this.
My dad and my grandma sounded terrible on the phone when I spoke to them only a few days before, but here in the hospital room they were putting on their stoic faces. My dad was taking care of all the crapwork--answering questions, that sort of thing. My grandma was talking about other things but if you looked at her close enough, you could see she was suffering. His death means a lot of things. She kept saying she didn't know where to begin, that this was a nightmare (she walked out of the room for just a moment, and when she returned he was gone). My dad tried to be strong, but every now and again his words and actions would belie him. Five or so minutes after we arrived, my dad went to my grandpa and shook his shoulder, saying "It's okay, Dad. It's really okay." I spoke with him right before we left and asked how he was doing. He said he figured his would be a delayed reaction. He also spoke of taking a moment during a trip to her house to look at all the things my grandfather had made. They used to go cut wood together. He's resigned himself now to not do that anymore. It's sad for me to hear that--every year they did it. They were great friends. If I can say anything about my father, it is this: he is amazing when it comes to taking care of his family.
My grandfather was a Korean war veteran and a machinist. He astounded me with his knowledge. He had his own little saw mill where he could take tree trunks and make 2 x 4s. He made his own nuts and bolts. His garage is something to marvel at. My dad has no idea how they're going to get through it all.
Everyone, of course, began to guess what my grandpa was up to now that he was gone. "He's probably meeting a lot of people right now," they said. "Probably eating a whole load of cookies." "Got a platter of food, I'll bet." Stuff like that. My grandma talked about how some people, right before they die, are reported as smiling and/or waving, or saying hello to themselves, how if that doesn't prove an afterlife she doesn't know what does. Of course I let her have this. I let them all have this. As for me, I didn't believe it. I just didn't.
Same goes for looking at his body. My SIL, after seeing her friend's dead son at his viewing, told me that it was a good experience--she, too, had balked at such things before. She said it reaffirmed to her that our bodies are mere shells. She could tell his spirit was gone. I spent some time looking at my grandfather, wondering if I saw and felt the same thing. I didn't. Other than the lack of breathing, it just seemed like he was in the room. He wasn't, and I knew that--I felt that--but it wasn't like something was missing. If I didn't think about it, he was just sleeping.
I also kept looking at him because I knew I wanted to go touch him and say goodbye. I had asked my dad over the phone yesterday to kiss him for me, but I wasn't sure he'd do that. Besides, I was there. Everyone else would take his hand and kiss his forehead. I wanted to, but I was absolutely terrified. I spent our entire visit debating with myself. I knew I'd regret it if I didn't, but I was afraid of rigor mortis and the cold of the dead.
Right before we left, I determined to approach him. I kissed him on the forehead. I think I said something but I don't remember what it was. I worried for a moment about my hair falling into his eyes but remembered straightaway that it didn't matter anymore. His skin was cold to the touch, but it wasn't a special kind of deathly cold. It was just as if he needed a blanket.
There's something comforting to me about just knowing that he was gone. Not that he, individually, was gone, but I wasn't worrying or speculating over what his spirit was doing or where he was. I didn't wonder about him being in the room with us, as my mom tried to reassure me he was (because we were too late). He was just gone, and it was up to us to make something good of it. It gave me a sense of strength I hadn't felt before.
I've thought a lot lately about being honest with myself. I fight with myself about Jesus--not so much god anymore, but Jesus. I'm holding on to threads, just like I did with Mormonism, but I think deep down I just don't believe. I have the door cracked, of course, but mostly I don't believe. And that's okay.
I'm going to miss him. I keep thinking about how he played "this little piggy" with my cousins and I when we were just little. He and my grandma weren't in a happy, loving marriage but they stuck together. He took great care of her and she of him. For a long time he didn't come with her to family get-togethers, and if he did he was quiet. He'd speak with my dad and my uncle out in the garage, of course, but in the home he was in his seat, sleeping. The last few years he became much more sociable. It was fun to see him that way.
I'm sure there's more to say. This is probably more for me than you, but that's okay. This is my journal.
I'm gonna miss him, but mostly I'm worried about my grandma. I'm sure that's okay. As for myself, I'm pretty proud. I fought through a lot to do what was best.
After today I wonder if that is just something I've always told myself. Truth, it has always been the idea of death that I didn't handle well. The idea that one minute they're there, the next they're gone. I'm horribly nostalgic, too. It's also the mystery of death. The thought about the pain that goes with it. The last, secret moments before relief.
I received the phone call on Thursday or Friday about his having a stroke and being at the hospital, how it was "not looking good." They said if I wanted to come, then I needed to come now. I couldn't. I've had bronchitis for a while and didn't think the hospital would smile on me coming down to see him and I didn't know if I'd just make things worse by doing so. The next day I was so out of my mind it scared me. I wasn't able to stand for more than five minutes until today, so when I was told he was on life support but that they were pulling the plug, there was little I could do. But I'm pretty sure my stepmom at least faulted me to some degree for not coming more quickly. It wouldn't be a lie to say that a part of me hesitated to go, but I've done a lot of thinking lately and, with Eric's help, began to look at this situation from a different angle.
Besides, my grandma and my dad--I needed to be there for them. I cannot imagine losing my husband or my father. I wanted them to know I was there for real.
So when my sister texted me earlier today to tell me his respiration was failing and his extremities growing cold, I called my mom and asked her to watch the kids for us while. We left at approximately 1pm. I didn't know what I was getting myself into. I prefer privacy when it comes to saying goodbye to somebody--something I'd only done once before, but then my aunt was more alive than dead (she had stage 4 cancer and liked to put on a show of strength for everyone). I also told myself he'd probably pass as we were on our way, and then what was the point?
But there was a point. I just wouldn't know until I was there.
My mom and Eric asked me if I'd regret not going. I knew I might. I thought about my grandma--she has a ton of land with a small farm quite a distance from town, and she's living with her abusive and possibly certifiably insane daughter. At 75, it feels far too much for her.
We walked in the room at about 2pm. I made my way to the side of his bed and watched him. I thought he was asleep. Alive, but asleep. His eyes were closed, his mouth agape. The nurse was there. It took me a moment to figure out what was going on. I quite literally missed him by about two minutes, if not less. It broke me up that we missed him by just seconds. Stories were told about his last days, his last moments, things I wished I could've been there for. Apparently just before he passed he moved both his arms up, something that surprised the family as he was brain dead on the left side and assumed paralyzed.
I've never seen a dead person before. Ever. I've refused viewings, all of that. I didn't want that to be my last memory of the person. I've also not lost very many people close to me. Two, maybe. Maybe.
Eric, having used the bathroom, came in a minute or so after I did. I didn't know if I should've said it out loud, but I did before I really knew what I was saying. "We're too late," I said. That was a hard reality to face.
See, this past holiday season we had opted to visit Eric's mom. It wasn't a big deal for Thanksgiving, so much, but Christmas. I had a feeling it'd be his last. You just don't suddenly deal with mini-strokes and dementia and falling down all over the place (to the point you're put in a nursing home temporarily) and not be swiftly on your way out. Even knowing that, though, I didn't go. First it was a matter of "I don't want to," but no decisions were made. I didn't want to deal with that side of my family--they can be rather labor intensive at times. When we discovered we had no money for gas, the decision, I figured, was made for us.
Besides, I think I figured him to last longer than this.
My dad and my grandma sounded terrible on the phone when I spoke to them only a few days before, but here in the hospital room they were putting on their stoic faces. My dad was taking care of all the crapwork--answering questions, that sort of thing. My grandma was talking about other things but if you looked at her close enough, you could see she was suffering. His death means a lot of things. She kept saying she didn't know where to begin, that this was a nightmare (she walked out of the room for just a moment, and when she returned he was gone). My dad tried to be strong, but every now and again his words and actions would belie him. Five or so minutes after we arrived, my dad went to my grandpa and shook his shoulder, saying "It's okay, Dad. It's really okay." I spoke with him right before we left and asked how he was doing. He said he figured his would be a delayed reaction. He also spoke of taking a moment during a trip to her house to look at all the things my grandfather had made. They used to go cut wood together. He's resigned himself now to not do that anymore. It's sad for me to hear that--every year they did it. They were great friends. If I can say anything about my father, it is this: he is amazing when it comes to taking care of his family.
My grandfather was a Korean war veteran and a machinist. He astounded me with his knowledge. He had his own little saw mill where he could take tree trunks and make 2 x 4s. He made his own nuts and bolts. His garage is something to marvel at. My dad has no idea how they're going to get through it all.
Everyone, of course, began to guess what my grandpa was up to now that he was gone. "He's probably meeting a lot of people right now," they said. "Probably eating a whole load of cookies." "Got a platter of food, I'll bet." Stuff like that. My grandma talked about how some people, right before they die, are reported as smiling and/or waving, or saying hello to themselves, how if that doesn't prove an afterlife she doesn't know what does. Of course I let her have this. I let them all have this. As for me, I didn't believe it. I just didn't.
Same goes for looking at his body. My SIL, after seeing her friend's dead son at his viewing, told me that it was a good experience--she, too, had balked at such things before. She said it reaffirmed to her that our bodies are mere shells. She could tell his spirit was gone. I spent some time looking at my grandfather, wondering if I saw and felt the same thing. I didn't. Other than the lack of breathing, it just seemed like he was in the room. He wasn't, and I knew that--I felt that--but it wasn't like something was missing. If I didn't think about it, he was just sleeping.
I also kept looking at him because I knew I wanted to go touch him and say goodbye. I had asked my dad over the phone yesterday to kiss him for me, but I wasn't sure he'd do that. Besides, I was there. Everyone else would take his hand and kiss his forehead. I wanted to, but I was absolutely terrified. I spent our entire visit debating with myself. I knew I'd regret it if I didn't, but I was afraid of rigor mortis and the cold of the dead.
Right before we left, I determined to approach him. I kissed him on the forehead. I think I said something but I don't remember what it was. I worried for a moment about my hair falling into his eyes but remembered straightaway that it didn't matter anymore. His skin was cold to the touch, but it wasn't a special kind of deathly cold. It was just as if he needed a blanket.
There's something comforting to me about just knowing that he was gone. Not that he, individually, was gone, but I wasn't worrying or speculating over what his spirit was doing or where he was. I didn't wonder about him being in the room with us, as my mom tried to reassure me he was (because we were too late). He was just gone, and it was up to us to make something good of it. It gave me a sense of strength I hadn't felt before.
I've thought a lot lately about being honest with myself. I fight with myself about Jesus--not so much god anymore, but Jesus. I'm holding on to threads, just like I did with Mormonism, but I think deep down I just don't believe. I have the door cracked, of course, but mostly I don't believe. And that's okay.
I'm going to miss him. I keep thinking about how he played "this little piggy" with my cousins and I when we were just little. He and my grandma weren't in a happy, loving marriage but they stuck together. He took great care of her and she of him. For a long time he didn't come with her to family get-togethers, and if he did he was quiet. He'd speak with my dad and my uncle out in the garage, of course, but in the home he was in his seat, sleeping. The last few years he became much more sociable. It was fun to see him that way.
I'm sure there's more to say. This is probably more for me than you, but that's okay. This is my journal.
I'm gonna miss him, but mostly I'm worried about my grandma. I'm sure that's okay. As for myself, I'm pretty proud. I fought through a lot to do what was best.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Christmas
You know, I get that the snarky and funny and general pain-in-the-ass posts brings all the boys to the yard but the last few days I'm not feeling it so much.
Except for my Joe Smith birthday picture. That was pretty funny. At least to me.
Spent the day at the in-laws and have done a bit of thinking. I do this every now and again, get all introspective and that shizz--start to feel bad for including their comments and whatnot in my posts. My comments are not meant to be personal--again, dislike the church, love the people. Most of them, at least. They are people. It's what the church does to the people.
That said--and this is a big but--I love watching Eric and his siblings interact. They are, no joke, the best people I know. His youngest brother gave up his bed for me five Christmases ago when I was in active labor with Joseph. That was not an easy time for any of us. His sister (and the youngest brother) babysat the two other monkeys while I dealt with being in labor without my asking.
His younger sister used to be my best friend ever. And while she's changed considerably and while she was totally against "Christmas Vacation" tonight and does all that stuff, I love her. I used to say I missed her terribly, but I think I'm a few steps into acceptance. She used to be the girl who made me want so much to find a way to be a part of the church, but I'm no longer trying. It's funny how there's one person for each little step for me: one friend who makes me want to fit into the LDS creed, and then there's another who makes me want to try to fit into Christianity--even if just a little. Another post I'll hopefully remember later.
Anyway, five of Eric's six siblings were there today and they are all fun to watch. My brother and I are not close, and I'll freely admit I'm jealous I didn't and don't have the family Eric has. If that's what being LDS meant--having an amazing family--I'd totally rethink this. But I'm being idealistic, even there. Still, they are so neat to be around. I am the weirdo in their midst, but I'm hardly ignored--they try, dog bless them. There's a hope in being around them that my family will be even a little like them. I don't want my family to be like the one I grew up with. This fear, the one that leaving meant we were doomed to be like mine, was a big one that kept me from accepting my disillusionment.
But you know, my dad called me today. He's done that quite a bit lately (quite a bit being more than once), and today was special because he called me just to see how things were going. My dad doesn't do that.
And even though it would've been fine because we were at MILs house and they're all active members, church talk was minimal. Like ridiculously minimal. One mention of Christ's birth during the blessing of the fud and a gift of "The Princess Bride" that brought the comment "Every Mormon family has this movie!"
Which, you know, they do. And if they don't the individual people can quote the entire thing for you. Maybe that was another sign I'd never make it: "The Princess Bride" has played for me about five times and I've only stayed awake for it once. Not because I found it boring--not at all--I was just always sleepy when it played. Bad timing. Indeed.
And now it's eleven o'clock. The kids went to bed about twenty minutes ago, having been up since about 5am. I expect to sleep in in the morning, and now we've a big family get-together for all the late december/early january birthdays in the family (so many that i was afraid to announce joseph's due date), planned before the sibs go back home.
Like I said, I don't feel like I belong so much (especially anymore), but I like being around them all the same.
I could've done a LOT worse. I truly struck gold.
Except for my Joe Smith birthday picture. That was pretty funny. At least to me.
Spent the day at the in-laws and have done a bit of thinking. I do this every now and again, get all introspective and that shizz--start to feel bad for including their comments and whatnot in my posts. My comments are not meant to be personal--again, dislike the church, love the people. Most of them, at least. They are people. It's what the church does to the people.
That said--and this is a big but--I love watching Eric and his siblings interact. They are, no joke, the best people I know. His youngest brother gave up his bed for me five Christmases ago when I was in active labor with Joseph. That was not an easy time for any of us. His sister (and the youngest brother) babysat the two other monkeys while I dealt with being in labor without my asking.
His younger sister used to be my best friend ever. And while she's changed considerably and while she was totally against "Christmas Vacation" tonight and does all that stuff, I love her. I used to say I missed her terribly, but I think I'm a few steps into acceptance. She used to be the girl who made me want so much to find a way to be a part of the church, but I'm no longer trying. It's funny how there's one person for each little step for me: one friend who makes me want to fit into the LDS creed, and then there's another who makes me want to try to fit into Christianity--even if just a little. Another post I'll hopefully remember later.
Anyway, five of Eric's six siblings were there today and they are all fun to watch. My brother and I are not close, and I'll freely admit I'm jealous I didn't and don't have the family Eric has. If that's what being LDS meant--having an amazing family--I'd totally rethink this. But I'm being idealistic, even there. Still, they are so neat to be around. I am the weirdo in their midst, but I'm hardly ignored--they try, dog bless them. There's a hope in being around them that my family will be even a little like them. I don't want my family to be like the one I grew up with. This fear, the one that leaving meant we were doomed to be like mine, was a big one that kept me from accepting my disillusionment.
But you know, my dad called me today. He's done that quite a bit lately (quite a bit being more than once), and today was special because he called me just to see how things were going. My dad doesn't do that.
And even though it would've been fine because we were at MILs house and they're all active members, church talk was minimal. Like ridiculously minimal. One mention of Christ's birth during the blessing of the fud and a gift of "The Princess Bride" that brought the comment "Every Mormon family has this movie!"
Which, you know, they do. And if they don't the individual people can quote the entire thing for you. Maybe that was another sign I'd never make it: "The Princess Bride" has played for me about five times and I've only stayed awake for it once. Not because I found it boring--not at all--I was just always sleepy when it played. Bad timing. Indeed.
And now it's eleven o'clock. The kids went to bed about twenty minutes ago, having been up since about 5am. I expect to sleep in in the morning, and now we've a big family get-together for all the late december/early january birthdays in the family (so many that i was afraid to announce joseph's due date), planned before the sibs go back home.
Like I said, I don't feel like I belong so much (especially anymore), but I like being around them all the same.
I could've done a LOT worse. I truly struck gold.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Merry Christmas
Sometimes, as some of you might know already, I feel like I can be a bit bitchier than is called for. My "War on Christmas" commentary included--
I realize what I've said cannot be wholly or honestly categorized as violent or to the same standard as others, but I've certainly put in my own two cents, much of what isn't necessarily original. You know, "the date is pagan, blahblahblah"
And while I've said it before, I want to say it again: I understand that the birth of Christ is an integral part of the holiday for many, many people.
I just get annoyed.
Even as an active Christian, this war on Christmas crap bothered me. Happy Holidays was just fine. Seasons Greetings. All of it is better than "Fuck off." And it did bother me to walk into Walmart and hear a very pointed "Merry Christmas" from their employees, knowing it was specifically called for from a company who places Christian things on its shelves and keeps its stuff "family friendly." Honest to god, I see more Glenn Beck crap than anything else in there.
All the while dealing with the guilt that is associated with shopping at Walmart. And now Target.
But that's a whole 'nother post.
I just wish this time of year encompassed everything it claims to be about, but all of this bitching doesn't make it what it is supposed to be. I watch these programs that tell us about love and hope and giving--nothing exclusively Christian, but values Christianity claims, but I don't see it. I see a lot of people fighting over who is the biggest victim. I wish it wasn't.
These days I lean more atheist, one who needs a lot of help in the living authentically department, but I believe in these things too.
Christ hung out with the sinners. He didn't condemn them--he told them to sin no more, but he had compassion. It was the hypocrites he didn't care for. He broke the rules in order to serve the poor and needy.
This is the time of year, I think, when everyone should reconsider their thoughts and actions and keep it to themselves instead of projecting their faults onto others and then judging others for their projected faults. I've been a bit proud myself, thinking I was better because I don't need a carrot. I think we all need carrots, whether it be heaven or a good reputation, a good feeling inside. Years ago I took a class called "Philosophy of Religion" as an LDS investigator under the guise of seeking it all out. The professor argued that pure altruism didn't exist--there's always a motive in doing good. Always. I rejected his argument in totality back then, but sometimes (like now) I wonder more and more if he was right. But is that so bad, and if not, how can I judge those who need heaven in order to do good? I don't think it's good to need heaven because I'd rather deal with people who are good to be good, but is that always the case with these folks?
Again, a whole other post.
I like Christ. I don't think I believe he was necessarily a divine being or even a being period, but I like much of what I read about him. Some of what I read, with special consideration of Matthew 5:48, makes my shoulders turn to brick:
That one always gets to me. When I'm not kicking myself for not being perfect, I'm kicking myself for feeling perfect.
Anyway, what was that Gandhi said? It's so popular these days, especially in light of Anne Rice's distancing from Christianity: "I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ."
But I shouldn't judge. Some of the best people I know consider themselves Christian. Religion has no bearing on who is good and who is not.
And I guess that's the point. This blog/journal here is to work my way through my feelings regarding religion, and from time to time I get up on my high horse and preach preach preach. I'll make fun. And I'll probably do it again and again. Sometimes I'll feel justified, other times I'll apologize and perhaps even delete. I believe in poking fun, and I believe that religion can be more harmful than helpful. I hate the LDS church, even though it was there for me when I needed something good the most. I still don't understand that. There is a lot about spirituality and the need for religion that I don't understand. So I may not like religion but that doesn't mean I don't like its people. I don't know about it being good while acknowledging that it does good things. These days I can't figure out my fascination with Catholicism (I want to attend mass) while knowing what I know about the abuses therein.
Without trying to this year I bought two different kinds of Christmas cards--one said "Merry Christmas" and the other "Happy Holidays." For the briefest moment I considered being an ass and sending people like my father the "Happy Holidays" one, but stopped. This really isn't the time of year for that--and is any time of year appropriate for that? When I'm feeling mature enough I realize there is not. That doesn't mean I wasn't an ass in some other cards, just to the people who would appreciate it.
There are moments I feel pretty good about myself, but they're few and far between. Lately I've done little but degrade myself. But I'm trying. I think most people are.
I think that's all that matters.
So Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays--whatever you like. It doesn't matter. God knows Christians and atheists alike celebrate, and if he's the kind of god Christians claim he is, he won't and doesn't give a shit about labels, just the heart. And it's in this way that I don't think Christmas is exclusively Christian.
Besides, O Little Town of Bethlehem remains my favorite Christmas song. Ever.
What's more, the LDS Hymns version (MoTab?) is the only acceptable version.
I realize what I've said cannot be wholly or honestly categorized as violent or to the same standard as others, but I've certainly put in my own two cents, much of what isn't necessarily original. You know, "the date is pagan, blahblahblah"
And while I've said it before, I want to say it again: I understand that the birth of Christ is an integral part of the holiday for many, many people.
I just get annoyed.
Even as an active Christian, this war on Christmas crap bothered me. Happy Holidays was just fine. Seasons Greetings. All of it is better than "Fuck off." And it did bother me to walk into Walmart and hear a very pointed "Merry Christmas" from their employees, knowing it was specifically called for from a company who places Christian things on its shelves and keeps its stuff "family friendly." Honest to god, I see more Glenn Beck crap than anything else in there.
All the while dealing with the guilt that is associated with shopping at Walmart. And now Target.
But that's a whole 'nother post.
I just wish this time of year encompassed everything it claims to be about, but all of this bitching doesn't make it what it is supposed to be. I watch these programs that tell us about love and hope and giving--nothing exclusively Christian, but values Christianity claims, but I don't see it. I see a lot of people fighting over who is the biggest victim. I wish it wasn't.
These days I lean more atheist, one who needs a lot of help in the living authentically department, but I believe in these things too.
Christ hung out with the sinners. He didn't condemn them--he told them to sin no more, but he had compassion. It was the hypocrites he didn't care for. He broke the rules in order to serve the poor and needy.
This is the time of year, I think, when everyone should reconsider their thoughts and actions and keep it to themselves instead of projecting their faults onto others and then judging others for their projected faults. I've been a bit proud myself, thinking I was better because I don't need a carrot. I think we all need carrots, whether it be heaven or a good reputation, a good feeling inside. Years ago I took a class called "Philosophy of Religion" as an LDS investigator under the guise of seeking it all out. The professor argued that pure altruism didn't exist--there's always a motive in doing good. Always. I rejected his argument in totality back then, but sometimes (like now) I wonder more and more if he was right. But is that so bad, and if not, how can I judge those who need heaven in order to do good? I don't think it's good to need heaven because I'd rather deal with people who are good to be good, but is that always the case with these folks?
Again, a whole other post.
I like Christ. I don't think I believe he was necessarily a divine being or even a being period, but I like much of what I read about him. Some of what I read, with special consideration of Matthew 5:48, makes my shoulders turn to brick:
Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.
That one always gets to me. When I'm not kicking myself for not being perfect, I'm kicking myself for feeling perfect.
Anyway, what was that Gandhi said? It's so popular these days, especially in light of Anne Rice's distancing from Christianity: "I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ."
But I shouldn't judge. Some of the best people I know consider themselves Christian. Religion has no bearing on who is good and who is not.
And I guess that's the point. This blog/journal here is to work my way through my feelings regarding religion, and from time to time I get up on my high horse and preach preach preach. I'll make fun. And I'll probably do it again and again. Sometimes I'll feel justified, other times I'll apologize and perhaps even delete. I believe in poking fun, and I believe that religion can be more harmful than helpful. I hate the LDS church, even though it was there for me when I needed something good the most. I still don't understand that. There is a lot about spirituality and the need for religion that I don't understand. So I may not like religion but that doesn't mean I don't like its people. I don't know about it being good while acknowledging that it does good things. These days I can't figure out my fascination with Catholicism (I want to attend mass) while knowing what I know about the abuses therein.
Without trying to this year I bought two different kinds of Christmas cards--one said "Merry Christmas" and the other "Happy Holidays." For the briefest moment I considered being an ass and sending people like my father the "Happy Holidays" one, but stopped. This really isn't the time of year for that--and is any time of year appropriate for that? When I'm feeling mature enough I realize there is not. That doesn't mean I wasn't an ass in some other cards, just to the people who would appreciate it.
There are moments I feel pretty good about myself, but they're few and far between. Lately I've done little but degrade myself. But I'm trying. I think most people are.
I think that's all that matters.
So Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays--whatever you like. It doesn't matter. God knows Christians and atheists alike celebrate, and if he's the kind of god Christians claim he is, he won't and doesn't give a shit about labels, just the heart. And it's in this way that I don't think Christmas is exclusively Christian.
Besides, O Little Town of Bethlehem remains my favorite Christmas song. Ever.
What's more, the LDS Hymns version (MoTab?) is the only acceptable version.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Loud Laughter
I've probably told the first part of this story before on my last blog, but not everyone here read that blog (I think?) and/or doesn't remember it.
So, loud laughter. If you've been to the temple you made that promise to avoid it. I never really knew what this meant--huh? Can't laugh loud? WTF is that all about?
Weird.
But you know, it's hard not to. Especially when you're in Sunday School and your husband is thumbing through the scriptures for some reason and starts to giggle. I nudged him. I'm easily embarrassed.
"Look," he whispered, offering his scriptures to me. Joshua 5:3
And Joshua made him sharp knives, and circumcised the children of Israel at the hill of the foreskins.
I BUSTED A GUT.
I don't know why this was so hilarious to us at the time--perhaps the lesson was especially boring that morning, or perhaps it was because Eric and I tend to have our minds in the gutter more often than most (it seems--am I wrong?) Not that our minds were in the gutter, so much, but "hill of the foreskins" just hit our funny bone.
We couldn't shut up. Front row. Everyone's looking at us, and we know it, but "hill of the foreskins" is an immensely funny phrase at the moment and it was going to take us a while to get over our fit.
Granted, not exactly a situation of "loud laughter" but irreverent nonetheless, being that we were in the middle of Gospel Doctrine learning about whatever regurgitated and repetitive nonsense Correlation had decided was doctrine that year.
It was fun. We would turn to that verse often throughout the following years. It wasn't always so funny, but it's a good memory. When we dared tell the story to others (this was in our active days), our recounting was generally met with quizzical but polite smiles and nervous laughter.
Foreskins, ha!
Fast forward about...oh, five years. We believe this took place the last time Eric and I entered a temple. Sacramento, California. I wasn't a big fan of this temple. Small, whatever. And you had to make an appointment. Laaaame. I'm loyal to Oakland. My first temple, where I was married, big and has a cafeteria and clothing rentals. Maybe not as shiny, but gorgeous.
Anyway.
So we took Eric's dad, sister, and BIL with us to the temple to do something or other. Endowment session, I think. We ended up being late, so we called to let them know. Nothing they could do, they said. We had a late appointment.
But wait! You have three priesthood members? Could you pretty plz do some sealing sessions?
We agreed. Once we arrived, we dressed ourselves in the weird getup and somehow ended up in the sealing room with an older man who acted as the sealer. I don't remember much about this day except that Eric broke into a random fit of giggles in the middle of the ordinances.
It was fucking hilarious, y'all. But I didn't think want to let on that I thought so at the time, being concerned about offending his family. Other than his sister being there, his fucking dad was there. He can be rather devout.
Instead of getting chastised, everyone else (except the sealer, and maybe his dad) started laughing too. The sealer didn't know what the hell to do.
People, it was priceless.
That said, on the way home Eric ran a red light at one of those camera intersections and we got BUSTED. I'm sure they think it was some sort of punishment for the irreverent way he acted in the temple. It sucked, for sure. Five hundred dollars hurts.
But the memory of the sealer is still funny. Like Eric said the other day, it could've been funnier if he would've chastised us. Mostly he just looked at us like this O_o and went about his business.
(Slightly off topic) another way to make a temple worker look at you like you've grown two heads: get your new name for your dead person, sit in the chapel, get really REALLY uncomfortable and then go give the name lady your proxy paper and say "I'm not doing this."
I'd like to know how often that happens.
So, loud laughter. If you've been to the temple you made that promise to avoid it. I never really knew what this meant--huh? Can't laugh loud? WTF is that all about?
Weird.
But you know, it's hard not to. Especially when you're in Sunday School and your husband is thumbing through the scriptures for some reason and starts to giggle. I nudged him. I'm easily embarrassed.
"Look," he whispered, offering his scriptures to me. Joshua 5:3
And Joshua made him sharp knives, and circumcised the children of Israel at the hill of the foreskins.
I BUSTED A GUT.
I don't know why this was so hilarious to us at the time--perhaps the lesson was especially boring that morning, or perhaps it was because Eric and I tend to have our minds in the gutter more often than most (it seems--am I wrong?) Not that our minds were in the gutter, so much, but "hill of the foreskins" just hit our funny bone.
We couldn't shut up. Front row. Everyone's looking at us, and we know it, but "hill of the foreskins" is an immensely funny phrase at the moment and it was going to take us a while to get over our fit.
Granted, not exactly a situation of "loud laughter" but irreverent nonetheless, being that we were in the middle of Gospel Doctrine learning about whatever regurgitated and repetitive nonsense Correlation had decided was doctrine that year.
It was fun. We would turn to that verse often throughout the following years. It wasn't always so funny, but it's a good memory. When we dared tell the story to others (this was in our active days), our recounting was generally met with quizzical but polite smiles and nervous laughter.
Foreskins, ha!
Fast forward about...oh, five years. We believe this took place the last time Eric and I entered a temple. Sacramento, California. I wasn't a big fan of this temple. Small, whatever. And you had to make an appointment. Laaaame. I'm loyal to Oakland. My first temple, where I was married, big and has a cafeteria and clothing rentals. Maybe not as shiny, but gorgeous.
Anyway.
So we took Eric's dad, sister, and BIL with us to the temple to do something or other. Endowment session, I think. We ended up being late, so we called to let them know. Nothing they could do, they said. We had a late appointment.
But wait! You have three priesthood members? Could you pretty plz do some sealing sessions?
We agreed. Once we arrived, we dressed ourselves in the weird getup and somehow ended up in the sealing room with an older man who acted as the sealer. I don't remember much about this day except that Eric broke into a random fit of giggles in the middle of the ordinances.
It was fucking hilarious, y'all. But I didn't think want to let on that I thought so at the time, being concerned about offending his family. Other than his sister being there, his fucking dad was there. He can be rather devout.
Instead of getting chastised, everyone else (except the sealer, and maybe his dad) started laughing too. The sealer didn't know what the hell to do.
People, it was priceless.
That said, on the way home Eric ran a red light at one of those camera intersections and we got BUSTED. I'm sure they think it was some sort of punishment for the irreverent way he acted in the temple. It sucked, for sure. Five hundred dollars hurts.
But the memory of the sealer is still funny. Like Eric said the other day, it could've been funnier if he would've chastised us. Mostly he just looked at us like this O_o and went about his business.
(Slightly off topic) another way to make a temple worker look at you like you've grown two heads: get your new name for your dead person, sit in the chapel, get really REALLY uncomfortable and then go give the name lady your proxy paper and say "I'm not doing this."
I'd like to know how often that happens.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Annoying
Y'know what's annoying?
Going shopping for your mother/MIL and finding a totally hilarious book that you know they'd love EXCEPT IT SAYS "FUCK" TOO MUCH.
Therefore, even if they did like it they'd get this disappointed/weird/this-isn't-worthy look on their faces. EVEN IF THEY DID LIKE IT. They might read it in a distant, dark corner and giggle, but they'd repent later.
Which they would. Eric's stepfather would love it, especially, but he's weird. He's irreverent and mouthy one minute and the next he's being preachy. But I know they'd secretly love it, which is why I want to get it for them anyways, but Eric's pretty sure it's too much. Which it probably is, but for reals.
Dudes. I get that sometimes overuse of the word can be too much and unwelcome, but this shizz is funny.
And these people difficult enough to shop for, anyway.
I'm still tempted.
Going shopping for your mother/MIL and finding a totally hilarious book that you know they'd love EXCEPT IT SAYS "FUCK" TOO MUCH.
Therefore, even if they did like it they'd get this disappointed/weird/this-isn't-worthy look on their faces. EVEN IF THEY DID LIKE IT. They might read it in a distant, dark corner and giggle, but they'd repent later.
Which they would. Eric's stepfather would love it, especially, but he's weird. He's irreverent and mouthy one minute and the next he's being preachy. But I know they'd secretly love it, which is why I want to get it for them anyways, but Eric's pretty sure it's too much. Which it probably is, but for reals.
Dudes. I get that sometimes overuse of the word can be too much and unwelcome, but this shizz is funny.
And these people difficult enough to shop for, anyway.
I'm still tempted.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Teaching gender tolerance
The other day I had a talk with my daughter, who is seven. She goes through regular periods where she wants a sister so bad and tells me that we need to have a girl so she'll have someone to play barbies with. Usually when this happens, I tell her offhandedly that we're not having more kids and then I give her cousin a call (who also is without sisters) and arrange for her to come over because her best friend is more tomboy than a barbie girl--and she's a member. I don't give a shit that she's a member, but I'm beginning to suspect that perhaps her mother might. I dunno.
Anyway, this last time we had a talk. I sat her down and told her, again, that Mommy and Daddy could have fifty more kids and they could all turn out to be boys. "We just can't control it," I explained.
"Why not?"
Oh god. The timing was all wrong. While I have no problem (theoretically) having "the talk" with my daughter, her timing, whenever we get close like this, is always bad.
I mumbled something about mommies and daddies, not really sure if this was really the time. I'm waiting for the "where do babies come from" line, but maybe that's not how it always goes.
Eventually I went another route. "Sweetheart, if we had a girl it wouldn't likely be what you think it'd be like. Little sisters are extremely annoying. She'd be all up in your stuff. Wearing or eating your makeup. Messing with your toys. She'd be up all night as a baby. In time she'd want to hang out with you and your friends, and you won't want her anywhere near you. Eight years is a big difference. It won't pay off for another twenty years at least.
"Not only that," I added, "but she could end up just like I was and hate barbies."
"You hated barbies?"
"Yeah. It doesn't mean that barbies are bad, I just didn't like dolls. I wanted to play in the mud with the boys. So what if she ended up like me? You still wouldn't have anyone to play barbies with. We can't keep having kids until you get the sister you want. It might not ever happen."
She began to get the point. Still, I didn't like barbies? Wha?
I explained to her again that it didn't mean barbies were bad or good, it's a personality thing. I explained to her that some boys like dolls and barbies. That I know of one personally. She didn't quite know what to think of that, but I insisted on it. "It's not a boy thing or a girl thing, just a people thing. And it's okay."
Then I told her that, especially at her age, it's best to not count on a sister as something to solve her problems but to lean on her cousin or friends. This might prove difficult later (and has proven weird already) with regard to her cousin, being taught already about taking care of babies and cooking and church and specifically "pink" girl things like that, but y'know, whatever. For now, maybe for a while longer. Maybe forever. We'll have to see.
She got it. She's not happy about it, but she got it. And I understand her issues--I had a stepsister I hated (and despise still), another stepsister six years older than me who scared the shit out of me, and now a half-sis who I'm riding a thin line with. I always wanted someone I could talk with. I still do. I've my brother, but he lives 9 hours away now and we just were never close. I wish that wasn't the case, but it is. And that was my other point. Just because you're siblings doesn't mean jack shit.
It's just not all cut and dry.
Now I worry about my boys. The older one tends to hold rather black and white views on gender stereotypes. It might be due in part to us. I've noticed a few things here and there that we've only helped encourage, but it's his personality too. He's very much a boy (if you will). My heart sank a little when he said not to long ago "A boy marrying a boy?!" with a bit of shock and derision. The situation didn't merit a quick response and I just didn't know what to do. I didn't see it coming. I don't know where he's getting this crap from--my SILs house is very much gender-centric, but they don't spend a ton of time there. Maybe it's the social crap he hears on TV. Maybe it's the other boys at school--we're beginning to notice that he wants to play with the "cool" boys, and it scares me a little.
That said, if he's a "boy" like this, I shouldn't want to change him. If he likes stereotypical boy things, then that's fine. I need to remember that--it's part of who he is. I just don't want him to judge others for not being like him or feel the need to seem more "boyish" to fit the fucking mold and fit in. That won't happen in my house, not as much as we can help it.
But don't get me wrong, he is one of the most thoughtful and helpful and amazing kids I've ever been blessed to know. He'll help without being asked. He loves so much and gives the best hugs. He's a cuddler, and so smart. Unbelievably forgiving--to a fault, I worry, but forgiving. He responds best when you have a calm talk with him (most kids probably do, however). He understands. Huge heart. I have a lot to learn from him. As a kid who seems to have a lot of respect from his peers, I do think there's immense potential with him to be an influence. I want him, all of them really, to stand up for others when they're bullied. He's a big kid for his age, a good looking kid. A great kid. He could be an amazing force for good.
Then there's my youngest. He, like Jason, is incredibly social but much softer. I worry about him getting teased for being a little less than the stereotypical boy. He likes to play rough and all that crap, but he's a little less militant about it, if you will. He's in preschool right now, though, and gets along with EVERYONE. He won't let a kid come into the playground to begin school without saying hi. The other parents notice. He's just incredibly friendly. Got a bit of a temper, but so friendly. Just by personality alone, he too could be a force for good.
I worry about Abbie because, while she's such a great kid herself, she's a lot like me. I'm trying to figure out how to help her get past her confidence issues. She, too, could be a great force for good.
So I try to recognize "teaching moments" when it comes to these things, but I don't get to with Jason so much. Abbie and I have talks, and she knows. Joseph, I think, knows--but he's only four. Really, they're all young yet. I really don't care who they are, just as long as they're accepting of others and give out the respect they are deserving of themselves. I will admit, though, that I'm still learning. I come from a long history of this crap, and you know I like it when my man does his manly stuff and I like it when my boy holds a door open for us. I love being taken care of. I love girly things (i just don't have time, access, or knowledge to find the right ones) and all of that. So I struggle to not only realize that I need to learn how to do things, but to ensure my daughter learns it too. That she'll mow the lawn on occasion and my boys will mop the floor and clean the bathroom. She'll know how to change the oil in her car (something I've yet to learn) and they'll vacuum the house.
Deprogramming takes a while, especially when this shit is everywhere. Still, it was good for me to remember that I hardly fit the stereotype as a kid. As I grew older and especially in the church, I began to embrace more my feminine side--and I like it and want to learn more--but still. The church talks about self-reliance but does everything it can to prevent it in its women, if not by not teaching them basic things then by telling them their place is in the home, barefoot and pregnant.
This gender shit pisses me off more and more, like the other day when I went to find a microscope for my daughter. "Science" was listed under the "boys" section. I wanted to scream.
I realize I've some physical hurdles. I'm short and not as strong as Eric, for example. I don't expect to be able to do it all, but basic stuff I should be able to do. The problem is that during my stint in the church I never tried as hard. I did the whole "oh i can't do it" damsel in distress crap. I'm beginning to remember now that I'm stronger than I look, and I'm getting that competitive side of me back. It surprises Eric because he's not used to me having that confidence. He won't ask for my help, or think we need a third person, but I'm insistent now. I'm not a waif.
We all need to ask for help sometimes. Men can't do everything, either. We do complement each other, but it's not just a vagina vs. penis thing. It's personality. The longer Eric and I are out of the church the more we're seeing in each other a different personality emerge. It can be scary, but I think in the end we'll be stronger for it. He saw peeks of my real personality in the beginning anyway. I saw a little of his, but he's largely the same person. Just atheist.
I just want my kids to be strong. And I worry. I don't want to tell my boys to hold back on expressing less-than-masculine qualities just because some asshole might take them to task for it--but it's tempting. While it happens to girls, too, let's face it: it's rougher on the boys as it's more acceptable for a girl to be boyish. So I haven't figured out how I'll deal with that. I think, perhaps, confidence is the answer. But when you're a person still trying to build confidence in yourself, it's hard to know how to instill it in others.
But I'm trying. We'll get there.
Anyway, this last time we had a talk. I sat her down and told her, again, that Mommy and Daddy could have fifty more kids and they could all turn out to be boys. "We just can't control it," I explained.
"Why not?"
Oh god. The timing was all wrong. While I have no problem (theoretically) having "the talk" with my daughter, her timing, whenever we get close like this, is always bad.
I mumbled something about mommies and daddies, not really sure if this was really the time. I'm waiting for the "where do babies come from" line, but maybe that's not how it always goes.
Eventually I went another route. "Sweetheart, if we had a girl it wouldn't likely be what you think it'd be like. Little sisters are extremely annoying. She'd be all up in your stuff. Wearing or eating your makeup. Messing with your toys. She'd be up all night as a baby. In time she'd want to hang out with you and your friends, and you won't want her anywhere near you. Eight years is a big difference. It won't pay off for another twenty years at least.
"Not only that," I added, "but she could end up just like I was and hate barbies."
"You hated barbies?"
"Yeah. It doesn't mean that barbies are bad, I just didn't like dolls. I wanted to play in the mud with the boys. So what if she ended up like me? You still wouldn't have anyone to play barbies with. We can't keep having kids until you get the sister you want. It might not ever happen."
She began to get the point. Still, I didn't like barbies? Wha?
I explained to her again that it didn't mean barbies were bad or good, it's a personality thing. I explained to her that some boys like dolls and barbies. That I know of one personally. She didn't quite know what to think of that, but I insisted on it. "It's not a boy thing or a girl thing, just a people thing. And it's okay."
Then I told her that, especially at her age, it's best to not count on a sister as something to solve her problems but to lean on her cousin or friends. This might prove difficult later (and has proven weird already) with regard to her cousin, being taught already about taking care of babies and cooking and church and specifically "pink" girl things like that, but y'know, whatever. For now, maybe for a while longer. Maybe forever. We'll have to see.
She got it. She's not happy about it, but she got it. And I understand her issues--I had a stepsister I hated (and despise still), another stepsister six years older than me who scared the shit out of me, and now a half-sis who I'm riding a thin line with. I always wanted someone I could talk with. I still do. I've my brother, but he lives 9 hours away now and we just were never close. I wish that wasn't the case, but it is. And that was my other point. Just because you're siblings doesn't mean jack shit.
It's just not all cut and dry.
Now I worry about my boys. The older one tends to hold rather black and white views on gender stereotypes. It might be due in part to us. I've noticed a few things here and there that we've only helped encourage, but it's his personality too. He's very much a boy (if you will). My heart sank a little when he said not to long ago "A boy marrying a boy?!" with a bit of shock and derision. The situation didn't merit a quick response and I just didn't know what to do. I didn't see it coming. I don't know where he's getting this crap from--my SILs house is very much gender-centric, but they don't spend a ton of time there. Maybe it's the social crap he hears on TV. Maybe it's the other boys at school--we're beginning to notice that he wants to play with the "cool" boys, and it scares me a little.
That said, if he's a "boy" like this, I shouldn't want to change him. If he likes stereotypical boy things, then that's fine. I need to remember that--it's part of who he is. I just don't want him to judge others for not being like him or feel the need to seem more "boyish" to fit the fucking mold and fit in. That won't happen in my house, not as much as we can help it.
But don't get me wrong, he is one of the most thoughtful and helpful and amazing kids I've ever been blessed to know. He'll help without being asked. He loves so much and gives the best hugs. He's a cuddler, and so smart. Unbelievably forgiving--to a fault, I worry, but forgiving. He responds best when you have a calm talk with him (most kids probably do, however). He understands. Huge heart. I have a lot to learn from him. As a kid who seems to have a lot of respect from his peers, I do think there's immense potential with him to be an influence. I want him, all of them really, to stand up for others when they're bullied. He's a big kid for his age, a good looking kid. A great kid. He could be an amazing force for good.
Then there's my youngest. He, like Jason, is incredibly social but much softer. I worry about him getting teased for being a little less than the stereotypical boy. He likes to play rough and all that crap, but he's a little less militant about it, if you will. He's in preschool right now, though, and gets along with EVERYONE. He won't let a kid come into the playground to begin school without saying hi. The other parents notice. He's just incredibly friendly. Got a bit of a temper, but so friendly. Just by personality alone, he too could be a force for good.
I worry about Abbie because, while she's such a great kid herself, she's a lot like me. I'm trying to figure out how to help her get past her confidence issues. She, too, could be a great force for good.
So I try to recognize "teaching moments" when it comes to these things, but I don't get to with Jason so much. Abbie and I have talks, and she knows. Joseph, I think, knows--but he's only four. Really, they're all young yet. I really don't care who they are, just as long as they're accepting of others and give out the respect they are deserving of themselves. I will admit, though, that I'm still learning. I come from a long history of this crap, and you know I like it when my man does his manly stuff and I like it when my boy holds a door open for us. I love being taken care of. I love girly things (i just don't have time, access, or knowledge to find the right ones) and all of that. So I struggle to not only realize that I need to learn how to do things, but to ensure my daughter learns it too. That she'll mow the lawn on occasion and my boys will mop the floor and clean the bathroom. She'll know how to change the oil in her car (something I've yet to learn) and they'll vacuum the house.
Deprogramming takes a while, especially when this shit is everywhere. Still, it was good for me to remember that I hardly fit the stereotype as a kid. As I grew older and especially in the church, I began to embrace more my feminine side--and I like it and want to learn more--but still. The church talks about self-reliance but does everything it can to prevent it in its women, if not by not teaching them basic things then by telling them their place is in the home, barefoot and pregnant.
This gender shit pisses me off more and more, like the other day when I went to find a microscope for my daughter. "Science" was listed under the "boys" section. I wanted to scream.
I realize I've some physical hurdles. I'm short and not as strong as Eric, for example. I don't expect to be able to do it all, but basic stuff I should be able to do. The problem is that during my stint in the church I never tried as hard. I did the whole "oh i can't do it" damsel in distress crap. I'm beginning to remember now that I'm stronger than I look, and I'm getting that competitive side of me back. It surprises Eric because he's not used to me having that confidence. He won't ask for my help, or think we need a third person, but I'm insistent now. I'm not a waif.
We all need to ask for help sometimes. Men can't do everything, either. We do complement each other, but it's not just a vagina vs. penis thing. It's personality. The longer Eric and I are out of the church the more we're seeing in each other a different personality emerge. It can be scary, but I think in the end we'll be stronger for it. He saw peeks of my real personality in the beginning anyway. I saw a little of his, but he's largely the same person. Just atheist.
I just want my kids to be strong. And I worry. I don't want to tell my boys to hold back on expressing less-than-masculine qualities just because some asshole might take them to task for it--but it's tempting. While it happens to girls, too, let's face it: it's rougher on the boys as it's more acceptable for a girl to be boyish. So I haven't figured out how I'll deal with that. I think, perhaps, confidence is the answer. But when you're a person still trying to build confidence in yourself, it's hard to know how to instill it in others.
But I'm trying. We'll get there.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Wrestling with school. Again.
Few things these days make me angrier than the fact that I'm 29 and haven't finished school, that I'll be 35 when I'm done if the planets align and I don't have to take a break here and there. That many who I run into and am acquainted with, non-members, are those who have either finished school or who are, you know, 21 and almost done. And there are worrisome issues after that. How hard I have to fight to do it. I can blame some of it on the church, but in the end the church was the perfect scapegoat. It gave me the excuse I was looking for. But it also encouraged me to give up my dreams. It encouraged me to rely on others (read: men), just as I'd always been encouraged to do--if not men, then others. To allow my fears to get the better of me because I'd never been allowed to stand up to them before.
Do y'all have ANY IDEA how terrified I am? Any idea? Two days ago I was looking up the phone number so I could call the university to tell them I couldn't do it. After all the bullshit I've fought past, all it took was one little phone call to the university day care program and the simple comment "There's really a slim to no chance you'll get your son in, so don't get your hopes up. We don't have much if any turnover this time of year."
Motherfucker!
You have to understand, and you'll likely remember if you've been here a while, even this past semester where I took ONE CLASS at my local community college I had to fight like hell just to be able to take just ONE CLASS. And to do that, I had to rely on the amazing help of my amazing step-MIL who picked up my kids once a week and then one other day when I had to help out in Joseph's class because putting the older two in the after-school program for a grand total of 45 minutes for $12 is ridiculous. I understand I could leave them there longer, but there's no reason for that. I would have, though, if I had to. If she wasn't so willing.
Now I feel bad.
I have a super-guilt complex when it comes to my kids, even though I told myself since high school that I would not repeat what my mom did: give herself entirely for my brother and I. I know this sounds noble, but she's always been so unhappy and without anything else to turn to when we were gone. It made her hold onto us that much harder because she didn't know what to do with herself when we weren't there. While it is certainly attributed to our own personalities, it didn't help us become independent in the least respect. I'm still struggling.
I still don't know if this is church-related or what. I really don't.
But next semester, in order for me to attend my classes, I very well may have to call on some more help. Three days a week. Step-MIL home-schools, as does MLDSFDTS. SMIL said she could watch Joseph for me on Fridays. My cousin volunteered quite freely to help, but she's got some things to work out for herself and may not always be available. I'm sure I could work something out, but y'all, it exhausts me to think of doing this again. I'm almost broken.
And neither Eric or I enjoy asking for help of this caliber. It's a lot to ask, and it requires a lot of trust on my part.
And it makes me so fucking angry. I'm angry because Eric didn't need to worry about this shit. He had his own things to worry about, granted, but he didn't have to worry about scheduling around me or the kids. At all. And in that way I feel terribly alone. Eric is willing to do what he can, and without his support I wouldn't even be trying, but even then: alone.
I don't know if I can do this. I'm pretty determined, but there's still a chance I'll opt to wait out until Joseph is in the first grade and I at least don't have to worry about this daycare stuff. I hate the idea of dropping him off at my cousin's house--he doesn't really know her (i can fix that somewhat) and I don't know how much fun he'd have there. I hate the idea of what my schedule will be like three-days-a-fucking-week. An hour there, four hours in class, race home to pick them up, ten minutes later pick up Joe at his preschool here. I also have my online class to worry about.
Y'all, I don't handle stress well. I really don't. Sometimes I do, but there are days...and that makes me question this entire thing. But I also think about what going will mean. And if I can't teach for whatever reason, there are other options. When I remember why I'm going, what it will do for me and my family, I've never been more determined.
The church took this away from me. Not directly, but indirectly. And I'm pissed. It didn't care about me enough to encourage this good thing. It told me to stay home, barefoot and pregnant all the time. It told me to multiply and replenish the fucking earth all on my own. It told me to submit (sorry, "hearken") to my husband. It told me that I could work only if I fucking had to, but even then that work such as that of a secretary was all I should do. Only single women in the early twenties who have "no opportunity" to marry a man are allowed to finish college. And I had the opportunity. Thank God I married a good man. I swear I'd be divorced by now if I hadn't.
And then what.
And not only that, but this whole fucking bipolar thing. It makes these things 100x harder. And while I'm fairly certain it would've reared its ugly head at some point anyway, my "heeding" the church's ugly teachings triggered it earlier than it probably would have otherwise.
This brings me to sobbing tears every day lately. The kids don't remember Eric being gone all the time, going to school. Abbie remembers a little, but it's like her surgeries and doctors appointments: she sees the scars and remembers some of the invasive procedures and yearly ultrasounds, but they're a forgone memory. She was young. They're done. They'll remember me being gone. They don't quite understand it. And I simply don't feel like a "good mom" anyway--mostly because now I don't know what the fuck to do. I've nothing to fall back on. Though I've known life sans The Church since I grew up without it, that's hardly a mold I want to use. I tell others my mom did the best she can, but while she didn't beat me and abuse me like her own parents did, I took and still take my own brunt. Then I have the genes from my father that freak me the fuck out. I'm fighting my genes, people. It's hard to convince myself I don't have to be them, that I can choose their best traits. But even then, their best traits simply aren't mine. I'm a fighter, but I can only do so much.
I do know I bust my ass for them as best I can, and I'm going to school for them as much as I am for me. But my best and your best aren't necessarily the same.
I want to be an example to my daughter--my sons too, but mostly my daughter.
I also know that if I thought this would be the worst thing for them, I wouldn't do it. But I also know that if I didn't do it, my anger would simply grow and my depression and sense of self-worth worsen. I'd be my mom. I can't fucking have that. My kids don't deserve that.
And now that I think of it, perhaps I AM doing what my mom did to us: making life too goddamn easy. They need to suck it up sometimes.
So, I'm going. I just hope it works out in the end. This is one area where my ten years of church still very much has a hold on me, and it pisses me off. So much.
Do y'all have ANY IDEA how terrified I am? Any idea? Two days ago I was looking up the phone number so I could call the university to tell them I couldn't do it. After all the bullshit I've fought past, all it took was one little phone call to the university day care program and the simple comment "There's really a slim to no chance you'll get your son in, so don't get your hopes up. We don't have much if any turnover this time of year."
Motherfucker!
You have to understand, and you'll likely remember if you've been here a while, even this past semester where I took ONE CLASS at my local community college I had to fight like hell just to be able to take just ONE CLASS. And to do that, I had to rely on the amazing help of my amazing step-MIL who picked up my kids once a week and then one other day when I had to help out in Joseph's class because putting the older two in the after-school program for a grand total of 45 minutes for $12 is ridiculous. I understand I could leave them there longer, but there's no reason for that. I would have, though, if I had to. If she wasn't so willing.
Now I feel bad.
I have a super-guilt complex when it comes to my kids, even though I told myself since high school that I would not repeat what my mom did: give herself entirely for my brother and I. I know this sounds noble, but she's always been so unhappy and without anything else to turn to when we were gone. It made her hold onto us that much harder because she didn't know what to do with herself when we weren't there. While it is certainly attributed to our own personalities, it didn't help us become independent in the least respect. I'm still struggling.
I still don't know if this is church-related or what. I really don't.
But next semester, in order for me to attend my classes, I very well may have to call on some more help. Three days a week. Step-MIL home-schools, as does MLDSFDTS. SMIL said she could watch Joseph for me on Fridays. My cousin volunteered quite freely to help, but she's got some things to work out for herself and may not always be available. I'm sure I could work something out, but y'all, it exhausts me to think of doing this again. I'm almost broken.
And neither Eric or I enjoy asking for help of this caliber. It's a lot to ask, and it requires a lot of trust on my part.
And it makes me so fucking angry. I'm angry because Eric didn't need to worry about this shit. He had his own things to worry about, granted, but he didn't have to worry about scheduling around me or the kids. At all. And in that way I feel terribly alone. Eric is willing to do what he can, and without his support I wouldn't even be trying, but even then: alone.
I don't know if I can do this. I'm pretty determined, but there's still a chance I'll opt to wait out until Joseph is in the first grade and I at least don't have to worry about this daycare stuff. I hate the idea of dropping him off at my cousin's house--he doesn't really know her (i can fix that somewhat) and I don't know how much fun he'd have there. I hate the idea of what my schedule will be like three-days-a-fucking-week. An hour there, four hours in class, race home to pick them up, ten minutes later pick up Joe at his preschool here. I also have my online class to worry about.
Y'all, I don't handle stress well. I really don't. Sometimes I do, but there are days...and that makes me question this entire thing. But I also think about what going will mean. And if I can't teach for whatever reason, there are other options. When I remember why I'm going, what it will do for me and my family, I've never been more determined.
The church took this away from me. Not directly, but indirectly. And I'm pissed. It didn't care about me enough to encourage this good thing. It told me to stay home, barefoot and pregnant all the time. It told me to multiply and replenish the fucking earth all on my own. It told me to submit (sorry, "hearken") to my husband. It told me that I could work only if I fucking had to, but even then that work such as that of a secretary was all I should do. Only single women in the early twenties who have "no opportunity" to marry a man are allowed to finish college. And I had the opportunity. Thank God I married a good man. I swear I'd be divorced by now if I hadn't.
And then what.
And not only that, but this whole fucking bipolar thing. It makes these things 100x harder. And while I'm fairly certain it would've reared its ugly head at some point anyway, my "heeding" the church's ugly teachings triggered it earlier than it probably would have otherwise.
This brings me to sobbing tears every day lately. The kids don't remember Eric being gone all the time, going to school. Abbie remembers a little, but it's like her surgeries and doctors appointments: she sees the scars and remembers some of the invasive procedures and yearly ultrasounds, but they're a forgone memory. She was young. They're done. They'll remember me being gone. They don't quite understand it. And I simply don't feel like a "good mom" anyway--mostly because now I don't know what the fuck to do. I've nothing to fall back on. Though I've known life sans The Church since I grew up without it, that's hardly a mold I want to use. I tell others my mom did the best she can, but while she didn't beat me and abuse me like her own parents did, I took and still take my own brunt. Then I have the genes from my father that freak me the fuck out. I'm fighting my genes, people. It's hard to convince myself I don't have to be them, that I can choose their best traits. But even then, their best traits simply aren't mine. I'm a fighter, but I can only do so much.
I do know I bust my ass for them as best I can, and I'm going to school for them as much as I am for me. But my best and your best aren't necessarily the same.
I want to be an example to my daughter--my sons too, but mostly my daughter.
I also know that if I thought this would be the worst thing for them, I wouldn't do it. But I also know that if I didn't do it, my anger would simply grow and my depression and sense of self-worth worsen. I'd be my mom. I can't fucking have that. My kids don't deserve that.
And now that I think of it, perhaps I AM doing what my mom did to us: making life too goddamn easy. They need to suck it up sometimes.
So, I'm going. I just hope it works out in the end. This is one area where my ten years of church still very much has a hold on me, and it pisses me off. So much.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Contacting Spirits
When I was in the third grade, a kid brought his Oujia board to school. A few of us joined him in a hidden corner during recess. It was cool. And creepy.
When I had a chance to ask it a question, I asked "Will I ever be rich?"
"No."
Fucker.
My dad lost it when I told him about it later that night. He didn't think much of me conversing with the devil. I really, really scared him.
Anyway, I pretty much stayed away from that stuff afterward. During our 6th grade week-long field trip the girls in my cabin (not including one unbelievably religious girl) played a game of "light as a feather." I didn't play because they weren't really my friends and the game freaked me out a little bit. Maybe in part because the way my dad reacted a few years before, and part because I was afraid it would work. I still can't bring myself to do that "Bloody Mary" thing (is that right? something like that). I should probably do it just to get it out of my system, prove to myself it's not for real. I'm pretty superstitious, though. I like believing in the supernatural stuff. It's fun.
So.
Yesterday my kids pulled out our small card tables and covered them with their blankets. This morning I walk in to Jason's complaints that Abbie was contacting spirits (via her snow globe).
"They're not real!" he said.
"Leave her alone," we told him. "She's fine."
Wow.
That was weird. Still, I wondered how I'd react if I discovered one day she was doing some of dat witchcraft on a more...intense level. I had a friend who, prior to joining the church, engaged in that stuff and wouldn't speak of it. It freaked her out.
Yeah, I believe in that stuff. Not on a general level, but I tend to believe something odd is going on (but not without the realization that there is probably-maybe another explanation?)
So I dunno.
Still, my non-reaction was kinda cool. Yet, before, I would've felt compelled to respond (because y'know, as a god-fearing girl/parent i have to), but I never knew how to explain it without sounding like an idiot. Like I was encouraging my kids to believe in ridiculous things. Like they were going to look at me like this: O_o?
Projection, much?
Kind of like how I could never quite relate the story of Joseph Smith or Moroni or whatever. It just...sounded ridiculous.
When I had a chance to ask it a question, I asked "Will I ever be rich?"
"No."
Fucker.
My dad lost it when I told him about it later that night. He didn't think much of me conversing with the devil. I really, really scared him.
Anyway, I pretty much stayed away from that stuff afterward. During our 6th grade week-long field trip the girls in my cabin (not including one unbelievably religious girl) played a game of "light as a feather." I didn't play because they weren't really my friends and the game freaked me out a little bit. Maybe in part because the way my dad reacted a few years before, and part because I was afraid it would work. I still can't bring myself to do that "Bloody Mary" thing (is that right? something like that). I should probably do it just to get it out of my system, prove to myself it's not for real. I'm pretty superstitious, though. I like believing in the supernatural stuff. It's fun.
So.
Yesterday my kids pulled out our small card tables and covered them with their blankets. This morning I walk in to Jason's complaints that Abbie was contacting spirits (via her snow globe).
"They're not real!" he said.
"Leave her alone," we told him. "She's fine."
Wow.
That was weird. Still, I wondered how I'd react if I discovered one day she was doing some of dat witchcraft on a more...intense level. I had a friend who, prior to joining the church, engaged in that stuff and wouldn't speak of it. It freaked her out.
Yeah, I believe in that stuff. Not on a general level, but I tend to believe something odd is going on (but not without the realization that there is probably-maybe another explanation?)
So I dunno.
Still, my non-reaction was kinda cool. Yet, before, I would've felt compelled to respond (because y'know, as a god-fearing girl/parent i have to), but I never knew how to explain it without sounding like an idiot. Like I was encouraging my kids to believe in ridiculous things. Like they were going to look at me like this: O_o?
Projection, much?
Kind of like how I could never quite relate the story of Joseph Smith or Moroni or whatever. It just...sounded ridiculous.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
My sister
I was 12 1/2 when she was born.
My mom and I came up with reasons they shouldn't have had kids. It wouldn't be fair to the child. It wouldn't be fair to my brother and I, even our stepsister. Little did I know but would discover later that my mom wanted to have a child with my stepdad.
Gawd.
My stepmom and I, only fifteen years apart, did not get along at first. At all. My mom did not and does not help.
But that's a post all of its own.
Let me just say that my stepmama and I are good friends now and she doesn't preach to me at all. My dad only ever mentions anything if I bring up religion first, like the time I told him we were leaving the church. Oh how happy he was, but he didn't quite get the whole story.
Dad--I don't like yours either.
I couldn't bring myself to say that, though. It's unnecessary given all the bullshit he has to deal with (his stepdaughter--let's just say "meth addict" "mother of three babies to three daddies" "abandoned her first two by moving halfway across the country to be with a new boyfriend" "had the good sense to at least adopt out her third" "smuggled in her unbelievably abusive last boyfriend from mexico so he could beat the shit out of her and her children again," etc. I have no clean or good words for her--to hell with compassion, it doesn't work on a sociopath). He and my stepmama have been granted full custody of their very small grandchildren. My dad is of not-so-good health and struggles with high anxiety (if not worse) as I do.
His religion gives him a semblance of comfort I will not take away, and as long as he's cool with me I'm cool with him--though omg "lisa, what is this 'agnostic' thing on your blog?" were uttered by them both.
sigh.
Do I digress? I digress.
They both had an incredibly difficult time with my conversion to the LDS church--pamphlets and shit everywhere. But they were still pretty quiet, except for the time my father finally couldn't take it anymore and hissed to me over the phone "Where are the golden plates now, Lisa?"
Eric told me later to ask him where the...shit what was it. Oh well. Point: there's suspicious crap everywhere. Ark of the Covenant? I dunno. I'm a bit rusty.
And the time I married Eric. My dad wanted to come to the temple, and as per the story, my stepmom convinced him not to. I'm both still saddened by this and a little angry, but I understand it too. Someday I hope to rectify this to the extent we are able.
But besides the religious decorations that litter their walls and the insistence on listening to Christian radio and all that stuff, they're quiet. I cringe but respect that--but it's hard to when my sister comes to me with these stories of what she has to deal with. She's finished, too. Eric says I need to watch my step. She's only 16. But I'm her sister. Where's the line? I only want to give her support. To tell her she's not laden with sin as they all tell her she is. To tell her nothing's wrong with her simply because prayer, much as she's tried, hasn't worked. To be the only one to tell her that it's okay that she either doesn't want to or can't or finds speaking in tongues creepy. That she's not a slut because she slept with someone. But she does need to come to her own conclusions. I just want to be the person in her life that tells her she's a good person and a human being, that it's okay. That I still love her. That she can still be successful. To trust herself. To give her information, too. And perhaps that's where I cross the line.
The thing is, the harder they push the further she goes away. She was always a great girl, "obedient" if you will. Respectful. I set the bar, and that sucks. Nobody should be put up to someone else's bar. But more and more she's rebelling. Inside she's one of the best people, but they're stifling that by insisting and pushing and shoving and figuring that berating her is the best way to go--and I get that some of it is just getting rid of their own sadness and fear and rage, but it's not working. They get counseling for the grandkids, but I don't know that they have it for themselves. For my sister. So it pisses me off, much as I can understand where they come from. But understanding isn't condoning.
It's hard because they're under so much stress. But she's suffering for it, too.
So it's so hard to not cross whatever line Eric sees. She's being taught the Earth is 6000 years old and she suspects it's bullshit. She wants to know about evolution but is largely kept from learning about it.
This, they believe, will save them all.
She's interested in biology, and she and I both wanted her to come to my class with me a few times and each time she wasn't able to make it. I've my suspicions. They'd rather send her to a 12 week photography program in Montana. They're scared, but at the expense of her future. She has a fire, but it's hardly kindled.
I remember rather well what it's like to be sixteen. It's only been slightly over a decade. I think that gives me somewhat an advantage in understanding where she's coming from, that some of the things she says will change given time. She's still rather immature, but that's the age. That's the inexperience. I don't fault her for it. I give her my opinion on occasion. I don't condone everything she says (some of the stuff she says scares the shit out of me--things not every teenage girl says), but I love her despite. And she knows that. She knows she can tell me anything. She knows I won't always agree. She knows I love her mom and our dad and that I try to help her see their side of things. She spends the weekend at our home when things are too much. She knows we'll come get her at the drop of a hat.
It's been difficult, though. I feel as if my closeness with her has come at a price of my closeness with her mom. It's a rough place to be when I want to give her a sanctuary both in my home and in my heart but am asked by our parents to be a good example and to steer her right. I don't know that they completely understand that their right isn't necessarily my right. I haven't yet suggested that her rather mild rebellion is symptomatic of the shit she has to endure at home, if not directly than as a consequence of her fucked up other half-sister and the addition of her dysfunctional but lovely niece and nephew in the home. She tries so hard.
I understand her parents' dilemma. I do. But she suffers too.
And if they're not careful, she won't fulfill her great potential. And all of this bullshit will happen again and again.
In fact, all my sis wants for Christmas are things that she can use after she moves out of the house (the minute she turns 18, she says). Today I looked around for things and found a great deal on a coffee maker--I texted her mama to make sure this wouldn't be a duplicate.
"What're you getting for [her]," I asked. "I don't want to duplicate."
"You mean you're getting her a muzzle too?"
I get it. The girl has a mouth on her, whatever. All normal kids do and I get her mom's exasperation. My daughter is pushing 8 and god help me when she turns 16. I try to tell my sister to be nice so coming over to my house won't be an ordeal, but she's tired and can't help but fight back. It's the only way she knows how to do it.
"Lol," I replied. "I just found this great deal on a coffee maker. Good?"
I wandered around Target for a good ten minutes longer before I decided to bail, figuring I could return it (or keep it for when ours dies--this one is programmable, after all!). At checkout, I receive a phone call. I checked the voice mail on my way to the car.
"Is this for your sister when she moves out, because really I'd rather get her a muzzle for her mouth."
It sounded beyond annoyed. Angry. Tired.
I don't know.
Being a 29 year old sister of a 16 year old girl with too much shit on her shoulders is a rough place to be in. Especially when I know her parents have exponentially too much shit on their own shoulders (i don't know how they do it--I'm not entirely convinced they are) and need support, too (my stepmom has called me multiple times in the past in tears). Especially when her mom and I have a really sketchy past--and I really would rather not go back there. I love them both. I don't judge either of them. I can only imagine what their lives must be like due to the severe selfishness her older, tweaked out daughter.
I want to be there for all of them, but I'm not sure anyone is there for my sister. Not enough.
More and more I feel as if I'm being kept from her, and that pisses me off and scares me. A lot.
I just don't know what to do.
My mom and I came up with reasons they shouldn't have had kids. It wouldn't be fair to the child. It wouldn't be fair to my brother and I, even our stepsister. Little did I know but would discover later that my mom wanted to have a child with my stepdad.
Gawd.
My stepmom and I, only fifteen years apart, did not get along at first. At all. My mom did not and does not help.
But that's a post all of its own.
Let me just say that my stepmama and I are good friends now and she doesn't preach to me at all. My dad only ever mentions anything if I bring up religion first, like the time I told him we were leaving the church. Oh how happy he was, but he didn't quite get the whole story.
Dad--I don't like yours either.
I couldn't bring myself to say that, though. It's unnecessary given all the bullshit he has to deal with (his stepdaughter--let's just say "meth addict" "mother of three babies to three daddies" "abandoned her first two by moving halfway across the country to be with a new boyfriend" "had the good sense to at least adopt out her third" "smuggled in her unbelievably abusive last boyfriend from mexico so he could beat the shit out of her and her children again," etc. I have no clean or good words for her--to hell with compassion, it doesn't work on a sociopath). He and my stepmama have been granted full custody of their very small grandchildren. My dad is of not-so-good health and struggles with high anxiety (if not worse) as I do.
His religion gives him a semblance of comfort I will not take away, and as long as he's cool with me I'm cool with him--though omg "lisa, what is this 'agnostic' thing on your blog?" were uttered by them both.
sigh.
Do I digress? I digress.
They both had an incredibly difficult time with my conversion to the LDS church--pamphlets and shit everywhere. But they were still pretty quiet, except for the time my father finally couldn't take it anymore and hissed to me over the phone "Where are the golden plates now, Lisa?"
Eric told me later to ask him where the...shit what was it. Oh well. Point: there's suspicious crap everywhere. Ark of the Covenant? I dunno. I'm a bit rusty.
And the time I married Eric. My dad wanted to come to the temple, and as per the story, my stepmom convinced him not to. I'm both still saddened by this and a little angry, but I understand it too. Someday I hope to rectify this to the extent we are able.
But besides the religious decorations that litter their walls and the insistence on listening to Christian radio and all that stuff, they're quiet. I cringe but respect that--but it's hard to when my sister comes to me with these stories of what she has to deal with. She's finished, too. Eric says I need to watch my step. She's only 16. But I'm her sister. Where's the line? I only want to give her support. To tell her she's not laden with sin as they all tell her she is. To tell her nothing's wrong with her simply because prayer, much as she's tried, hasn't worked. To be the only one to tell her that it's okay that she either doesn't want to or can't or finds speaking in tongues creepy. That she's not a slut because she slept with someone. But she does need to come to her own conclusions. I just want to be the person in her life that tells her she's a good person and a human being, that it's okay. That I still love her. That she can still be successful. To trust herself. To give her information, too. And perhaps that's where I cross the line.
The thing is, the harder they push the further she goes away. She was always a great girl, "obedient" if you will. Respectful. I set the bar, and that sucks. Nobody should be put up to someone else's bar. But more and more she's rebelling. Inside she's one of the best people, but they're stifling that by insisting and pushing and shoving and figuring that berating her is the best way to go--and I get that some of it is just getting rid of their own sadness and fear and rage, but it's not working. They get counseling for the grandkids, but I don't know that they have it for themselves. For my sister. So it pisses me off, much as I can understand where they come from. But understanding isn't condoning.
It's hard because they're under so much stress. But she's suffering for it, too.
So it's so hard to not cross whatever line Eric sees. She's being taught the Earth is 6000 years old and she suspects it's bullshit. She wants to know about evolution but is largely kept from learning about it.
This, they believe, will save them all.
She's interested in biology, and she and I both wanted her to come to my class with me a few times and each time she wasn't able to make it. I've my suspicions. They'd rather send her to a 12 week photography program in Montana. They're scared, but at the expense of her future. She has a fire, but it's hardly kindled.
I remember rather well what it's like to be sixteen. It's only been slightly over a decade. I think that gives me somewhat an advantage in understanding where she's coming from, that some of the things she says will change given time. She's still rather immature, but that's the age. That's the inexperience. I don't fault her for it. I give her my opinion on occasion. I don't condone everything she says (some of the stuff she says scares the shit out of me--things not every teenage girl says), but I love her despite. And she knows that. She knows she can tell me anything. She knows I won't always agree. She knows I love her mom and our dad and that I try to help her see their side of things. She spends the weekend at our home when things are too much. She knows we'll come get her at the drop of a hat.
It's been difficult, though. I feel as if my closeness with her has come at a price of my closeness with her mom. It's a rough place to be when I want to give her a sanctuary both in my home and in my heart but am asked by our parents to be a good example and to steer her right. I don't know that they completely understand that their right isn't necessarily my right. I haven't yet suggested that her rather mild rebellion is symptomatic of the shit she has to endure at home, if not directly than as a consequence of her fucked up other half-sister and the addition of her dysfunctional but lovely niece and nephew in the home. She tries so hard.
I understand her parents' dilemma. I do. But she suffers too.
And if they're not careful, she won't fulfill her great potential. And all of this bullshit will happen again and again.
In fact, all my sis wants for Christmas are things that she can use after she moves out of the house (the minute she turns 18, she says). Today I looked around for things and found a great deal on a coffee maker--I texted her mama to make sure this wouldn't be a duplicate.
"What're you getting for [her]," I asked. "I don't want to duplicate."
"You mean you're getting her a muzzle too?"
I get it. The girl has a mouth on her, whatever. All normal kids do and I get her mom's exasperation. My daughter is pushing 8 and god help me when she turns 16. I try to tell my sister to be nice so coming over to my house won't be an ordeal, but she's tired and can't help but fight back. It's the only way she knows how to do it.
"Lol," I replied. "I just found this great deal on a coffee maker. Good?"
I wandered around Target for a good ten minutes longer before I decided to bail, figuring I could return it (or keep it for when ours dies--this one is programmable, after all!). At checkout, I receive a phone call. I checked the voice mail on my way to the car.
"Is this for your sister when she moves out, because really I'd rather get her a muzzle for her mouth."
It sounded beyond annoyed. Angry. Tired.
I don't know.
Being a 29 year old sister of a 16 year old girl with too much shit on her shoulders is a rough place to be in. Especially when I know her parents have exponentially too much shit on their own shoulders (i don't know how they do it--I'm not entirely convinced they are) and need support, too (my stepmom has called me multiple times in the past in tears). Especially when her mom and I have a really sketchy past--and I really would rather not go back there. I love them both. I don't judge either of them. I can only imagine what their lives must be like due to the severe selfishness her older, tweaked out daughter.
I want to be there for all of them, but I'm not sure anyone is there for my sister. Not enough.
More and more I feel as if I'm being kept from her, and that pisses me off and scares me. A lot.
I just don't know what to do.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Salvation NOW!
I was eleven years old, brand new in the youth group program of my father's Assembly of God church. Our pastor, different from the previous one I've described, took us to the local Catholic cemetery, easily the oldest cemetery in our small town, if not in the vicinity. Full of history. I always wondered, if I was still enough, if I could feel the ghosts of those who had been lain to rest.
But there would be no such reverence this afternoon.
I stood there with my peers on the grass, listening to our pastor's strong and passionate admonishments that went something like this:
"I can't guarantee you that you'll wake up tomorrow. You can't guarantee me that the sun will rise in the morning, that the Earth will still be here. There is no guarantee. You don't know when you will die. If you don't accept Christ now, you will end up in hellfire--period. You cannot wait until the last minute because you may not know when the last minute is. You may not wake up tomorrow. You must accept Christ. Now."
Fear, as you may have noticed by now, is the primary tool in the Assembly of God arsenal. The use of fear is hardly exclusive to Mormonism, but it is certainly a different brand. This is a more violent, in-your-face fear mongering. It is without apology. It is hardly denied even by those who commit it. It is born of fear and perpetuated out of fear. It is a snake that you will pick up to let it bite you because you are unworthy and deserve ever more pain for Christ. You will ask to be bitten and stomped and crucified for and out of your own righteous guilt that, if sincere, will never be satiated.
This particular graveside example is relatively mild, but it remains in my memory.
Eleven-years-old and being told to accept Christ or be consigned to Satan's terrifying grasp to endure an eternity of fire, torture, and misery.
Because I was a sinner.
No matter how hard I tried, how good I was in my heart and in action, I was a sinner.
An eleven. year. old. sinner.
Who needed to be saved.
Have I ever explained to anyone just how hard I tried throughout my lifetime to be good? I haven't because I can't put it into satisfactory words. And it wouldn't matter, because it wasn't ever enough. It just didn't fucking matter because in the end someone would come up to me, for reals, to tell me nothing I ever did would ever be enough. It didn't matter what church I belonged to--Protestant, LDS, didn't matter. The Mormons straight up tell you to aim for perfection even though you'll never get there. To even suggest such a thing in my father's church could be considered blasphemy. Only Christ was and is ever perfect.
Assembly of God is bloody. But it's supposed to be. Therein is humility.
I would never be enough.
Praise Jesus.
I wasn't sure at this moment of my first real call to salvation if I'd been saved. I hadn't said "the prayer" yet--the one where you verbally "accept" Christ as your savior and call yourself an unworthy insect under his feet. But I believed in him. I accepted the story. I wasn't fighting it.
Apparently that wasn't enough.
Some people would tell me that's the point.
I don't know. It's all bullshit. A part of me knew it, I'm certain, beginning that very day.
But there would be no such reverence this afternoon.
I stood there with my peers on the grass, listening to our pastor's strong and passionate admonishments that went something like this:
"I can't guarantee you that you'll wake up tomorrow. You can't guarantee me that the sun will rise in the morning, that the Earth will still be here. There is no guarantee. You don't know when you will die. If you don't accept Christ now, you will end up in hellfire--period. You cannot wait until the last minute because you may not know when the last minute is. You may not wake up tomorrow. You must accept Christ. Now."
Fear, as you may have noticed by now, is the primary tool in the Assembly of God arsenal. The use of fear is hardly exclusive to Mormonism, but it is certainly a different brand. This is a more violent, in-your-face fear mongering. It is without apology. It is hardly denied even by those who commit it. It is born of fear and perpetuated out of fear. It is a snake that you will pick up to let it bite you because you are unworthy and deserve ever more pain for Christ. You will ask to be bitten and stomped and crucified for and out of your own righteous guilt that, if sincere, will never be satiated.
This particular graveside example is relatively mild, but it remains in my memory.
Eleven-years-old and being told to accept Christ or be consigned to Satan's terrifying grasp to endure an eternity of fire, torture, and misery.
Because I was a sinner.
No matter how hard I tried, how good I was in my heart and in action, I was a sinner.
An eleven. year. old. sinner.
Who needed to be saved.
Have I ever explained to anyone just how hard I tried throughout my lifetime to be good? I haven't because I can't put it into satisfactory words. And it wouldn't matter, because it wasn't ever enough. It just didn't fucking matter because in the end someone would come up to me, for reals, to tell me nothing I ever did would ever be enough. It didn't matter what church I belonged to--Protestant, LDS, didn't matter. The Mormons straight up tell you to aim for perfection even though you'll never get there. To even suggest such a thing in my father's church could be considered blasphemy. Only Christ was and is ever perfect.
Assembly of God is bloody. But it's supposed to be. Therein is humility.
I would never be enough.
Praise Jesus.
I wasn't sure at this moment of my first real call to salvation if I'd been saved. I hadn't said "the prayer" yet--the one where you verbally "accept" Christ as your savior and call yourself an unworthy insect under his feet. But I believed in him. I accepted the story. I wasn't fighting it.
Apparently that wasn't enough.
Some people would tell me that's the point.
I don't know. It's all bullshit. A part of me knew it, I'm certain, beginning that very day.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Agnostic Christmas
Before we officially-unofficially left the church, there was one thing I had grown to agree with the Jehovah's Witnesses on. To quote a friend of Eric's,
"If you teach your children about Santa and they find out that's a lie, then how can you trust that they'll believe you about God?"
I always thought he had a point, both before and after he said it. It had been on my mind. It made sense. But I couldn't teach my kids that Santa wasn't real--could you imagine? I wasn't worried about them but about them spouting off to their friends. Never mind the reactions from friends and family whom I divulged my hesitancies to.
God forbid I didn't teach my kids about Santa!
How dare I even suggest taking such a fundamental childhood experience away!
All of these reactions from fellow Christians.
I'm sure many of you fall or fell into this category and I don't want to judge you. I'm not. It just strikes me as a little odd. Especially when it comes from the camp of "Keep Christ in Christmas." Especially when it comes from a people who do understand the history of where Christmas comes from--why it's not held on or near Christ's supposed birthday. A people who get all up in arms over "Happy Holidays" when it's not necessarily a Christian time of year.
Knock, knock. Hello?
I didn't get it, but I couldn't bring myself to actively teach my kids about Santa, and Eric was on board with me. Our kids learned about Santa through other family and television shows, society at large. So you can imagine I got questions, at least from my oldest (who is rather observant), at a young age.
"Is Santa real?" she'd ask.
"What do you think?"
But now that we're not believers, it doesn't bother me as much. There's still a part of me that doesn't enjoy lying to my kids. It's interesting how things change once you have your own sometimes, in various ways. I was taught about Santa, learned all on my own that he was a hoax. It didn't bother me at all--in fact, probably like many of you, I reveled in knowing when my siblings did not. I didn't make the connection between Santa and God. We tend to think kids have a greater propensity for such conclusions than they do, much like we worry about them seeing or hearing things on a movie that, up to a certain age, goes right over their heads.
So why am I having a hard time with my own kids, especially now? Abbie is so close to figuring it out, she's such a smart kid. I want so badly to tell her, but I'm encouraging her to rely on her own logic. So far she's finding ways for Santa to be possible, but it won't be much longer. I look forward to that day, really, just to congratulate her and include her in the behind-the-scenes action. But perhaps I won't make it and I'll be the one to tell her. I don't know. I hope for the former so, so much.
Perhaps Santa will be a good lesson they can remember years from now if they ever decide to be interested in the church.
If something doesn't seem quite right and you have to reach and stretch to make it rational and probable, something ain't right.
"If you teach your children about Santa and they find out that's a lie, then how can you trust that they'll believe you about God?"
I always thought he had a point, both before and after he said it. It had been on my mind. It made sense. But I couldn't teach my kids that Santa wasn't real--could you imagine? I wasn't worried about them but about them spouting off to their friends. Never mind the reactions from friends and family whom I divulged my hesitancies to.
God forbid I didn't teach my kids about Santa!
How dare I even suggest taking such a fundamental childhood experience away!
All of these reactions from fellow Christians.
I'm sure many of you fall or fell into this category and I don't want to judge you. I'm not. It just strikes me as a little odd. Especially when it comes from the camp of "Keep Christ in Christmas." Especially when it comes from a people who do understand the history of where Christmas comes from--why it's not held on or near Christ's supposed birthday. A people who get all up in arms over "Happy Holidays" when it's not necessarily a Christian time of year.
Knock, knock. Hello?
I didn't get it, but I couldn't bring myself to actively teach my kids about Santa, and Eric was on board with me. Our kids learned about Santa through other family and television shows, society at large. So you can imagine I got questions, at least from my oldest (who is rather observant), at a young age.
"Is Santa real?" she'd ask.
"What do you think?"
But now that we're not believers, it doesn't bother me as much. There's still a part of me that doesn't enjoy lying to my kids. It's interesting how things change once you have your own sometimes, in various ways. I was taught about Santa, learned all on my own that he was a hoax. It didn't bother me at all--in fact, probably like many of you, I reveled in knowing when my siblings did not. I didn't make the connection between Santa and God. We tend to think kids have a greater propensity for such conclusions than they do, much like we worry about them seeing or hearing things on a movie that, up to a certain age, goes right over their heads.
So why am I having a hard time with my own kids, especially now? Abbie is so close to figuring it out, she's such a smart kid. I want so badly to tell her, but I'm encouraging her to rely on her own logic. So far she's finding ways for Santa to be possible, but it won't be much longer. I look forward to that day, really, just to congratulate her and include her in the behind-the-scenes action. But perhaps I won't make it and I'll be the one to tell her. I don't know. I hope for the former so, so much.
Perhaps Santa will be a good lesson they can remember years from now if they ever decide to be interested in the church.
If something doesn't seem quite right and you have to reach and stretch to make it rational and probable, something ain't right.
Monday, November 8, 2010
SF Trip
There's so much to say, but for today I'm going to keep it to a short summary of my trip yesterday:
I was fortunate to meet Donna of Ward Gossip and a few other couples yesterday at a meeting of post-mormons at the Ferry Building in San Francisco. I'll admit I wasn't entirely sure what to expect and I think it took both my husband and I a moment to adjust.
SO WEIRD.
Blood and flesh and bone and whatever people bitching about the church! In front of me! Weird! I see it online all the time, but I never ever ever see or hear it in person. Not with knowledgeable people. Insiders. People who are obviously hurting. I feel so alone here, which is the reason for this blog--but there are others out there. It's so good to know.
We met next to a Peet's Coffee (and a book store--oh how I wish we had time and money!) and then Donna broke out the champagne to toast one of the absent members, who, I believe, just welcomed a new baby into the world (thank you for the champagne, Donna!). Eric and I were the youngest as far as how long it has been since we've gone inactive.
It is incredibly sad and maddening what the church does to its disenchanted members. It robs people of things both physical and not. It turns adults into children.
...Well, it treats its adults like children so I suppose that isn't entirely surprising.
I especially liked that Eric was able to vent a little bit. I wasn't sure if he'd jump in or not, but he really enjoyed himself.
My children stayed, as you know, with my SIL and headed off to church with them. I wondered how they'd do--namely if they'd be excited about it or want to go back.
The verdict? Abbie was more thrilled about the snacks and having her hair straightened and being virtual twins with her cousin. Church, she said with exasperation, was "boring!" But more specifically primary.
Jason didn't say much. Joseph told us that he learned about Jesus and had cookies. I wanted to ask him what he thought about Jesus, but as he didn't take it any further, I left it alone. It was late and he fell asleep in the car about five seconds later anyway.
When I checked all my stuff on the computer later that night, I discovered an email from H (Glenn Beck lovin' tea parting...you get the idea). She taught Joseph's class and said that he is just such a polite and nice boy and I must be doing something right!
Now my more cynical side says "for an apostate?" but I want to give her the benefit of the doubt. She means well. It was a compliment. As insane and extremist and naive as she is, she does always mean well and has always tried to be respectful. Sometimes I think we're more alike than not and that's why we butt heads. What tickles me is how I saw her a few weeks ago at my niece's birthday party and she said "hi" and left me alone for the rest of the time she was there. I dunno. She followed my last blog and after a while told me she couldn't handle it anymore. Happens.
But! good trip. Great people. Eric got to see more of San Francisco than he's ever seen--I can't believe he's never been through Golden Gate Park. Now he wants to take the kids there. On the way back, we drove through the Castro District (it's not hard to realize you're in the Castro District OR Haight-Ashbury--not the people so much, but the plethora of rainbow flags). Also saw where a friend of mine works and wanted to stop by, but we were late as it was. Next time.
Oh--one last thing. I'm 99.999% sure SIL and her husband know we don't go to church anymore. Apparently they decided to look through old boxes of their son's old church suits and dressed up my boys in it. God, I miss my boys and my man in a suit. So handsome. Anyway, as we were leaving Jason asked if he could keep the suit. I double-checked with SIL's husband and he said "y'know, it doesn't matter to me. I don't know how often you'll use them, but I don't care." It was clear he knew we just don't have a regular need for church clothes.
They're very cool about it. One reason I wasn't sure if she knew is because, historically, when she's upset she wears it on her sleeve but won't talk about it. She's been nothing but normal lately.
I don't know how we lucked out. Especially after hearing some of the stories at the group. Everyone needs my in-laws as their family. Their silence makes me nervous sometimes, and I'm sure they think it's just a phase as they've seen so often in others, but I'm grateful to not have to experience what so many have to experience. It really is awful--abusive and hateful and totally antithetical to what these members claim to embrace. These member families and friends are scared. I saw and experienced some of that from my own family when I joined. Being scared doesn't justify it or make it easier by any means, but it explains it a little. I hope for all of you who experience abusive reactions that time will help to heal, or that at the very least you'll find family and friends of your own who will be a support to you that you need. What I've lost is nothing compared to what others are losing.
As much as I enjoyed myself at the meeting yesterday, it made me wonder if I need more of a Post-Christianity group. As far as I could tell, everyone there was a lifetime member. As much as I embraced and internalized teh gospel, I've always known something else. I may have never wanted to go back to that, I may still be scared of it, but I've always known there was a world outside the church. And, not to say it the way it'll sound, I've always had a bit of a mind of my own. That's something.
Religion turns adults into scared little kids. I'm done with that shit.
<3
I was fortunate to meet Donna of Ward Gossip and a few other couples yesterday at a meeting of post-mormons at the Ferry Building in San Francisco. I'll admit I wasn't entirely sure what to expect and I think it took both my husband and I a moment to adjust.
SO WEIRD.
Blood and flesh and bone and whatever people bitching about the church! In front of me! Weird! I see it online all the time, but I never ever ever see or hear it in person. Not with knowledgeable people. Insiders. People who are obviously hurting. I feel so alone here, which is the reason for this blog--but there are others out there. It's so good to know.
We met next to a Peet's Coffee (and a book store--oh how I wish we had time and money!) and then Donna broke out the champagne to toast one of the absent members, who, I believe, just welcomed a new baby into the world (thank you for the champagne, Donna!). Eric and I were the youngest as far as how long it has been since we've gone inactive.
It is incredibly sad and maddening what the church does to its disenchanted members. It robs people of things both physical and not. It turns adults into children.
...Well, it treats its adults like children so I suppose that isn't entirely surprising.
I especially liked that Eric was able to vent a little bit. I wasn't sure if he'd jump in or not, but he really enjoyed himself.
My children stayed, as you know, with my SIL and headed off to church with them. I wondered how they'd do--namely if they'd be excited about it or want to go back.
The verdict? Abbie was more thrilled about the snacks and having her hair straightened and being virtual twins with her cousin. Church, she said with exasperation, was "boring!" But more specifically primary.
Jason didn't say much. Joseph told us that he learned about Jesus and had cookies. I wanted to ask him what he thought about Jesus, but as he didn't take it any further, I left it alone. It was late and he fell asleep in the car about five seconds later anyway.
When I checked all my stuff on the computer later that night, I discovered an email from H (Glenn Beck lovin' tea parting...you get the idea). She taught Joseph's class and said that he is just such a polite and nice boy and I must be doing something right!
Now my more cynical side says "for an apostate?" but I want to give her the benefit of the doubt. She means well. It was a compliment. As insane and extremist and naive as she is, she does always mean well and has always tried to be respectful. Sometimes I think we're more alike than not and that's why we butt heads. What tickles me is how I saw her a few weeks ago at my niece's birthday party and she said "hi" and left me alone for the rest of the time she was there. I dunno. She followed my last blog and after a while told me she couldn't handle it anymore. Happens.
But! good trip. Great people. Eric got to see more of San Francisco than he's ever seen--I can't believe he's never been through Golden Gate Park. Now he wants to take the kids there. On the way back, we drove through the Castro District (it's not hard to realize you're in the Castro District OR Haight-Ashbury--not the people so much, but the plethora of rainbow flags). Also saw where a friend of mine works and wanted to stop by, but we were late as it was. Next time.
Oh--one last thing. I'm 99.999% sure SIL and her husband know we don't go to church anymore. Apparently they decided to look through old boxes of their son's old church suits and dressed up my boys in it. God, I miss my boys and my man in a suit. So handsome. Anyway, as we were leaving Jason asked if he could keep the suit. I double-checked with SIL's husband and he said "y'know, it doesn't matter to me. I don't know how often you'll use them, but I don't care." It was clear he knew we just don't have a regular need for church clothes.
They're very cool about it. One reason I wasn't sure if she knew is because, historically, when she's upset she wears it on her sleeve but won't talk about it. She's been nothing but normal lately.
I don't know how we lucked out. Especially after hearing some of the stories at the group. Everyone needs my in-laws as their family. Their silence makes me nervous sometimes, and I'm sure they think it's just a phase as they've seen so often in others, but I'm grateful to not have to experience what so many have to experience. It really is awful--abusive and hateful and totally antithetical to what these members claim to embrace. These member families and friends are scared. I saw and experienced some of that from my own family when I joined. Being scared doesn't justify it or make it easier by any means, but it explains it a little. I hope for all of you who experience abusive reactions that time will help to heal, or that at the very least you'll find family and friends of your own who will be a support to you that you need. What I've lost is nothing compared to what others are losing.
As much as I enjoyed myself at the meeting yesterday, it made me wonder if I need more of a Post-Christianity group. As far as I could tell, everyone there was a lifetime member. As much as I embraced and internalized teh gospel, I've always known something else. I may have never wanted to go back to that, I may still be scared of it, but I've always known there was a world outside the church. And, not to say it the way it'll sound, I've always had a bit of a mind of my own. That's something.
Religion turns adults into scared little kids. I'm done with that shit.
<3
Friday, November 5, 2010
Animals on Logs
Y'all have to read this. It might piss a few of you off, but jesus:
From STFU Conservatives (I lurve the STFU tumblrs) regarding a Creation Museum exhibit:
I'll let you all react on your own. I can't without sounding like a self-righteous bitch.
ANYWAY I saw my former Stake President the other day as my son and I entered a grocery store. One of the kindest men I know, but I freaked out. I avoided him so he wouldn't recognize me.
WTF, everyone? He's my ex-roomie's FIL. Surely he knows something? He wouldn't be anything but nice, I'm sure of it.
I dunno. I don't get it. There are very few people, if any, who elicit reactions like that from me anymore.
Also: Headed to the Post-Mo gathering tomorrow in San Francisco--looking forward to meeting Donna of the hilarious Ward Gossip, woo!
What's weird, though, is that my kids are staying with my SIL while we're gone. I love SIL to death, as some of you may know, but they're pretty stringent about church and stuff and the kids will be there tomorrow. They know they're going to church, and they're okay with it. Which is cool. I don't want to freak out. Abbie had a bit of a freak out at first, but I let her know it was okay. I don't want her to fear or hate believers (as long as they're respectful and don't tell her she's going to hell--because then it's on, bitches). But that doesn't mean I'm not uncomfortable with it. Maybe we'll talk about it the next day.
I wonder if my mom remembers as clearly as I do the day she asked me how I'd feel if my kids one day decided to be Jehovah's Witnesses. I told her I'd deal with it, which is all you can do, but I have the same thoughts today about whether they'll ever decide to "return to their roots" in a sense. I wouldn't know how to explain it to them, to warn them. This is just something you have to learn on your own, but it can be such a costly lesson.
They all remember church. The older two especially, but Joseph too. I fully expect for us to be outed this weekend, especially since Abbie has decided she looooves coffee and will tell anyone about it (she never gets more than a sip or two, but she loooves it). They'll likely also tell someone or a few someones in the family that we no longer attend or that she's not getting baptised (which is totally okay with her--she's never ever looked forward to that) since she'll turn eight in about six months.
It should be interesting. But good, too. They need other kids to play with.
For me, I'm just looking forward to a break. First I'm going to visit a friend and then hopefully hang with some awesome folks at the Ferry Building tomorrow close to the Wharf. You should stop by if you're close--the gathering will be from 2-4pm. I'll likely be the shortest chica in the room.
From STFU Conservatives (I lurve the STFU tumblrs) regarding a Creation Museum exhibit:
Rafting
When the Flood destroyed the world's forests, it must have left billions of trees floating for centuries on the ocean. These log mats served as ready-made rafts for animals to cross oceans. These paths of ocean currents, carrying those rafts, would explain (similar animals and plants on opposite sides of oceans).
I'll let you all react on your own. I can't without sounding like a self-righteous bitch.
ANYWAY I saw my former Stake President the other day as my son and I entered a grocery store. One of the kindest men I know, but I freaked out. I avoided him so he wouldn't recognize me.
WTF, everyone? He's my ex-roomie's FIL. Surely he knows something? He wouldn't be anything but nice, I'm sure of it.
I dunno. I don't get it. There are very few people, if any, who elicit reactions like that from me anymore.
Also: Headed to the Post-Mo gathering tomorrow in San Francisco--looking forward to meeting Donna of the hilarious Ward Gossip, woo!
What's weird, though, is that my kids are staying with my SIL while we're gone. I love SIL to death, as some of you may know, but they're pretty stringent about church and stuff and the kids will be there tomorrow. They know they're going to church, and they're okay with it. Which is cool. I don't want to freak out. Abbie had a bit of a freak out at first, but I let her know it was okay. I don't want her to fear or hate believers (as long as they're respectful and don't tell her she's going to hell--because then it's on, bitches). But that doesn't mean I'm not uncomfortable with it. Maybe we'll talk about it the next day.
I wonder if my mom remembers as clearly as I do the day she asked me how I'd feel if my kids one day decided to be Jehovah's Witnesses. I told her I'd deal with it, which is all you can do, but I have the same thoughts today about whether they'll ever decide to "return to their roots" in a sense. I wouldn't know how to explain it to them, to warn them. This is just something you have to learn on your own, but it can be such a costly lesson.
They all remember church. The older two especially, but Joseph too. I fully expect for us to be outed this weekend, especially since Abbie has decided she looooves coffee and will tell anyone about it (she never gets more than a sip or two, but she loooves it). They'll likely also tell someone or a few someones in the family that we no longer attend or that she's not getting baptised (which is totally okay with her--she's never ever looked forward to that) since she'll turn eight in about six months.
It should be interesting. But good, too. They need other kids to play with.
For me, I'm just looking forward to a break. First I'm going to visit a friend and then hopefully hang with some awesome folks at the Ferry Building tomorrow close to the Wharf. You should stop by if you're close--the gathering will be from 2-4pm. I'll likely be the shortest chica in the room.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Yes.
I can't seem to see very much outside the frame of my relationship with religion these days, and this song is no different.
But it raises a different question: lyrics or music? I'm a lyrics girl, myself. But I do appreciate good music as well.
But it raises a different question: lyrics or music? I'm a lyrics girl, myself. But I do appreciate good music as well.
I Feel Weird
Steel Train, "Trampoline" (2007)
When I was eighteen everything was alive
Then the planes hit the towers
Then she died and he died
A part of me disappeared six feet in the ground
A million miles in the sky a fire burns,
A fire burns, a fire burns and it is mine
And I did what I did
What we did to survive
Five whole years of my life I spent mourning you and why?
Girl you're still alive
But you're too dead to keep inside
You take the years, you keep it all, I finally think I might be alright
So let's just let it all go cause nothing can change
And if something is lost then there's something to frame
I just sing what I have
And I got this girl, not yet crushed by the world
I'll count the freckles on her face one, two, three hundred times a day
And sing a new song
Something I'd never hear
It's better love that I found, bigger love that you fear
So deep inside me, hot in this frozen cave
Her fire burns, her fire burns, her fire burns and it is brave
When I was eighteen everything was alive
Then the planes hit the towers
Then she died, then he died
A part of me disappeared six feet in the ground
A million miles in the sky a fire burns,
A fire burns, and I just let it all go
I won't fear change
And if something is lost then there is something to frame
I'll just sing what I have in the heavens above
In the song in the sky a fire burns,
A fire burns, a fire burns and its for you
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
WTF, god?
I'm pretty empty of inspiration these days, and what I can get out of me doesn't end up all that cohesive. So I thought I'd take an oldie but a goodie from my livejournal account.
From August 10, 2009
I prided myself in my intuition, if you would call it that. Fellow LDS would consider it the spirit of discernment. I was a Mormon psychic, in a way. But I loved how I just knew things. I knew I'd be married before I could even put in my papers for a mission--and I knew I would marry Eric specifically before I even met him. I can't explain it. Not even now.
But this--this came only five months after Jason was born. Our little red Kia sped along Highway 680 to Oakland to participate in the temple endowment session; Eric was at the wheel, my eyes were fixed on the rolling landscape around us. The car was quiet.
Then, it seemed, the world around me slowed and cleared, and I knew I was supposed to have another baby. Soon.
Abbie was eight months old when we decided to have Jason. The pregnancy with Jason proved more difficult, probably by virtue of having a toddler around, still in diapers. Not to mention the severe case of baby blues I suffered with after he was born--we had just returned home from a hospital in Sacramento where Abbie underwent surgery and dealt with some complications. And my family was not as excited about Jason's arrival, so nobody was at the hospital. Jason came early, too, just by a week but enough to make it impossible. Eric had to work nights during that week, not to mention a full load at school. I was alone with a new baby. When Abbie was born, she was taken away at twelve hours old to a new hospital, and so I had no idea what to do with a newborn baby boy. The nurses certainly weren't of any help.
It became increasingly difficult to find a reason to get out of bed.
So with my revelation--almost as strong, if not stronger than the one I had regarding Eric--came astonishment. Add to the mix a very personal but very universe shattering experience I will not discuss here, and I just wanted to be done for a while. To be normal. To be a parent to the two kids I had--two kids I'm almost comfortable enough to say came from expectation and probably a dash of immaturity rather than so-called "revelation." This time I didn't want to be pregnant again. I didn't want to go through the bullshit.
But Eric said he had the same impression. Without my pressing for it.
We were taught to never question God's will, that the faithful follow without hesitation. I was a martyr, after all. It lent an air of strength, of resiliency. I had always taken a certain pride in doing impossible things, and this was in so many ways an impossible request. I figured the impression was so strong as to overshadow my doubt. This was a must.
Still, it brought me to tears and a few screaming sessions. I tried to rationalize something else. Maybe we could wait. God wouldn't want this for me. Not now. Besides, we couldn't afford it. Eric didn't have a job that would support three kids. His employer had just made it crystal clear his chances for promotion were slim to not-a-chance-in-hell. We had one car and lived in a small apartment. We struggled to get laundry done--so if we were to have another baby, we'd have to move. Again. Into a more expensive place.
But I sucked it up. This was my time, nobody else's, to pull up my pants, strap up my boots, and just do what God asked me to. After all, he'd asked more impossible things of others. This was a test of my faith.
Joseph arrived nine months later at 11:30am on the dot, December 26, 2005.
This was quite literally one of the hardest things I've ever had to even initiate on a few levels. But things worked out. A head clerk position opened up at the store for twice a week and Eric grabbed it right up. Then we took out a student loan to supplement our savings to buy a mini van. And we moved only three months after Joseph's arrival into another two bedroom apartment (couldn't afford a three) with a washer and dryer.
The following June, I found myself getting three hours of sleep a night and writhing under the pain of daily migraines. I had little to no help since Eric was gone all the time, either sleeping, at school, or studying. I had to deal with this alone, and the kids suffered because of it. I was worrying about when we would be able to get into a bigger place, trying to control things I had absolutely no control over. But I couldn't stop. I had to know if we could move in a year, if he would get a job, I wanted a house, etc, etc. This went on for months, but it wasn't until late July, desperate, I decided to see a doctor. I wanted to know if she'd give me some muscle relaxers. I'd been to see her six months prior for sinus headaches, but the sinus headaches always blossomed into migraines. And I wasn't sleeping. It wasn't fair to the kids, not at all.
Instead, and after listening to my stories, she determined I had Generalized Anxiety Disorder and put me on Cymbalta.
It was like a revelation. I was outgoing, chatty, and not afraid anymore. I didn't feel compelled to control everything anymore. I had more patience with the kids, with Eric, and with myself. And although the manic-like honeymoon period lasted only a week or so, I still felt great. In time, however, I discovered I suffered a side effect I didn't want to live with (I drenched myself in sweat just by unloading the dishwasher--no exaggeration). So I went back to my doctor. She placed me on Wellbutrin which only made things worse.
I went through at least four different pills. After the Wellbutrin I discovered the pills would only work for a little while. I kept going back.
"This isn't working."
"Okay, let's try this," my doctor would say.
Finally, and only about four months ago, I threw my arms in the air. Nothing was working. In a bout of desperation I went to a counselor who suggested I was to my ears in depression.
I went to my doctor, who has known me for some years now, with that knowledge and she wondered aloud if I could be bipolar. I dismissed her with a wave--no, I said. i've never experienced a manic episode.
Of course, to my knowledge, bipolar was the extreme. People who jumped off cliffs and did stupid scary shit all the time. But on my drive home from that appointment, things came to my mind: times I had needed little to no sleep, times I hurt myself on purpose to make the anger and hurt go away, racing thoughts and words, compulsions, obsessions--unbearable forgetfulness. Times I felt I could do anything only for it to go away the next week. Times I woke up early and spring-cleaned the entire house before 7:30 in the morning. Times of uncharacteristic and sudden aggression. Times I often forget about so I write them down. I have to remember.
So I went home and I researched it out and discovered the different kinds of bipolar. In tears, I called a friend of mine whom I've known for a while now who suffers from the mental disorder.
"I've wondered about you for a while," she said. "I just didn't want to say anything."
Eric said the same thing.
I called my doctor. "What's that you said about bipolar?"
I don't want anymore of his revelations if this is what it means. It's affected my family negatively. It brought me from being an overanxious but patient mother of one to a bipolar mother of three.
And though I wouldn't consider this an active part of my disaffection, it's yet another thing for me to be angry about. What is the point of hearing from God if it brings me to this low?
Why would I want to hear any more?
From August 10, 2009
I prided myself in my intuition, if you would call it that. Fellow LDS would consider it the spirit of discernment. I was a Mormon psychic, in a way. But I loved how I just knew things. I knew I'd be married before I could even put in my papers for a mission--and I knew I would marry Eric specifically before I even met him. I can't explain it. Not even now.
But this--this came only five months after Jason was born. Our little red Kia sped along Highway 680 to Oakland to participate in the temple endowment session; Eric was at the wheel, my eyes were fixed on the rolling landscape around us. The car was quiet.
Then, it seemed, the world around me slowed and cleared, and I knew I was supposed to have another baby. Soon.
Abbie was eight months old when we decided to have Jason. The pregnancy with Jason proved more difficult, probably by virtue of having a toddler around, still in diapers. Not to mention the severe case of baby blues I suffered with after he was born--we had just returned home from a hospital in Sacramento where Abbie underwent surgery and dealt with some complications. And my family was not as excited about Jason's arrival, so nobody was at the hospital. Jason came early, too, just by a week but enough to make it impossible. Eric had to work nights during that week, not to mention a full load at school. I was alone with a new baby. When Abbie was born, she was taken away at twelve hours old to a new hospital, and so I had no idea what to do with a newborn baby boy. The nurses certainly weren't of any help.
It became increasingly difficult to find a reason to get out of bed.
So with my revelation--almost as strong, if not stronger than the one I had regarding Eric--came astonishment. Add to the mix a very personal but very universe shattering experience I will not discuss here, and I just wanted to be done for a while. To be normal. To be a parent to the two kids I had--two kids I'm almost comfortable enough to say came from expectation and probably a dash of immaturity rather than so-called "revelation." This time I didn't want to be pregnant again. I didn't want to go through the bullshit.
But Eric said he had the same impression. Without my pressing for it.
We were taught to never question God's will, that the faithful follow without hesitation. I was a martyr, after all. It lent an air of strength, of resiliency. I had always taken a certain pride in doing impossible things, and this was in so many ways an impossible request. I figured the impression was so strong as to overshadow my doubt. This was a must.
Still, it brought me to tears and a few screaming sessions. I tried to rationalize something else. Maybe we could wait. God wouldn't want this for me. Not now. Besides, we couldn't afford it. Eric didn't have a job that would support three kids. His employer had just made it crystal clear his chances for promotion were slim to not-a-chance-in-hell. We had one car and lived in a small apartment. We struggled to get laundry done--so if we were to have another baby, we'd have to move. Again. Into a more expensive place.
But I sucked it up. This was my time, nobody else's, to pull up my pants, strap up my boots, and just do what God asked me to. After all, he'd asked more impossible things of others. This was a test of my faith.
Joseph arrived nine months later at 11:30am on the dot, December 26, 2005.
This was quite literally one of the hardest things I've ever had to even initiate on a few levels. But things worked out. A head clerk position opened up at the store for twice a week and Eric grabbed it right up. Then we took out a student loan to supplement our savings to buy a mini van. And we moved only three months after Joseph's arrival into another two bedroom apartment (couldn't afford a three) with a washer and dryer.
The following June, I found myself getting three hours of sleep a night and writhing under the pain of daily migraines. I had little to no help since Eric was gone all the time, either sleeping, at school, or studying. I had to deal with this alone, and the kids suffered because of it. I was worrying about when we would be able to get into a bigger place, trying to control things I had absolutely no control over. But I couldn't stop. I had to know if we could move in a year, if he would get a job, I wanted a house, etc, etc. This went on for months, but it wasn't until late July, desperate, I decided to see a doctor. I wanted to know if she'd give me some muscle relaxers. I'd been to see her six months prior for sinus headaches, but the sinus headaches always blossomed into migraines. And I wasn't sleeping. It wasn't fair to the kids, not at all.
Instead, and after listening to my stories, she determined I had Generalized Anxiety Disorder and put me on Cymbalta.
It was like a revelation. I was outgoing, chatty, and not afraid anymore. I didn't feel compelled to control everything anymore. I had more patience with the kids, with Eric, and with myself. And although the manic-like honeymoon period lasted only a week or so, I still felt great. In time, however, I discovered I suffered a side effect I didn't want to live with (I drenched myself in sweat just by unloading the dishwasher--no exaggeration). So I went back to my doctor. She placed me on Wellbutrin which only made things worse.
I went through at least four different pills. After the Wellbutrin I discovered the pills would only work for a little while. I kept going back.
"This isn't working."
"Okay, let's try this," my doctor would say.
Finally, and only about four months ago, I threw my arms in the air. Nothing was working. In a bout of desperation I went to a counselor who suggested I was to my ears in depression.
I went to my doctor, who has known me for some years now, with that knowledge and she wondered aloud if I could be bipolar. I dismissed her with a wave--no, I said. i've never experienced a manic episode.
Of course, to my knowledge, bipolar was the extreme. People who jumped off cliffs and did stupid scary shit all the time. But on my drive home from that appointment, things came to my mind: times I had needed little to no sleep, times I hurt myself on purpose to make the anger and hurt go away, racing thoughts and words, compulsions, obsessions--unbearable forgetfulness. Times I felt I could do anything only for it to go away the next week. Times I woke up early and spring-cleaned the entire house before 7:30 in the morning. Times of uncharacteristic and sudden aggression. Times I often forget about so I write them down. I have to remember.
So I went home and I researched it out and discovered the different kinds of bipolar. In tears, I called a friend of mine whom I've known for a while now who suffers from the mental disorder.
"I've wondered about you for a while," she said. "I just didn't want to say anything."
Eric said the same thing.
I called my doctor. "What's that you said about bipolar?"
"Let's just try something, okay?" she said.
And while I'm not 100%, I'm better.
I don't want anymore of his revelations if this is what it means. It's affected my family negatively. It brought me from being an overanxious but patient mother of one to a bipolar mother of three.
And though I wouldn't consider this an active part of my disaffection, it's yet another thing for me to be angry about. What is the point of hearing from God if it brings me to this low?
Why would I want to hear any more?
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Venting: Yes, No?
You know how you're not supposed to ever ever say anything bad or critical about another person, but especially your spouse?
You know how you're not?
GOD.
It's not anything really incredible or anything, just general bitching, but dammit I need to vent sometimes. He doesn't. He can take anything and just be. Me--and I'm not necessarily proud of it--I need to vent or I'll explode.
But we're supposed to have the perfect eternal temple weirdo marriage, right? Perrrrfect. Smiles and everything. Never fight. Never ever think about the D word (i'm not considering it, but seriously: in the beginning we were like "no, not in our vocab because if we ever put it there it'll happen"). We're not just good, we're great! ALL THE TIME!
Why is this still in my brain?! Is it because if something did happen it'd be like we failed not the church, but...friends, fellow apostates, fellow semi-to-non-believers?
Actions do not happen without having first a thought. So saith one of the 12 assholes. Er, apostles.
Don't ever think bad things because then the law says bad things will happen! Right?
So I'm scared, even though my issues are, in comparison, nothing. They're a step above "he never puts his towel in the hamper."
(Which, btw, he does. He just never replaces his. He prefers to steal mine and yucky it all up. It's annoying.)
But even if I wasn't scared (or even if I am) I don't have anyone to vent to. One friend would let me but I don't want her thinking anything bad about Eric (this is not a result of church brainwashing, but rather my stepmom who has beat it into my head that THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS because grown people cannot possibly understand that everyone has faults and we can't possibly just bitch and then forget. That maybe I need her ear sometimes).
Also, I'm not that kind of girl. The one who disrespects her guy. I'm just not, and I can't help but think that venting in this way is disrespectful. Is it?
This is how I grew up: My family shoots off rather horrible passive-aggressive insults toward one another ALL THE TIME. They try to hide the venom with chuckles, but it's too potent. This is not only evident on one side of my family, but both. It pisses me off. They're disrespectful. And horrifyingly irritating. Then they wonder why my brother or my sister can be just the same way. One of these days I might tell them why.
Regarding the in-laws, the LDS side? "Oh isn't it wonderful? She never speaks badly about her husband. Or anyone for that matter. What a great example!"
I've always hated it when people said that, but it became a goal for me. I don't know why. Many people who "never speak ill of anyone" are so transparent as to be funny. They compliment through gritted teeth. You can hear the growl.
That, or you can see the sadness and loneliness in their eyes. Something that belies their words.
But some people truly only seem to see the good. And isn't that good?
So I have that worry.
The other one is that I'm not looking to vilify my husband, just to vent. Some people, non-member friends, might take it too far. I'm not looking to bash all men. I'm not looking to make it personal, so much, either. I don't hate men. I don't think he's an idiot. And the way I live my life and perceive life is vastly different from so many people, and I do credit the church for that but not necessarily in a bad way. I like how I view things and how I raise my kids and how I try to treat my husband--I know how it might have been without the church.
But I need to vent, goddammit. I just don't want to get to the point where I'm defending him--which I will--over irrelevant things. I don't want anyone to think I don't love this man. Apparently that means I should only say good things?
Isn't that what I'd want?
I have friends I'm close with but not in that way, if that makes sense. I don't know how to explain one or two of my relationships. We're close, like sisters even, but we're not intimate. I can't imagine picking up the phone and saying "Gawd, guess what?" It's weird.
Other friends aren't married and I don't want to bother them. It shouldn't make it an issue, but I can't help but think it is. I have this horrid habit of putting myself into other people's shoes to a fault. I project. People have said to me "don't worry, it's a non-issue" but I know it would be for me, so I don't go there.
Which is stupid. Probably.
I just don't have people to vent to. About husbands, men, kids, life. Someone who won't judge me or anyone else. I could use a motherfucking hug. From a friend. The ones I have don't hug, think I don't like hugging, or are too far away to hug. Yay!
I don't even want to vent here. I figure nobody wants to hear about it. Truth, I am blessed. I feel dumb enough when I bitch about things that feel huge to me but are things I later learn are microscopic compared to others' experiences. Humbling, for sure.
I don't know what to do. I'm sad, angry, and I need a weekend off like I haven't needed in probably a year or two. I thought that shit was over.
It sucks.
Anyone else have or ever had this issue? I could use a little validation.
You know how you're not?
GOD.
It's not anything really incredible or anything, just general bitching, but dammit I need to vent sometimes. He doesn't. He can take anything and just be. Me--and I'm not necessarily proud of it--I need to vent or I'll explode.
But we're supposed to have the perfect eternal temple weirdo marriage, right? Perrrrfect. Smiles and everything. Never fight. Never ever think about the D word (i'm not considering it, but seriously: in the beginning we were like "no, not in our vocab because if we ever put it there it'll happen"). We're not just good, we're great! ALL THE TIME!
Why is this still in my brain?! Is it because if something did happen it'd be like we failed not the church, but...friends, fellow apostates, fellow semi-to-non-believers?
Actions do not happen without having first a thought. So saith one of the 12 assholes. Er, apostles.
Don't ever think bad things because then the law says bad things will happen! Right?
So I'm scared, even though my issues are, in comparison, nothing. They're a step above "he never puts his towel in the hamper."
(Which, btw, he does. He just never replaces his. He prefers to steal mine and yucky it all up. It's annoying.)
But even if I wasn't scared (or even if I am) I don't have anyone to vent to. One friend would let me but I don't want her thinking anything bad about Eric (this is not a result of church brainwashing, but rather my stepmom who has beat it into my head that THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS because grown people cannot possibly understand that everyone has faults and we can't possibly just bitch and then forget. That maybe I need her ear sometimes).
Also, I'm not that kind of girl. The one who disrespects her guy. I'm just not, and I can't help but think that venting in this way is disrespectful. Is it?
This is how I grew up: My family shoots off rather horrible passive-aggressive insults toward one another ALL THE TIME. They try to hide the venom with chuckles, but it's too potent. This is not only evident on one side of my family, but both. It pisses me off. They're disrespectful. And horrifyingly irritating. Then they wonder why my brother or my sister can be just the same way. One of these days I might tell them why.
Regarding the in-laws, the LDS side? "Oh isn't it wonderful? She never speaks badly about her husband. Or anyone for that matter. What a great example!"
I've always hated it when people said that, but it became a goal for me. I don't know why. Many people who "never speak ill of anyone" are so transparent as to be funny. They compliment through gritted teeth. You can hear the growl.
That, or you can see the sadness and loneliness in their eyes. Something that belies their words.
But some people truly only seem to see the good. And isn't that good?
So I have that worry.
The other one is that I'm not looking to vilify my husband, just to vent. Some people, non-member friends, might take it too far. I'm not looking to bash all men. I'm not looking to make it personal, so much, either. I don't hate men. I don't think he's an idiot. And the way I live my life and perceive life is vastly different from so many people, and I do credit the church for that but not necessarily in a bad way. I like how I view things and how I raise my kids and how I try to treat my husband--I know how it might have been without the church.
But I need to vent, goddammit. I just don't want to get to the point where I'm defending him--which I will--over irrelevant things. I don't want anyone to think I don't love this man. Apparently that means I should only say good things?
Isn't that what I'd want?
I have friends I'm close with but not in that way, if that makes sense. I don't know how to explain one or two of my relationships. We're close, like sisters even, but we're not intimate. I can't imagine picking up the phone and saying "Gawd, guess what?" It's weird.
Other friends aren't married and I don't want to bother them. It shouldn't make it an issue, but I can't help but think it is. I have this horrid habit of putting myself into other people's shoes to a fault. I project. People have said to me "don't worry, it's a non-issue" but I know it would be for me, so I don't go there.
Which is stupid. Probably.
I just don't have people to vent to. About husbands, men, kids, life. Someone who won't judge me or anyone else. I could use a motherfucking hug. From a friend. The ones I have don't hug, think I don't like hugging, or are too far away to hug. Yay!
I don't even want to vent here. I figure nobody wants to hear about it. Truth, I am blessed. I feel dumb enough when I bitch about things that feel huge to me but are things I later learn are microscopic compared to others' experiences. Humbling, for sure.
I don't know what to do. I'm sad, angry, and I need a weekend off like I haven't needed in probably a year or two. I thought that shit was over.
It sucks.
Anyone else have or ever had this issue? I could use a little validation.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)