Rootbeer cans

We just knew the category we were in,  the moment both their eyes blazed into ours.

It was the yuck one. Yep, in all my 6th grade wisdom I had seen it many a time.These goddesses weren't having it with us, but they had no choice on this forsaken weekend. I am sure the only remedy was to eat another candy bar and toss the wrapper recklessly in the back of Paul's El Camino for me, to cut the glare.

What else was a little gal supposed to do? These two chickitas were in my sisters class, and they sure weren't having any of it with her. Gina and Pam. Gina was very petite with dark silky hair. Pam was tall, blonde, gorgeous surfer girl. Then there were the two of us.

We had gone along on a weekend  excursion with my oldest sister and her best friend, 

 to Laguna. I didn't even know where Pasadena was, ( ten minutes outside of Temple City)  so Laguna was a lifetime a way.... and boy was I ready to go. I loved Paul, my sister's best friends boyfriend. That's a mouth full. He was always so sweet, and  funny.
I am not sure why the middle sister and I tagged along on many a trip, but we were so happy to be included. Pam and Gina on the other hand clearly were not feeling the joy. My middle sister and I had one thing in common. We liked to joke, and tag- this time we knew we were it.
She would have to be the most sarcastic person I ever met, she is pretty funny.
There were six of us children in the family, so we entertained ourselves however, whenever. Some of us were more dramatic than others. Now I have completely lost interest in this story and am thinking about walking home from the movie theatre one Saturday night with her.  I was probably eleven or twelve, she was three years older. We were just strolling down Las Tunas about ten in the evening,when someone decides to throw a can of root beer in her hair. As if she knew the culprit personally, never seeing them, she tells me it was because we are both homely. I am laughing now so hard thinking about us walking home, having an in depth discussion about the true nature of the root beer throwing because we are both so homely. The way she would state things as though it were a fact. Any thing that happened was because we were fat or homely. Okay, let's go get some donuts. Case closed.  I don't know why now that is so funny to me,  but she said it in such a way that it was just the truth. Oh, they looked at us that way because..... oh, okay.  Must be the fat or homely deal. When I was in 9th grade, I used to bleach my hair platinum blonde. We would walk to Thrifty's to buy the bleach, and she would just state in the middle of the store, "You look like a thirty year old divorcee." Ok, I don't know what a thirty year old divorcee looks like, I just turned fourteen, but that was who I was from then on.
Ok, I veered for a moment from the story going down memory lane. I am now just flooded with funny thoughts. Back to Laguna- so we finally get to the beach house and it is time to actually go down to the beach. I look over and Pam and Gina walk out of the house in tiny bikinis with tiny bodies to match. My sister and I give each other the familiar uh oh, what now? Everyone is headed down to the beach, while we both have as many clothes on as humanly possible. We are so tripped beyond imagination about exposing our bodies, and now in front of the Princesses.
We carefully, while laying down remove our cut off cords trying not to breath, as not to let the belly
make any sudden movements, growing any larger than need be. We get through this painstaking process while drinking our "Tabs." I am sure there was a large bag of potato chips and cookies to wash down that diet drink. Suddenly everyone thinks it is such a fun idea to all go in the water.Were they high? I wasn't getting up without something covering my gut. Especially around those two chicks who were watching us  as if we were their entertainment. Of course my sister told me she could see them snickering. Hell no, I wasn't getting up. This time I knew she wasn't just being herself, like at the movie theatre with the root beer incident. They didn't like our kind- we weren't cool.
I didn't happen to mention the fact that this was around 1974, and blowdryers were not as popular yet .
Well, we had some interesting hair between the two of us. Anyone who has wavy or curly hair will understand where I am coming from. Humidity, beach weather, your hair turns into a major fro.
My hair is wavy, but my sisters can get down right crazy. I would tell her that her hair was bigger than doors she tried to get into. She had herself quite a fro. Well, the salt water starting misting our hair like crazy, and believe me, we didn't start out like any babes from the get go. Gina and Pam's mouths were agape as they watched the transformation. Especially my poor sisters 'do. What comes with that is
just pure shame. My sister always, and still does have a tougher hide. She would never let anyone get the best of her. Being second to youngest out of six, I wear my emotions on my sleeve a lot more. What you see is what you get most of the time. Especially being youngest sister. I remember these girls as if it were yesterday. I think the reason I am even writing this story, I  was thinking about Costa Mesa, where was Costa Mesa? Oh that's where Paul lived. He died  a few years later in a car accident. He was such a sweetheart. Here's to you Paul.

Reflections

There's only so much story I can write in my head until I finally get my lazy butt out of bed and get busy. Usually titles come to me first, but that will irritate me and then I will feel so boxed in. Then I will go through this whole process and tug of war with myself : Who made the rules of what I want to write about. Charles Bukowski keeps playing through my brain, making me laugh. I'd never heard of him, until my daughter got hooked in her high school years. We would read together like crazy,
hunger for more, immediately after we finished a  page, chapter, book. The descriptions fill my brain, my soul, like no other as he spoke of himself, life, people in it. The rawness, truth as he saw it, no holding back, actually more times than not. But I think that is the beauty of it, he called it like he saw it with no apologies, his life did not allow for that.
It got me thinking about how many layers it takes to break through to get to the core. Then, just when you think what fabulous progress you have made- time to go back to the beginning again. That's how we learn and grow, stay fresh, humble. Doesn't mean we always dig the process and open the door politely for afternoon tea.
There is probably more Bukowski in me than I know, knocking at the door. Begging to be let out and tell it like it is.... just write. No apologies, explanations, fear of fallout. The thoughts that resides in my mind, as my hubby says could make many a truck driver blush. Stories whirling around in my head begging for expression, but the good catholic girl sitting in Sister Eileen's office for so many infractions holds back, waiting to be sent to the office again.  All of those office visits made for some creative plotting, one being hoisting up the biggest  pair of ladies underwear, bought from the dime store. We had never seen such big white bloomers in our life, that's what made this little adventure even funnier. Running them up the the school flag pole- just to watch Sister Eileen's expression. It wasn't that my friend and I were about being irreverent to our country. Just 7th graders wanting to watch Nuns come out of the convent and see those giant bloomers blowing ever so gently in the wind. Things that made us laugh. There were so many restrictions and rules and punishments for breathing, at an early age we just needed comic relief, and lots of it we would find. Some more inappropriate than others, again the tighter the restrictions placed on us- the neon "Girls Gone Wild" sign blinked on faster- and off we were into the wild street of Temple City. Anyone who knows Temple City is laughing- because it was and is anything but wild, and in the 70's was a very sleepy little hamlet. An occasional ninety year old on a three wheeling bicycle may have mowed you down back in the day. I do see where this story wants to meander down this early morn, the great divide which has been my life.  I have always enjoyed many personalities in friendships, probably to suit all the sides of myself. Maybe that is just how we do it, we attract a little of everything in people, what we need, and vice versa. Sometimes the mirror reflecting back does not show the image we thought we "were",  time for a new mirror, the windex must not be working. I think this is a good place to stop, reflections. :)

Full Circle... Victim to Victor

I was laying in bed trying to sleep, when visions of anything but sugarplums were dancing in my head. I finally dragged myself into the living room and started typing, since I already began writing the story in my head. I knew no sleep would come until I got this down- so here goes. I just titled it "Full Circle."This is one of those times that I am more driven to write, than want to.I am twirling and twiddling my hair, partly because I don't want to do it, and the other- it is late and I am tired. I was thinking about how I got to this moment, right now. The past two years have seen so much change, partly because my dad died and also because I re-introduced someone back in who had done great damage to me, and I needed to finish it- this time on my terms.

When I was pregnant with Katie, I started going to a psychologist. I was twenty seven, Ray's mother had just died and it was a very stressful time in our lives.( Ray and I both went to him) He became a father figure to me, I introduced a very good friend of mine to him, and another couple. I thrived, went back to school, felt very supported. As time went on, the relationship began to get strained.

My girlfriend came  over one day, desperately trying to talk to me, tell me things he had done to her.This was a very dear friend of mine, I loved her like a sister. I would not listen to her. The pain and guilt I feel writing this is very big. We have long since worked this out, but knowing how I have let her down, turned a deaf ear to what he did to her... haunts me to this day. The reason I could not hear her, it was going on with me, and would continue for five years. My life would become a secret hell of manipulation. He still saw my husband on occasion, and normalized everything. From an early age I was able to compartmentalize my life, so he taught me how to do it more, I think without me even having too much awareness. I knew protecting him mattered more than my life. I never understood manipulation, total domination, control, until now.

I tried many times to break away, which would always be followed up with a phone call at a crucial time, "Did I think I could make it on my own?" Usually when Ray was traveling for weeks at a time, when I was struggling, earthquakes... you name it.  Family, fights with my mother. I couldn't take it anymore and told a friend- she told me she would never forgive me for what I was doing to Ray. I thought I was going out of my mind, I didn't know where to turn, and didn't understand unhealthy people, sabotage, etc. My shame, and silence increased. I was in a 12 step program, and finally told my sponsor. That was the end... finally. It was a long road to healing, truth telling and
putting our marriage back together. The pain we both were in was so great.

The years went on, and our love grew stronger, the bond tighter. A lot of work between us had to take place to understand what had happened- not blame each other. Throughout the years, Ray would leave the psychologist interesting messages stating how he felt about him. I would call every couple years, trying to forgive- and it would end up horribly. My wonderful, caring therapist who worked with me for years,Vicki, had me write a letter to the state board about what happened. It was too late, the statute of limitations had ended, but because another girl had taken him to court, one of his licenses was revoked-between the two of us.

About five or six years ago, I went to his office to face him, around the time I  wrote the the letter. It was not pretty. He was very arrogant, and that enraged the crap out of me. I told him to get on his knees....and called him the most vile things I could think of. I wanted to shame him beyond anything, as he had me. I made him repeat after me, every word I said- about what I thought he was. This served no purpose, but it was where I was at. I could see his rage rising- I didn't care anymore. I finally told him he was lucky he wasn't spending the rest of his life in jail.

A few more years passed. That brings us to around two years ago. I told Ray I wasn't through. My darling husband, this was so hard on him. He didn't want me to have anything to do with him, but I promised him it- was my way to freedom. I couldn't and didn't have it with two other incidents in my life, I needed to finish this, so it began. He apologized on the phone, without trying to protect himself. I finally knew it was real. We had some emails for two years, as Ray cringed.... but really understood. He understood me. I knew more than I ever had about his life- I needed to get my power back, and I could wait him out. I did.  This was important to me. It was no longer poor helpless Clare. I had lost so much of who I was, my identity, my life. I was now fully able to stand up to him, see him in person- and just feel pity. I could barely stomach looking at him. That was in May. I left feeling like I had unloaded a lifetime from my shoulders. I know how hard it was for Ray to go through that with me. I don't know if I could do what he did.... on the other end. He is my hero. We talked about so many scenarios. He wanted to talk to his wife this time around, ( she never knew anything happened to this day) I wanted to go after him him for what he did to my friend- (just a few months ago, after all these years, she told me all the details.)We both let it go. We just wanted to move forward and end twenty four years of our life that this weaved through.

Freedom is telling the truth, letting go of shame. Predators prey on peoples weaknesses... he preyed on my friends and mine, our history, all the info we gave him. Keeping things like this a secret serves no one. This is a very common story, it happens every day to men, women, children. Speaking up, speaking out, saying enough- not living the rest of your life in shame and judgement. Did I ever think it could happen to me? Growing up following rules, obeying, good Catholic Girl- the priest, the cop, the authority figure is always right. No they are not always right.
Question everything.... if it doesn't feel right, it usually isn't. Would I think it is a good idea for anyone to go back and do what I did... probably not. I am hard headed, have to do things my way. That is how I learn. Wish it wasn't but it is part of my DNA, but it makes me who I am and I am proud of that person- victim to victor.

You Can Count On Me

Those particular words,"You Can Count On Me, would make me want to run far away in past times. Not because I am irresponsible, they would conjure up emotions inside me that that made no sense- I couldn't breathe, the walls would close in.  My heart feels heavy and sad as I write- it has taken me so long to come to this conclusion, but I am finally here. I have arrived, unloaded enough baggage at the station and stepped off the platform. I  have decided on my own what these words really mean to me. True loyalty has only been something I have felt between my husband, children and myself. Do I feel ashamed as I write? Yes, but more saddened as it has taken to understand, let down my armor, trust.

As a child, loyalty was rarely displayed. My parents pitted siblings against each other, parent against sibling, any combination imaginable. The only  way to healing, truth. My truth is to set myself free, my family, and future generations to come. I am not proud of many of my behaviors. I have asked for forgiveness when I have recognized wrong doing. I will continue to do so when I hurt those I love.  I will also look at that very long, dusty road I have traveled, on many a cold and darkened night, no map to guide me- but my own North Star.  I am also  proud of that brave voyager for embarking on the  journey.

My gauntlet, shield I have needed to protect myself all these years- now rusty, worn, ragged edges I no longer need for battle. I can lay it down, and thank it for a valiant job of protecting me.  Without it I would bear many more scars in battle. I let out a deep sigh that feels never ending- I don't want  to feel this next part. The part where my heart is catching up with my head, saying,"It is time to trust all the way through." But, but, but....  I can rationalize and come up with so many reasons not to trust- where indeed does it get me? What example do I show my children? I speak of courage, letting go, letting down, living the life of my dreams, stepping out of the shadows, am I unwilling to do the same?  Everyone has owies in one form or another, this is my wound. Trust, betrayal-  I in turn have done my share of betraying because of this pain. I am like the eternal bachelor boyfriend, who can't commit to marriage....  but for me it's been friendships. How is it I can commit to a marriage of almost thirty years, but get squirmy and flighty as hell when people, especially gal pals have gotten too close. Betrayal from the original source -my mother.

Yes I know, terribly unpopular to talk about, but oh so real for many of us. When we grow up feeling distant from our mothers, feeling unloved, not hugged or held, (maternal deprivation yes, there actually is a term for this) we are forever going out into the world recreating rejection, pain, heartache with the same personality- to prove what? We are the crap they said we were or weren't by insinuation, silence, with holding, damaging words. Or swinging the other way, forever craving approval, love, being the good girl. Always selfless, happy no matter what. Or both.

I am no longer that girl, no longer choosing those beliefs. I choose love, all the way through, even in the scary places. When it hurts and feels vulnerable and I want to run. I choose it when my skin is on fire, when it's peeled off, and no new skin has grown in. I choose it when those I love call me on my crap, because they love me- and I have the ability to finally listen, not hang up, not turn cold, resort to cruelty, and trust they have my best interests at heart. I choose to learn, and let love in. I choose to count on others when I am frightened, not fear being mocked for my "sensitive heart." In the good times when my heart is overflowing- not fear being "bad" for my happiness.

You can count on me

Passion

Rod Stewart sings about it, most feel it. Not everyone acts on it. Some live their whole lives squashing it, running from it, fearing it. Others learn to embrace, enjoy, romance it - those carefree souls who were born into this wonderful thing called  passion, riding her wonderful waves wherever she may lead. I wish I was in that category. I am stuck between it all. Deep down I have the soul of that passionate wave riding gal, ever fiery Italian roots that wants to embrace life. Then the Scottish uptight Catholic turtleneck wearing gal comes into the room, sporting an Amish outfit and a tight bun-that would be me. The product of being my mother's daughter,  and she her mother's daughter, and so on and so on. But on the other side, my father's where I feel my blood races- Italian, filled with passion, natural, knowing, confident woman. In no way am I knocking Scottish, just did not rock my world. The opposing forces of proper, keeping it inside, when a raging inferno is brewing. No wonder I am the way I am!  I don't think I can blame that on  Italian or Scottish ancestry. I think I'm merely seeing the constant tug of war in my soul. Maybe turtleneck Amish wearing mama has kept me out of harms way, when wild thing wants to go out on the town and have a good time- too good of a time. Simmer down is all she may be saying. Perhaps I am learning balance, my internal mechanism. One I have gotten angry about and have always fought, but is actually my North Star, guiding me home when I lose my way. I have feared in life- to date, if I truly follow my hearts desire, I will lose everything.This is an irrational fear that has kept me stuck for probably my entire life. Never telling myself the truth, really acknowledging my accomplishments, because it never came from the person I yearned to hear it from the most- my mother. It will not come, so I need to hear it from me, from those I trust and love me. For me, not what I can do for them, but simply for each breath I take. Lean into this knowledge, trust, take baby steps. Passion builds with trust, too much fire  can burn, and wearing turtle necks around that kind of heat, hmmm, can get pretty uncomfortable. Maybe it's time to let wild thing loose just a little, let my hair down. It's not a crime. My fifty second birthday is coming up in ten days.  My gift to me, the gift of acceptance.

I Am Home

It is very early hours of morn as I type away, the stillness buzzes in my ears. I understand why people like the middle of the night in this moment. The absolute and utter quiet. The reason for being up I figured out through constant tossing and turning, too much iced tea at lunch with the gals. Life has changed so dramatically in the past three weeks for me. It is all about falling into- letting go.  Letting go of unkindness, wishing, hoping, hanging on. Understanding that the only way I can have the life I want is to make a new one. Risk being "the bad one" if that's what it takes in my mind, from growing up in such an unhealthy household as a child.
The only way I could and can understand this, talk myself through it was think of  The Titanic.... jump.
Survivors Guilt, you name it, whatever you want to call it. To save myself,  I could get there for awhile, but go back to the same behavior. The Ultimate Codependent- yep, I should write a handbook. You don't need to feel your pain, let me do it for you, and then I can rage when we're done. Even that made me laugh. But when you are in it, living your life trying to put out the next fire constantly, save the world, the truth is you are never living. I just know I could not be a punching bag anymore, my hubby and kids did not deserve to witness this, and the inevitable depression that would follow. The self loathing, doubt, anger, and isolation that separated me from the world. But the biggest thing by far from being around such poison, lack of trust in humanity. Watching, with eyes of suspicion as I was trained as a child... instead of how my heart feels. The burden of seeing the world as a place of constant pain, it's too much to carry around- especially for children. Mistrust, it's not for me.  So I am taking my fork in the road... I am a late bloomer I am aware of this.  I am cleaning the weeds in my garden, adding healthy, fresh rich soil to the earth, turning it, sprinkling new seeds and watching  it all bloom.  Climbing vines, roses of every color, brilliant, fragrant, intoxicating to my senses. A bench nearby to enjoy the beautiful sunrises and sunsets in my beautiful garden of life, as a cool breeze whips around me.  A white picket fence  opening, welcoming me as I enter into my magical garden, stepping stones leading the way. A beautiful, gurgling fountain flows as I take my next step, birds gathering  around it -singing my name so sweetly. I am home.

Telling The Truth Faster

Almost a year has passed, I don't know if it has been an eternity or a blip on my radar.What I do know, I've come up for air, burrowing in deeper than I've ever known- becoming the person I'm proud of, all the way through.

Ten months ago my dad died. I thought okay, my dad died. Life goes on. My life goes on, blah blah blah. I will go through the usual motions that a daughter feels, especially when there was a lot of heartache in our relationship. The last weeks of his life were very healing, releasing. I was  happy he stayed in Citrus Valley Hospice, where I volunteered a few years before. That was about the only thing that made sense to me.... it was like going home.

I was  grateful he was able to be there, my family knowing the respect and dignity of such a beautiful place, instead of what we experienced at the previous hospital. Everyone had their own space to mill about, my brothers took turns spending the night, keeping watch with my dad. On some of those long nights I got to know my middle brother, (who moved away years ago) as he told about himself, his life. It seemed as though our family was being brought together in a magical way through my dad. Everyday, for the first time in I don't know how many years, we all gathered together and put it all aside.....

It seemed like once he died, so did everything else. Even on the day of his funeral we all went back to the way things were before. My heart feels heavy writing this- but as a writer, unless you split it open, gut it revealing the contents and let it all fall where it may, you have nothing. Tell the truth faster. I have written almost nothing in this past year. My heart was heavy. It has gradually lifted to where I am now.... feeling free.

I am the fifth out of sixth in the line up of children. I was not particularly close to parents, meaning I kept a fair distance a lot of the time for my own health. I have always loved them and come in and out of their lives.  Self preservation, whatever you want to call it- growing up in an unhealthy family system, takes it's toll. Emotional, mental, physical, spiritual- it hit me on all of the above when I was around them. When my dad got sick, of course had to be put aside. When he died, that had to be put aside once again for some time, until I figured out my own balancing system. Spending a lot of time at my mom's house, which was something I was not used to, was like going into a hole and not knowing if I would come out. I only knew it  needed to be done, my brother and her were counting on me to be a constant in a world that no longer made sense to them. Hell, nothing in my world made sense to me.

First, cooking way too much food was the only thing I could think of to do.... and clean. I felt like I was in a foreign land. My dad always had good smells going, no matter what there was, always something good coming out of the kitchen. There was so much silence. (Now my tears finally flow) but the only smells and sights were what I could muster and I wasn't doing such a great job. A lot of fast food,
which my dad never really ate..... he always sat in the kitchen and cooked. Even with his oxygen on he cooked at the stove. That was his world- the kitchen. For weeks my brother sat in the family room eating ice cream,  my mom sat in the living room.

I started digging through boxes in the garage...... and found letters from her past. Sixty years of past she hadn't seen. My dad had taken them years before- she had never seen them again. From her mother, uncle, old boyfriend. Loss... I read them to her, everyone of them. It seemed for the moment years melted off her. Her dreams, her hopes, her pain, as we kept digging deeper.

A letter my dad had given me years ago, I found in this endless box. How can this be, one would wonder- when I ripped it up and through it away out of rage and anger over fifteen years ago? He made a copy and it was somehow in this box. I think that is when I realized my dad was with us, in a different way, one he could not be with here on Earth. He has come to me in dreams, working through forgiveness and love, urging me to push further. I feel this and do not doubt his love. Other family members have had their own experiences, as well.

I never thought I could release the pain I have felt with my mother, compassion for the life she has lived. I am glad I went into this blindly, had I had known what I was getting into, my true nature would have said hell no.... I'm not doing this. But today, the gift of stripping away so much pain between us, while she is living. I don't want regrets, I had so many with my dad. I want to be an example for my kid's- the person I've struggled with more than anyone in life, my mother. I've had an opportunity to go back in and heal. It's never too late. My youngest brother and I have built  trust for the first time in our lives. Forgiveness was not taught in our family and does not come easily.

What I do wish for everyone is peace in my family. I wish for myself peace as well. The greatest thing I have found out about myself, I was always enough. I've felt I had to jump through fiery hoops to prove my worth, never doing enough. Enough for who,what judge and jury? No one I would have as a friend today. I am enough simply by waking every morning and breathing in the fresh air. That is everyone's right. This proving game is so ridiculous. The one with the most toys wins. I really, really just want to be happy, content and loved.