This week I have recognized in myself some things I have pushed so far away, I thought they could not be real- only in others. Isn't that the biggest joke, the things we see in others -bitch and moan about. Couldn't possibly be like that, we are so above it, then blast, one day when we let our guards down enough, allow ourselves to look into our shadow side. Now I am not talking about anything rash like full on gander in the mirror. Just a side swipe, a glance will do. But holy crap- who was that? It could not possibly have been me staring back.
That's the kind of week I have experienced. The biggest act of denial I have been in- Ice Queen. I am just warm and fuzzy and that is that. Right. I am in my present now, everything is left behind all accounted for. Check that one off- over and out. But, as I was exercising in the garage on my trusty gazelle which I just love while watching Nancy Grace- there was a story on about a child abducted from her home. I watched as her parents spoke to the press, faces full of the worst grief imaginable.
I felt horrible for them. I felt total sympathy, but what hit me hard- no matter how hard I tried I was incapable of empathy. This frightened me, I couldn't understand what the hell was wrong with me. What kind of monster was I? But I thought back over and over again to these situations. My same blank face.
I finally got it, having grown up in a home where my parents had very little empathy, especially for their children- our wellbeing ( other than being watered and fed) I had no comprehension of this behavior.
Of course, very different emotions, if this was for my own children, their friends, etc- but we are not talking about this.This is the blind spot in me. The child watching to this day inside of me, saw two people crying for their child- out in the world. Taken from them, devastated, beyond grief stricken. I saw no signs of this in my childhood. How could this make any sense to me? Nothing, just blankness coming across my face. It is not for lack of love, caring, concern that I am behaving in this manner. I have done so much work to heal, and then some.But there comes a point where I have to forgive myself for some of my behaviors, simply understand that certain damages from the past stay with us.
What I understand in this moment from writing this- I can become more tolerant of other peoples stucks, owies, hurts. I have judged certain people, situations, things so harshly I imagine mainly because I could not forgive my own stuckness. It is what it is. What if I simply just put a bandage on this knowledge, sent it off lovingly with a pat on the back and wished it well.
Could I not possibly move forward faster, tell the truth faster, forgive easier? I understand these are just all notions spinning in space- I can take them in, or not. Putting a bandage on some of those owies sure seems a better notion than constantly picking off those scabs. After all, it's just a thought.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Goodnight Sweet Princesses
I had a conversation with a friend this week about some interesting things, but especially one in particular that we had many years ago. She said, "Do you remember when you said you didn't think you would live a long life?" I said I did, and was quiet. I am quiet now thinking about those words. I am sad thinking about them, and it is time to put them to rest.
The ghosts of the past haunted me, and I thought I, too would be carried away with them.
The first death that haunted me the most, a girl named Julie, who was eighteen when she died.
We were Camp Counselors together in Wrightwood, at Camp Maria Stella. I was fifteen, turned sixteen that summer. She had just begun her first semester of college, and got killed in a car accident the summer after camp. Julie was a long, blond haired beauty. She was the Nature Leader, and in the evening we would sit around the Camp Fire as she played guitar. It was the first time I ever heard, "Secret of Life," by James Taylor. She sang it so beautifully, effortlessly. It seemed as though she was this ethereal creature.
Around that time- another girl, Mary (who was a receptionist at St Lukes), who I thought was a
creature more beautiful than words, lost her life. She wrapped her car around a telephone pole. My sister was good friends with her and a girl named Ellie. Ellie and Mary were two beautiful girls about seven years older than me.
I would watch Ellie and Mary as though they were Princesses. They fascinated me, especially at an impressionable fourteen years old. I just couldn't figure out how anyone could be so thin or beautiful.
I learned soon enough. One summer before my fourteenth year, when I went back packing with my church- I learned how the girls stayed so thin. Bulimia. Binging and purging. From that summer on I was bulimic-and stayed that way for 25 years... I knew that is how I would die. Along the way, another one of our friends Jean died in her home. She left four small boys. It was the first time I heard, "Perhaps Love," by John Denver.
I never realized how I marked so much death by music until now.
Then would come Ellie. My idol, the one who taught me the secret world of bulimia- she died in her home at thirty four of a heart attack. She left four small children behind. Katie was about a year old. I wished it were me in the coffin. The pain was too much. I was twenty eight years old, just waiting it out for death to come calling on me.
Just get it over with already. But it didn't come. I waited, believe me.
As I am writing this it feels rather unbearable to go back and feel all these feelings again.
I loved these girls. I have always had a hard time forming close bonds with females for many reasons, but I think I am beginning to see even more why now. They go away.
It is time to put that to rest, to trust- open my heart to life. Risk. Let this pain go.
Life is here for me now.
I am listening to "Golden Years" by David Bowie.
It is now memories of life that are marked with music.
The ghosts of the past haunted me, and I thought I, too would be carried away with them.
The first death that haunted me the most, a girl named Julie, who was eighteen when she died.
We were Camp Counselors together in Wrightwood, at Camp Maria Stella. I was fifteen, turned sixteen that summer. She had just begun her first semester of college, and got killed in a car accident the summer after camp. Julie was a long, blond haired beauty. She was the Nature Leader, and in the evening we would sit around the Camp Fire as she played guitar. It was the first time I ever heard, "Secret of Life," by James Taylor. She sang it so beautifully, effortlessly. It seemed as though she was this ethereal creature.
Around that time- another girl, Mary (who was a receptionist at St Lukes), who I thought was a
creature more beautiful than words, lost her life. She wrapped her car around a telephone pole. My sister was good friends with her and a girl named Ellie. Ellie and Mary were two beautiful girls about seven years older than me.
I would watch Ellie and Mary as though they were Princesses. They fascinated me, especially at an impressionable fourteen years old. I just couldn't figure out how anyone could be so thin or beautiful.
I learned soon enough. One summer before my fourteenth year, when I went back packing with my church- I learned how the girls stayed so thin. Bulimia. Binging and purging. From that summer on I was bulimic-and stayed that way for 25 years... I knew that is how I would die. Along the way, another one of our friends Jean died in her home. She left four small boys. It was the first time I heard, "Perhaps Love," by John Denver.
I never realized how I marked so much death by music until now.
Then would come Ellie. My idol, the one who taught me the secret world of bulimia- she died in her home at thirty four of a heart attack. She left four small children behind. Katie was about a year old. I wished it were me in the coffin. The pain was too much. I was twenty eight years old, just waiting it out for death to come calling on me.
Just get it over with already. But it didn't come. I waited, believe me.
As I am writing this it feels rather unbearable to go back and feel all these feelings again.
I loved these girls. I have always had a hard time forming close bonds with females for many reasons, but I think I am beginning to see even more why now. They go away.
It is time to put that to rest, to trust- open my heart to life. Risk. Let this pain go.
Life is here for me now.
I am listening to "Golden Years" by David Bowie.
It is now memories of life that are marked with music.
The View From The French Windows
As I sit this early rainy morning listening once again to my old tunes, I am feeling very reminiscent of days gone by. As Cat Stevens plays in my headphones, my fingers type rhythmically to his voice as though we are in our own passionate dance.
I was actually listening to Elton John a few minutes before, and my mind wandered across the street, (from where I lived as a child) and many years back to my best friend's house. Inside it felt haunted and run down. It was always dark. Her dad never came out of the kitchen, and we never went in. It was creepy.The french windows are open, and Steve Miller Band or Led Zeppelin would be blaring on her stereo. I was into more mellow stuff like Cat Stevens, but was known to groove to her tunes in my brown cord bell bottoms.
This was around 1975, we were in ninth grade. We had a neighbor down the street who was heavily into weed, and my neighbor and her had themselves some good times. I tried a few times, but ended up eating everything, and the refrigerator. Hmmm.... that would be my luck. This friend down the street was a total hippy chick. The longest hair I had ever seen on anyones legs and underarms. She was very pretty, but always kinda bitchy to me. Clearly I was not a cool hip chick.
One time I was in hippy chick's house, there must have been twenty cats roaming about. The scent was,you could say somewhat interesting. Maybe my two friends were too stoned to notice. I just wanted to flee. I moved to the hood in seventh grade, so I was late to the ways of these gals. All of us went to St Luke's for grade school, but this girl down the street by now was in tenth grade, a woman of the world. Thinking back, I'm guessing she may have been a baby drug dealer.
I was too busy doing cartwheels in the front yard and baking lots of chocolate chip cookies.
The funny thing was- the good girls I grew up with, the Good Catholic Girls parents thought rocked the casbah, were actually the ones you would never want to bring home. The ones doing the most drugs, drinking heavily - having sex at the earliest age ( with numerous abortions.)
However, due to serious repression, they/ we all knew how to put on our best game face,
and get what we needed to survive such ridiculous rules. My home was equally ridiculous, so out of control that I was able to slip in and out much easier than my fellow cohorts. We all had the same "burning in hell" rules. Some of us just took it to the extreme, more than others.
I have always worn my expression on my face- not a very good poker player. Now, my friend across the street. She knew how to play the game, as did another friend of mine. The funny thing was,
across the street gal liked to do her drugs- another friend down the street (not hippy chic) liked to hang out at church and had a thing for priests. I seemed to always live in alternate universes, this was no different. Neither liked each other, so I just snuck out while Aerosmith would be blasting from those french windows across the street. I kew she was watching- but I needed my freedom. Always have.
Onward to my friend "church girl's" world. We would go to mass sometimes twice on Sunday, so she could see her man toy priest. My reward for such dreaded boredom- getting a bag of nacho cheese chips and half gallon of milk and sitting on the choir loft steps when everyone was gone. Now, that was my idea of a party. (Yes- I was a food head from the get go.) If you had to sit around and talk about fifty something year old bald eagle plain wrap looking priests with personalities to match at fourteen. Well I am sure I had chocolate gem donuts to wash down the chips and milk.
This gal, it would appear to be squeaky clean wholesome princess- was worse than the other one. Anything went with this wild thing. Now, she looked like a librarian, that's what would throw anyone off. At the time, I had platinum blonde hair, my sister would call me a "thirty year old divorcee."At this point I had barely kissed a boy. But... I looked a little wild, a little Lolita-ish.
Funny, the innocence of youth, when you don't have a clue....Those days are long gone. As I sit in my home now, listening to the music that brings me so much comfort - still. My friend across the street's home was torn down several years ago. A new one built. Not long after, someone moved into it and shortly after killed themselves. I wonder what ghosts still haunt that house.
I was actually listening to Elton John a few minutes before, and my mind wandered across the street, (from where I lived as a child) and many years back to my best friend's house. Inside it felt haunted and run down. It was always dark. Her dad never came out of the kitchen, and we never went in. It was creepy.The french windows are open, and Steve Miller Band or Led Zeppelin would be blaring on her stereo. I was into more mellow stuff like Cat Stevens, but was known to groove to her tunes in my brown cord bell bottoms.
This was around 1975, we were in ninth grade. We had a neighbor down the street who was heavily into weed, and my neighbor and her had themselves some good times. I tried a few times, but ended up eating everything, and the refrigerator. Hmmm.... that would be my luck. This friend down the street was a total hippy chick. The longest hair I had ever seen on anyones legs and underarms. She was very pretty, but always kinda bitchy to me. Clearly I was not a cool hip chick.
One time I was in hippy chick's house, there must have been twenty cats roaming about. The scent was,you could say somewhat interesting. Maybe my two friends were too stoned to notice. I just wanted to flee. I moved to the hood in seventh grade, so I was late to the ways of these gals. All of us went to St Luke's for grade school, but this girl down the street by now was in tenth grade, a woman of the world. Thinking back, I'm guessing she may have been a baby drug dealer.
I was too busy doing cartwheels in the front yard and baking lots of chocolate chip cookies.
The funny thing was- the good girls I grew up with, the Good Catholic Girls parents thought rocked the casbah, were actually the ones you would never want to bring home. The ones doing the most drugs, drinking heavily - having sex at the earliest age ( with numerous abortions.)
However, due to serious repression, they/ we all knew how to put on our best game face,
and get what we needed to survive such ridiculous rules. My home was equally ridiculous, so out of control that I was able to slip in and out much easier than my fellow cohorts. We all had the same "burning in hell" rules. Some of us just took it to the extreme, more than others.
I have always worn my expression on my face- not a very good poker player. Now, my friend across the street. She knew how to play the game, as did another friend of mine. The funny thing was,
across the street gal liked to do her drugs- another friend down the street (not hippy chic) liked to hang out at church and had a thing for priests. I seemed to always live in alternate universes, this was no different. Neither liked each other, so I just snuck out while Aerosmith would be blasting from those french windows across the street. I kew she was watching- but I needed my freedom. Always have.
Onward to my friend "church girl's" world. We would go to mass sometimes twice on Sunday, so she could see her man toy priest. My reward for such dreaded boredom- getting a bag of nacho cheese chips and half gallon of milk and sitting on the choir loft steps when everyone was gone. Now, that was my idea of a party. (Yes- I was a food head from the get go.) If you had to sit around and talk about fifty something year old bald eagle plain wrap looking priests with personalities to match at fourteen. Well I am sure I had chocolate gem donuts to wash down the chips and milk.
This gal, it would appear to be squeaky clean wholesome princess- was worse than the other one. Anything went with this wild thing. Now, she looked like a librarian, that's what would throw anyone off. At the time, I had platinum blonde hair, my sister would call me a "thirty year old divorcee."At this point I had barely kissed a boy. But... I looked a little wild, a little Lolita-ish.
Funny, the innocence of youth, when you don't have a clue....Those days are long gone. As I sit in my home now, listening to the music that brings me so much comfort - still. My friend across the street's home was torn down several years ago. A new one built. Not long after, someone moved into it and shortly after killed themselves. I wonder what ghosts still haunt that house.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Powerless
I am restless, that tired, irritable feeling like when you are a child and the day is too long. So I decided to just write and calm down. I put my headphones on, I'm trying to retrain my brain to deal with life in a new way, instead of eating a huge bag of potato chips. I feel like I am pretty darned good at feeling my feelings, but someone I am working with right now has taught me that I need to go much deeper. Why when we feel like we are finally at least a freshman in high school, do we have to go back to kindergarten?
I guess that is part of the process of letting go. Letting the new stuff in, getting rid of our never ending egos. Telling us how absolutely amazing we are at all times, or the other end of the spectrum, what a complete loser we are. Middle ground rocks. What I am learning more than anything- it is okay to feel powerless. It always reminds me of the waves that come crashing in on the shore. Some are so humongous they could carry you out - it seems you might never see land again. Others just tickle your toes in the most gentle of ways, as the sun is setting. Life could not possibly be more perfect.
It just depends what moment, hour, day, you are at the mercy of the sea. A riptide could come, or not. One thing is for sure, allowing the waves to wash over you, riding that wave goes so much smoother no matter what strength they come. The wind has always calmed me, lifted my soul.Whatever strength, form it comes in - I could not be giddier. I have been this way since I was a child.
Feeling powerless in the waves. Running away from the tears, the pain, the anger. Allowing them to come, it releases so much that has been stored up - but I understand now, I don't even know what I was fighting. I run so fast and far, until I am crying in Target with audience included at no extra charge.
I laugh - I cry. They are just emotions that I happen to be in touch with. They are only emotions. Like anger, fear, sadness, joy, love. It is part of life, to attach shame to tears - seems like such an outdated thought process.They are necessary to release emotions in order to move forward, just as laughter is necessary. I held shame in my past for being "sensitive." I am also a lot of other things. That is one dimension of me. I am learning, by being sensitive it has allowed me to be in touch with my feelings and enables me to write.
I can also be a detached, cold as ice human being which I take no pride in. This comes from nothing but damage from childhood, which I work on daily- to open my heart. I love letting those waves wash over me... see where they take me. It's all in the not knowing.
I guess that is part of the process of letting go. Letting the new stuff in, getting rid of our never ending egos. Telling us how absolutely amazing we are at all times, or the other end of the spectrum, what a complete loser we are. Middle ground rocks. What I am learning more than anything- it is okay to feel powerless. It always reminds me of the waves that come crashing in on the shore. Some are so humongous they could carry you out - it seems you might never see land again. Others just tickle your toes in the most gentle of ways, as the sun is setting. Life could not possibly be more perfect.
It just depends what moment, hour, day, you are at the mercy of the sea. A riptide could come, or not. One thing is for sure, allowing the waves to wash over you, riding that wave goes so much smoother no matter what strength they come. The wind has always calmed me, lifted my soul.Whatever strength, form it comes in - I could not be giddier. I have been this way since I was a child.
Feeling powerless in the waves. Running away from the tears, the pain, the anger. Allowing them to come, it releases so much that has been stored up - but I understand now, I don't even know what I was fighting. I run so fast and far, until I am crying in Target with audience included at no extra charge.
I laugh - I cry. They are just emotions that I happen to be in touch with. They are only emotions. Like anger, fear, sadness, joy, love. It is part of life, to attach shame to tears - seems like such an outdated thought process.They are necessary to release emotions in order to move forward, just as laughter is necessary. I held shame in my past for being "sensitive." I am also a lot of other things. That is one dimension of me. I am learning, by being sensitive it has allowed me to be in touch with my feelings and enables me to write.
I can also be a detached, cold as ice human being which I take no pride in. This comes from nothing but damage from childhood, which I work on daily- to open my heart. I love letting those waves wash over me... see where they take me. It's all in the not knowing.
Introspection
Heavenly aromas are wafting in from the kitchen, Matt is whipping up something truly scrumptious fro dinner tonight. I hear Katie in her room rocking out to Stevie Wonder. The birdies are chirping outside my window as I am writing this. I am sleepy, but the writing bug will not escape me until I put pen to paper.
I just took a bath, and as I was relaxing, my mind started drifting to the graduation we went to yesterday. My thoughts went everywhere. First, I was so proud of all the hard work and effort Josh, the graduate put out to make this happen. Secondly, I was thinking about the woman who gave the commencement speech. It had to have been the most self indulgent speech I have ever heard in my life.
I felt so badly for the graduates- ninety nine percent of her talk had nothing to do with them. It was pretty much her credentials, resume, her emptiness. She was supremely puffed up for fifteen minutes prior to this agonizing thirty minutes all of the attendees and graduates had to endure- by the school administration. So, she added forty-five minutes to the graduation, stumbling through, bragging, but most importantly- giving nothing on this day, the day which belonged to the graduates.
How many times could I get up for a drink of water and bathroom breaks? Answer- not enough. I no longer cared. I needed to breathe, stretch my legs, think. Looking around, watching others standing in the back squirming, wondering "What's it all about Alfie?"
People from not only around the country, the world are here on this day of days.... to celebrate their child, relative, friend. This is what they get to hear this woman's life, as we get dragged into her complete vacuum. Sheer emptiness, vacancy, trying to fill the glory days she used to live - on their dime. Again this was their day they worked so hard for. No inspiring words of hope. Just her life.
My mind wandered to the man standing nearby, and I began to feel sad. He reminded me of a friend of ours who had died a few years ago. He looked like him when he was younger. That familiar "knowing,"- time is fleeting. Little reminders along the way. Say what you mean to say. It can all sound so cliche, but it is so simple.Yet the hardest thing to do when put to the test. To forgive, love. Letting go of anger, hurt, resentment, old wounds, pride. Allowing love to come in. Takes enormous risk. Surrender. Taking the barbed wire we have so carefully laced around our hearts down.
Not for the feint of heart. It takes time, trust is involved. Sitting outside on that beautiful Spring Day, yesterday made me think of death and rebirth. I have been that self indulgent woman speaking when I am afraid and want to be heard. When I have been at my emptiest, nothing to give. Of course it's so easy for me to point the finger. But I always have to turn it on myself as well. Takes one to know one. I wish for her peace too. I can't say yesterday I did. I just wanted her to shut the hell up, to be honest. Today, writing.... ah, the frigging gift of writing. Introspection. Hmmm.....
I just took a bath, and as I was relaxing, my mind started drifting to the graduation we went to yesterday. My thoughts went everywhere. First, I was so proud of all the hard work and effort Josh, the graduate put out to make this happen. Secondly, I was thinking about the woman who gave the commencement speech. It had to have been the most self indulgent speech I have ever heard in my life.
I felt so badly for the graduates- ninety nine percent of her talk had nothing to do with them. It was pretty much her credentials, resume, her emptiness. She was supremely puffed up for fifteen minutes prior to this agonizing thirty minutes all of the attendees and graduates had to endure- by the school administration. So, she added forty-five minutes to the graduation, stumbling through, bragging, but most importantly- giving nothing on this day, the day which belonged to the graduates.
How many times could I get up for a drink of water and bathroom breaks? Answer- not enough. I no longer cared. I needed to breathe, stretch my legs, think. Looking around, watching others standing in the back squirming, wondering "What's it all about Alfie?"
People from not only around the country, the world are here on this day of days.... to celebrate their child, relative, friend. This is what they get to hear this woman's life, as we get dragged into her complete vacuum. Sheer emptiness, vacancy, trying to fill the glory days she used to live - on their dime. Again this was their day they worked so hard for. No inspiring words of hope. Just her life.
My mind wandered to the man standing nearby, and I began to feel sad. He reminded me of a friend of ours who had died a few years ago. He looked like him when he was younger. That familiar "knowing,"- time is fleeting. Little reminders along the way. Say what you mean to say. It can all sound so cliche, but it is so simple.Yet the hardest thing to do when put to the test. To forgive, love. Letting go of anger, hurt, resentment, old wounds, pride. Allowing love to come in. Takes enormous risk. Surrender. Taking the barbed wire we have so carefully laced around our hearts down.
Not for the feint of heart. It takes time, trust is involved. Sitting outside on that beautiful Spring Day, yesterday made me think of death and rebirth. I have been that self indulgent woman speaking when I am afraid and want to be heard. When I have been at my emptiest, nothing to give. Of course it's so easy for me to point the finger. But I always have to turn it on myself as well. Takes one to know one. I wish for her peace too. I can't say yesterday I did. I just wanted her to shut the hell up, to be honest. Today, writing.... ah, the frigging gift of writing. Introspection. Hmmm.....
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Golden Haired Boy
The Golden Haired Boy- with wild curly hair, that is how I will always remember him.
I was racking my brain today thinking back how old I was when I first met him. I want to say 8th grade, but was it 9th? I don't recall when he started working at the Ice Cream Counter at Thrifty's. My memory goes in and out. I do remember going up after school with my girlfriend from across the street.
Everyone was in love with The Golden Haired Boy. He was adorable, friendly, sweet and had the best smile. Many of the girls from St Luke's were smitten, I can only imagine how the other girls swooned over him. I know I did.
I liked Golden Haired Boy for many reasons. He seemed like he always had a tan.... did he surf?
He was smart, I liked his mind. He was only two years older than me, but he seemed so different than other boys I knew. He seemed truly kind and sensitive and had the kindest, warmest eyes.
I felt so sheepish around him... he affected me.
Meanwhile, another girl was having a major reaction to Golden Haired Boy, as well.
Many knew about this girls undying love for him, as a matter of fact. Tag.... in her mind, heart,
he was hers. When she claimed something- that was that. I was arch enemies with this other girl.
Not from anything I did really - I just happened to become friends with her "best friend." She claimed people, tagged them, and that was it. In her mind she "owned" them. I was just slow on the take. As I write this over thirty five years later, I feel so sad for the naive girl I was. I migrated in friendships. I never was a "since kindergarten til' death" kind of gal. I liked who I liked. If it worked - fine, if not, onward bound. That was just how I lived my life.This particular girl was not happy that I became friends with her best friend / my friend. She was not shy about letting anyone within earshot know this.
Golden Haired Boy and I went out once- this girl found out about it. Unfortunately she saw me in his car with him. This was not good, and I knew I was in for it. I was fifteen or sixteen, and she again told everyone within earshot I was .... not a very nice word. Her rumors about me swirled. This hurt me terribly. Her parents were very rude to me, as were my friends parents. She yielded a lot of power through her anger. It devastated me. I did not understand the ramifications of doing something just for me simply because I liked him . I was not friends with her. He didn't seem to like her, but the die was cast. She has had hatred for me... that seems to have lasted to this day.
Golden Haired Boy changed me.... he was so interesting, full of life, questions, visions of things I could not grasp. He was too much for my heart then. He was so real. I was too shy, swimming in insecurities and fears that I could not conquer at the time. I could barely look him in the eye, it was unbearable. I felt like he looked right into my soul.
I never saw Golden Haired Boy again since those days. Perhaps he is a farmer in the midwest, a doctor, a movie mogul, a lawyer, a truck driver, who knows what became of him. I am sure he is doing something interesting.
He sure made many girls hearts flutter back in the day, I am sure he still does!
I was racking my brain today thinking back how old I was when I first met him. I want to say 8th grade, but was it 9th? I don't recall when he started working at the Ice Cream Counter at Thrifty's. My memory goes in and out. I do remember going up after school with my girlfriend from across the street.
Everyone was in love with The Golden Haired Boy. He was adorable, friendly, sweet and had the best smile. Many of the girls from St Luke's were smitten, I can only imagine how the other girls swooned over him. I know I did.
I liked Golden Haired Boy for many reasons. He seemed like he always had a tan.... did he surf?
He was smart, I liked his mind. He was only two years older than me, but he seemed so different than other boys I knew. He seemed truly kind and sensitive and had the kindest, warmest eyes.
I felt so sheepish around him... he affected me.
Meanwhile, another girl was having a major reaction to Golden Haired Boy, as well.
Many knew about this girls undying love for him, as a matter of fact. Tag.... in her mind, heart,
he was hers. When she claimed something- that was that. I was arch enemies with this other girl.
Not from anything I did really - I just happened to become friends with her "best friend." She claimed people, tagged them, and that was it. In her mind she "owned" them. I was just slow on the take. As I write this over thirty five years later, I feel so sad for the naive girl I was. I migrated in friendships. I never was a "since kindergarten til' death" kind of gal. I liked who I liked. If it worked - fine, if not, onward bound. That was just how I lived my life.This particular girl was not happy that I became friends with her best friend / my friend. She was not shy about letting anyone within earshot know this.
Golden Haired Boy and I went out once- this girl found out about it. Unfortunately she saw me in his car with him. This was not good, and I knew I was in for it. I was fifteen or sixteen, and she again told everyone within earshot I was .... not a very nice word. Her rumors about me swirled. This hurt me terribly. Her parents were very rude to me, as were my friends parents. She yielded a lot of power through her anger. It devastated me. I did not understand the ramifications of doing something just for me simply because I liked him . I was not friends with her. He didn't seem to like her, but the die was cast. She has had hatred for me... that seems to have lasted to this day.
Golden Haired Boy changed me.... he was so interesting, full of life, questions, visions of things I could not grasp. He was too much for my heart then. He was so real. I was too shy, swimming in insecurities and fears that I could not conquer at the time. I could barely look him in the eye, it was unbearable. I felt like he looked right into my soul.
I never saw Golden Haired Boy again since those days. Perhaps he is a farmer in the midwest, a doctor, a movie mogul, a lawyer, a truck driver, who knows what became of him. I am sure he is doing something interesting.
He sure made many girls hearts flutter back in the day, I am sure he still does!
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
It takes What It Takes
I am so grateful for today, in the coming days, months, I will know the effects more from all this- right now I feel like a limp noodle. It's all about letting go. Surrender.
When it hurts, it is so easy to bolt. It would be much easier to go out to dinner right now with Ray and Matt. Just move on, but my heart knows what to do, go on automatic pilot. Everyone has their moment to take, when bolting is the much easier solution, when that familiar pain creeps in. I am out of here, this is uncomfortable. I feel the tell tale knot in my throat, tightening in my stomach. I am bracing myself. The big, uncontrollable cry is going to burst out- perfectly orchestrated. I am going to be out in public with an audience. And so it goes....
It started today talking about family, love, telling the truth, in a restaurant bar. Packed to the rafters no less.
Truth couldn't help pouring out, as did the tears between myself and the two gals I was with.
It was a very profound moment in time. We all understood each other on such deep levels. Loss wanting- needing family. Simply stating that loss and embracing what we wanted and needed.
It opened me up to express myself in a way I have shut down in the past, didn't know I had closed so tight.
Through our conversation, what opened up.... loss I have tried to bury over and over again so deep.
I thought I had healed.... but realized until today I only had put a bandage on the wound.
It needed air. I let these two in... to a place so private, so deep in my heart- I have kept people at a far distance. I asked them both if they would come to Forest Lawn with me.
We went in search of a particular tombstone, no matter how hard we tried to find.... couldn't.
I have been there countless times through the years- have found it in ten minutes or so. Today even after forty minutes or more.... I realized that was not why we were there. It was not to visit the tombstone. It was to let go.
We sat down and began to talk. First I didn't want to, then I felt that old friend panic. I wanted to run- I couldn't breathe. Then the tears came. My baby was buried here. I have done so much work through the years on healing this wound. What I realized when I finally had the courage to speak.... my guilt kept me so connected to loss. It was the first time in sixteen years I had ever spoken aloud about my guilt. The tears poured out and would not stop. I felt like something was wrong in my pregnancy.... I had been pregnant with twins, and was terrified there was something wrong with them. I never spoke to anyone about it, I never took any tests, and I never had an autopsy. For sixteen years, I was convinced my body, my mind created what went wrong. On the other hand, I was terrified at what it had created. I never felt that way with the other pregnancies.
I felt these feelings reflected the kind of mother I was.... and it wasn't a good one. It ate at me everyday. I never went for grief counseling, I just shut down afterwards, for many years. I had gone later to therapy for years but never discussed this. Having loving hands to hold as I told my deepest fears...it just melted away. I came home, Ray got home not too much after that. I told him what happened, he just listened. I was frightened to tell him the part about it being my fault for some reason.This is the man who has loved me through everything- especially this.
Tears rolled down his face, as he said-" It was me, I was the defective one." I was dumbstruck. What is he talking about? All of these years we had mourned together, held each other, but never really talked about this. Both carrying so much pain and guilt, staying in our own little worlds. We could mourn it, but we could not get past it. It was time for forgiveness.
Today we finally forgave ourselves. We both carried so much pain about something that was never in our control. It just happened. I never in a million years would have thought Ray saw himself as the defective one. I thought he saw me as that. Today I let it go. Sixteen years later, out of my body, mind, spirit, soul. Ray got the same rebirth. I never thought when I woke up this morning- by surrendering, true surrender I would feel these feelings. It takes what it takes.
When it hurts, it is so easy to bolt. It would be much easier to go out to dinner right now with Ray and Matt. Just move on, but my heart knows what to do, go on automatic pilot. Everyone has their moment to take, when bolting is the much easier solution, when that familiar pain creeps in. I am out of here, this is uncomfortable. I feel the tell tale knot in my throat, tightening in my stomach. I am bracing myself. The big, uncontrollable cry is going to burst out- perfectly orchestrated. I am going to be out in public with an audience. And so it goes....
It started today talking about family, love, telling the truth, in a restaurant bar. Packed to the rafters no less.
Truth couldn't help pouring out, as did the tears between myself and the two gals I was with.
It was a very profound moment in time. We all understood each other on such deep levels. Loss wanting- needing family. Simply stating that loss and embracing what we wanted and needed.
It opened me up to express myself in a way I have shut down in the past, didn't know I had closed so tight.
Through our conversation, what opened up.... loss I have tried to bury over and over again so deep.
I thought I had healed.... but realized until today I only had put a bandage on the wound.
It needed air. I let these two in... to a place so private, so deep in my heart- I have kept people at a far distance. I asked them both if they would come to Forest Lawn with me.
We went in search of a particular tombstone, no matter how hard we tried to find.... couldn't.
I have been there countless times through the years- have found it in ten minutes or so. Today even after forty minutes or more.... I realized that was not why we were there. It was not to visit the tombstone. It was to let go.
We sat down and began to talk. First I didn't want to, then I felt that old friend panic. I wanted to run- I couldn't breathe. Then the tears came. My baby was buried here. I have done so much work through the years on healing this wound. What I realized when I finally had the courage to speak.... my guilt kept me so connected to loss. It was the first time in sixteen years I had ever spoken aloud about my guilt. The tears poured out and would not stop. I felt like something was wrong in my pregnancy.... I had been pregnant with twins, and was terrified there was something wrong with them. I never spoke to anyone about it, I never took any tests, and I never had an autopsy. For sixteen years, I was convinced my body, my mind created what went wrong. On the other hand, I was terrified at what it had created. I never felt that way with the other pregnancies.
I felt these feelings reflected the kind of mother I was.... and it wasn't a good one. It ate at me everyday. I never went for grief counseling, I just shut down afterwards, for many years. I had gone later to therapy for years but never discussed this. Having loving hands to hold as I told my deepest fears...it just melted away. I came home, Ray got home not too much after that. I told him what happened, he just listened. I was frightened to tell him the part about it being my fault for some reason.This is the man who has loved me through everything- especially this.
Tears rolled down his face, as he said-" It was me, I was the defective one." I was dumbstruck. What is he talking about? All of these years we had mourned together, held each other, but never really talked about this. Both carrying so much pain and guilt, staying in our own little worlds. We could mourn it, but we could not get past it. It was time for forgiveness.
Today we finally forgave ourselves. We both carried so much pain about something that was never in our control. It just happened. I never in a million years would have thought Ray saw himself as the defective one. I thought he saw me as that. Today I let it go. Sixteen years later, out of my body, mind, spirit, soul. Ray got the same rebirth. I never thought when I woke up this morning- by surrendering, true surrender I would feel these feelings. It takes what it takes.
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