Too Much

Every week I make an internal list of all of the things I want, and need to do.  The list keeps growing, but my drive to actually do them shrinks.  I don't seem to have the energy to pot plants this year, mow the lawn or do anything that takes any kind of effort.  What the hell is wrong with me?

Last year when my youngest was just tiny, not quite running away, or crawling away from me, I could get a load of things done during the day.  But this year, I sit, I sit and think.  I am consumed by putting things off.  I want to work, but nothing comes quite quickly, or maybe easily enough.  It worries me some days.  Maybe I've been stagnant for too long.  Maybe I'm no longer hungry enough.  I've got ideas constantly spinning in my head, but my body feels much to heavy to put them on paper.  

The days can seem so long, yet at the same time they disappear before I know what hit me.  I long for the evening most days, when things are quiet, when I can be in peace.  And then I lay there in the dark worrying.  Worrying whether I've done enough that day, or am I letting my life slip by me, while I do nothing about it.  Sometimes it feels so empty, there's a void, I'm just not sure how to fill.

I have to get this under control, it's depressing, smothering.  I know all of the things I should do, tackle one thing a day, and I might get on track.  I don't know though, can I?  The piles of stuff, the boxes of stuff, the bags of stuff, I feel I'm trapped by stuff, and things I need to do about it.  I would love for it to evaporate sometimes, just fall away from me.  But it's always there, piles of laundry, a dishwasher full of dishes, dirty floors and bathrooms and the endless lists of things that must be organized.  Does everyone have this feeling? 

I just need to do it, get it over with, purge myself of the stuff, and the feelings that go along with it.  But I'm so tired. 

The Year of the Nut

I don't know what it is about me and crazies. Whether it is my own family, which we all know has it's fair share of full out nuts, or people I've let into my life. It's always been this way for me. I have a tendency to bring home friends like stray puppies, current audience excluded of course.

I don't mean the life long friends that have seen me act like a complete idiot myself.  I mean the people that just kind of pass in and out of my life. The ones that never make it through to the long haul. The fact that not every single person who has been in my life doesn't stay isn't my issue at all. In fact it's great.  I really feel that people I've met and who don't end up staying in my life, is good, important to personal growth, right?  I don't want every Tom, Dick and Harry I've ever met sticking around forever, sometimes they just serve a purpose at a specific time.  They are there, and then they are gone for a reason.  And sadly for me it's more often because they are nuts, really, nuts!!

This has been quite a constant in my life, and I am baffled about how it happens. It's the same recipe for disaster every time, so you'd think after thirty odd years I would have some idea how things will go with some people. That my skills for spotting the nut jobs would be fine tuned. Well, sadly they are not. Time and again, I've been sucked in by the power of the nut. They come in all sorts of packages. They show themselves as slightly questionable sorts of people, tittering on the brink of what would seem completely normal, with just a scent of something being off.

My husband has this keen sense and can spot someone just on the edge, from a brief first meeting. But again my save the stray personality kicks in, and I always tell him he needs to be more open, understanding, not so paranoid. Well, sad to say, but I'm usually wrong. He never says I told you so, he just patiently explains to me how crazy nut jobs can only think they are normal, how else could they exist? Yeah, again, I know he's right.

But then there is my family....whom I've only ever known to be totally smacked out, wildy crazy at the best of times. So here is where I falter the most. I play into it, put up with it, and probably contribute to it somehow...still can't figure that one out, but it must be something I'm doing. It's hard to recognize this kind of nuttiness in one's own family, you must understand, since it's the only thing you've ever known.  Recognizing it for what it is becomes increasingly difficult.

Well now as I get older I have decided that I must be a little more choosy about the people whom I get to know, and allow into my life.  It will make for less lively conversation, but in the end, it will save me the inevitable feeling of embarrassment, when again I have to admit that I just can't tell normal people from full out nuts.

So cheers to those friends who have either tricked me into believing they are completely sane or have somehow managed to allow me to find some normal people to hang out with, but most of all thanks for sticking around when I am a total nut myself. 

Father's Day

Hard to believe another year has slipped passed...although, this year I have had many days that have seemed virtually endless. I guess that is part of getting older, time sneaks past you, hoping you won't notice.

Spring finally feels like it's arrived, and Father's Day is on us. Another holiday that gets us thinking about being parents. Measuring our worth based on what kinds of cards or gifts we receive, if we indeed receive any at all. Now I get to my point.

My kids are lucky kids, really lucky kids. They are much loved, by three parents no less. They have me, their ever-adoring mother (well sometimes), their dad, and their step dad, my husband. All of us are invested in them, well I shouldn't blanket us all in that statement. My husband and I are definitely invested, interested and present, always, for them. Their dad, well he's kind of hot and cold. More like tepid.

They are great kids, funny, interesting and they make my life feel full, sometimes overflowing kind of full, but you know what I mean. I can't imagine how their own dad can't see it. He is certainly a part of their lives, but in a way that makes it clear that convenience (and his own needs) come first and the kids come second, or worse, further down the list.

Last night my husband and I sat through another endless band performance ( I know I am horrible, but it is a special kind of torture to sit through a middle school band concert, singing included). This is our ten billionth band concert that we have been to in the last three years, and the kids are always so thrilled that we go. It's painful yes, but I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. Their dad on the other hand has never attended one...and I mean not a single one! Hard to believe, I know, but somehow he wiggles, and squirms his way out of it every time.

I am kind of disgusted at this point, and I don't even have the energy or care enough anymore to point it out to him. He just had some stuff that needed to get done. FUCK!! He's such an asshole when it comes to being an actual real-live-parent.

Well now to my real point. This morning when the kids got up, they mentioned that they still had to wrap presents, presents they'd picked out for their step dad, not their dad. I asked my son whether he had gotten a card made for his dad and he said no, and really didn't seem to care. My daughter had taken some time a few weeks ago to go shopping for her dad, which is great, but she is more intently focused on when and what we are planning to do for Father's Day at home for their step dad.

I wonder if he sees it, their dad? If he sees them slowly slipping out of his life, losing touch, becoming people he'll hardly know very soon. I don't know if he cares. I guess I shouldn't either. I've been told by a wise friend of mine that it is no longer up to me, I can't manage, or maintain a relationship for him/them. She's right of course. I just feel so desperate for them sometimes. Product of a fatherless child? Most likely. I just want them know they are loved, and he does love them and that they are important to all of us.

So, another disappointment, among so many where their dad is concerned.

I am so glad they do however, have a strong, loving, gentle, understanding and supportive man in their lives. He may not be their biological father but he loves them more that I ever thought possible. He has been an incredible parent to them both, for that I am forever thankful. For all of our children they are lucky to know, without a doubt they are loved. For our boys I am so happy they'll have a chance to see what a father could and should be. They will witness for themselves a man that loves easily, openly, and respectfully.

For our girls, I am happier still, that they will always know what being loved by a man brings to their lives. How just by knowing they are loved by their father frees them from searching for it as they grow up.

So on this Father's Day, we'll celebrate together. The fact that we found each other and we've made a beautiful family together, is in itself a miracle. We'll not look at what were missing or where we've fallen short, we'll just be together in the only way we can.

Happy Father's Day.

The Letter

It sits here day after day, staring at me accusingly, unopened. I'm still too afraid or fragile to open it. It's like Pandora's Box. You'd think after nearly two years the pain would dull, and thinking about it would no longer bring tears to my eyes. But it hasn't gotten any easier. The memories of her sit in the back of my mind like a tumor waiting to be discovered, acknowledged, accepted.

She is a part of me, my mother, but she is more a stranger than anyone could ever imagine. The only thing I felt I could do was to let go, give up, run away. I've done this before, it's my method, my safety net. This method has worked of course, but it's left me alone, disjointed, and I am not sure how to make it back to where I first came from.

My life is much safer, calmer, and happier all around. But there is this empty tiny pocket, as though a tooth has been pulled and my tongue keeps going back to find it, but all that is left is space, where a part of me used to be. I tell everyone I'm alright, it's what I needed to do. It was, I had no choice, I am not a fool, I know that was what I had to do. But there is always, what if.

I am not sure anyone can quite understand what it is like to feel this alone, by choice no less. I have my loving husband, beautiful children, incredible friends, but no access to my history. It is like I started my life completely over and left behind everything that had formed me. I've never been all that close to my family, my brothers, have virtually faded away, and my sister and I just can't seem to maintain anything that resembles a connection for any length of time. How can one share so much with their own family; a bed, a home, and secrets, but never really know them?

It's lonely, it's isolating. Even when you have a full, rich life, there is always something missing. I've spent my life feeling this. Growing up without my father was isolation in itself. Imagining what it would be like to have a real, grown man, love and care for you, was something I had always longed for, but rarely admitted. It made me feel weak.

Now I sit, two years after my momentous decision to cut all ties with my mother, the woman whose body I shared for nine months, and wait. I wait for something, a sign, I don't know. But nothing comes. I tell myself, "I'll think about it tomorrow", and the days come and go. It's as if I can't admit to what I've done. I've severed a part of myself by leaving her. If I avoid it, can it be true, can the pain eventually go away? I am starting to think, no.

I am pretty certain I know what the letter will contain, and that is the part I fear the most. Hearing the pain, the loneliness in her written words, is almost too much to bare. I am not strong enough yet, and I am not so sure I will ever be.

So sits the letter, under a pile of bills and papers, waiting to be given life.

Will I Remember?

Yesterday my husband and I sat holding hands, watching friends of ours exchange vows. Their voices shaky, smiles that that spoke of happiness yet to come. I turned to my husband and said, "I barely remember our wedding our wedding day, let alone our vows" He just smiled, and replied "do you really think they are going to remember every detail in a few years?" Good point, probably not. There are those moments that we are cursed to remember, every sickening detail, like labour and delivery, our first broken heart, or the thousand other things you'd give anything to forget.

Unfortunately we are also forced to come to grips with the cruel reality that there are the moments we gather and tuck away, our precious memories. We place them in small little silk lined boxes, and slip them under our beds to treasure later, only to find that when we take them out, something is missing, they are no longer the same or they are all together gone. Only a tiny glimmer of what they once were often remains.

When you have children this becomes so much more real. The loss of memories so sweet. The moments we swore we would never, could never forget. The feelings experienced the first time you held the child you'd just given birth to, looked into their eyes and asked, "remember me?".

Memories of the way our babies smelled, the way they felt, warm against our naked chests. They're gone. Sometimes I close my eyes and try to remember. I can hold onto pieces of them, but for the most part they've faded , almost unrecognizable.

I find the older I get I create memories. They are similar to the reality of what passed, but not entirely. I forget parts, so I recreate, and these become my new memories. My childhood, an old home, a friend, a loved one, the feeling I had about the experience of my life. None are safe from the creativity of my mind.

Now things take place, special things, birthdays, anniversaries, quiet shared moments, and I have to pause myself and ask, will I remember?

It's a Long Life

I know, it seems life is never quite long enough. Especially when we are looking at what little time we have left in front of us. I've lived many lives, too many to count or think about sometimes. That's the cruel reality of life I guess, when you get closer to the end you'd give anything to have more time, but when you were living the early years, it couldn't move quickly enough. Convoluted or what?

Mother

I remember the intense fear I felt the first time I saw my mother cry. I'm sure it wasn't the first time she had ever shed tears in front of us, it was just that I was old enough to really understand what that meant. The helplessness that ran through me, seeing the one person I thought was afraid of nothing, standing there looking so weak and defeated.

I don't see my mother anymore, it's been almost two years. Aside from one short sliver of time I had to see her. My aunt had just passed away, and my older sister was left to take care of everything else. It was guilt that made me go. I knew I would have to face my mother, looking haggard, tiny and old. It was that moment that made me think of the first time I remember seeing her cry.

This time, seeing her afraid and weakened it made me understand how human we are as moms and women. How must it have made her feel crying before us as small children. We are given the impossible task of trying to be the bravest, the strongest, in our children's eyes. We want nothing more, than for them to feel protected and safe through us. It is bloody terrifying to think that we are asked, expected to, by others and ourselves, to be brave and strong at all cost.


Now, I remember the first time my children saw me cry. The look of sadness and fear in their eyes, still makes my throat thick. I didn't want to make them feel helpless or sad, but they did. It wasn't my intention to let them see my weakness and fear, but they did. I don't think I ever asked them how it made them feel. Maybe I'm just projecting what I felt as a child onto them, I don't know. I know my mother never asked. It's hard, but I don't think I want to know.


The one thing I do know is that I am sometimes weak, scared and sometimes I even feel defeated. In all of this I am slowly starting to accept that they can see this, they need to see it. My rawness, the reality of who I am. I am flawed, I am human and I make mistakes, it is scary, but it is the truth.

Stumped

Tonight I stood at the sink racking my brain trying to come up with something to write, that had substance, was deep and meaningful. Nothing.

It reminds me of a time when I had come back to university after summer break. My instructor gave us our first assignment. Creating something with substance, something that you could defend, something you could build on. I was dumbfounded, terrified, and blocked.

Eventually something did come, but the whole time I was afraid, afraid it wasn't what everyone wanted to see. It never got easier, each time after that I feared what I was making would somehow stump me, that I wouldn't be able to hold onto it and really make it mine.

Art in any form is hard. You give away tiny pieces of yourself each time you make something. I think writers have the worst time. You give something up, it peels parts of you away, opens you up for others to examine.

Each time I sit down to put something into words it's paralyzing. Somehow, I have a driving need to say something, but can't seem to find the words to say it. It's never good, or interesting enough. I read what others write, look at what they make and I never seem to feel like I can measure up.

It's not that I am not confident, honestly few would know I struggle with this, it's just that internal voice, that burning question. Is this okay, am I okay? I think I am okay. I walk around not looking like I am anything but composed, I think.

I lay in bed at night and wonder, does anyone else feel like this?

Growing up.

I feel like I've been doing this all of my life, growing up. I don't mean just going from being a care free kid to the suuden realization that I am a responsible adult. I mean really growing, changing, trying to find a place where I fit.

Do we ever find that? I don't know. I thought after I hit an age where I felt okay with myself, like magic, that would be it. It would be like a big metaphorical hammer coming down hitting me over the head, telling me I'd finally arrived, I'd grown up. I would know who and what I was. Well, not so much.

I am now a mom. Well I've been a mom for quite sometime, but I wonder how I, someone who still feels like the skinny awkward little kid, could ever hope to give her own kids enough. Enough courage, enough love, enough comfort for them to 'Grow up'? I still walk past windows, and wonder who the hell is that women staring back at me.

I'm okay though. I have adapted quite well, sometimes too well,to my surroundings. Maybe that is what growing up is all about. You simply have to become what your environment wants or allows you to be, rather than who you really are. God I sure as hell hope not.

I'll just keep trudging along, growing, changing and struggling. Maybe I'll find that elusive answer...when I grow up.