Headed Home

One cannot help but question her own decisions--especially those which will result in the major upheaval of another.



Have I any right to drag two girls all the way across the country to a "home" that is, in many ways, completely unsettled?



Would it be better just to let things be?




Sometimes, I think, one has to simply take a breath, pinch her nostrils, and jump.


...Yet, does she have the right to ask others to take that potentially catastrophic leap of faith alongside her...?


Here's hoping I don't lead us all careening to our deaths!


Keep writing ya'll.

Hopefully, one day soon I will join you by doing the same.

Finding Our Way Home

The process of rebuilding a new life with (and for) my daughters is proving far more stressful, far more humbling that one--than I before imagined.













Though our host and hostess are more than gracious, I am still not exactly comfortable taking up space in someone else's home. Call it a character flaw or some lack of faith in human nature, In my mind, though, most offers of help, support, friendship, or the like are offered with the subconscious belief that the one to whom the invitation is extended will gracefully, gratefully decline! We all want to be generous. We all want to be kind. The reality, however, is that more often than not--especially these days, in this economic climate--most cannot manage to live up to those lofty principles or ideals.

Besides, did I mention my extreme aversion to accepting anything from anyone under any circumstances...?

I must admit, part of me is extremely proud of this fact, as my independent nature dictates that I must not ever allow myself to grow accustomed to or even comfortable with reliance upon others. In dire circumstances I would place necessity above "principle," specifically in the best interests of my children. I have and I will. None of this, however, changes my complete and utter revulsion at the thought of leaning upon another for anything, any time, any where, under any circumstance.













Cynicism: how wholly unimaginative...!








The truth of the matter is, despite past criticism of my "self-sufficiency" as the ultimate manifestation of personal control, when it comes down to the barest basics, I just do not trust others enough to put my life, my comfort, my future, or the welfare of my children in their hands. Abandonment issues: such powerful deterrents against the formation of personal attachments. For some of us, the concept of another or group of others who will "always" be there is as unlikely, as inconceivable as a polar bear eating an ice-cream cone on some pink-and-purple sanded beach in Bermuda! Call it fear, call it paranoia, call it plain old insanity, but I find myself constantly looking over my shoulder to catch someone looking over my shoulder.






Suffice it to say, I don't trust, I absolutely do not trust anyone.

Not as far as I can throw that "one" while he or she is sitting in a fully loaded car.

This is probably unfair, I know. Most people, like the Thompsons--with whom we are staying--are kind and genuine, generous in nature and honest in their intentions. Experience, nevertheless, is a harsh teacher, and I have seen far too much of the worst in human nature recently to put much stock in the best of it. It is easier, in my mind, to do without a thing than to ask for it, thereby leaving oneself open to disappointment and disillusionment.








Admittedly, this is all probably quite ridiculous. The perception that others have little confidence in my abilities, see my current situation as some undeniable proof of my failures as a mother, as a person, as a human being might very well be ludicrous. After all, never once has anyone said anything to this effect directly to me. On the contrary, any and every thing I have heard has been somewhat supportive--even from individuals who are practically salivating over the prospect of the uppity know-it-all falling flat on her face!







Ah! Perhaps therein lies the problem. Those around me have been a bit too positive, a bit too eager to assure me of their confidence in me. Quite frankly, extremes of any kind tend to make me nervous. I walk away doubting the sincerity of the one ladling on the compliments. Is this some residual hangup from the past? Most assuredly! Even so, this skepticism exists alongside the mistrust and tendency to perceive criticism when none is given--mainly because I feel so guilty for having gotten myself and my family into such an unholy, untenable mess.




I simply cannot forgive myself for having gotten "sick" in the first place. Why did I not plan things out better? How did I miss all the warning signs of impending disaster? And why was I unable to somehow repair the before fragmented family structures from my past for the children's sake? How can anyone have "screwed up" this badly? And, having made such a collosal mess, why can I not fix it? What is wrong with me, what is wrong with me, what is wrong with me?


My children, of course, cannot say enough about their collective and individual confidence in my capabilities as a Good Mother. But what do they know? I trained the little suckers to think that way! The Green-Eyed One would have told me that this is a wonderful opportunity to find my heart, to explore the situation with curiosity as a part of my journey in life--as a merely a part of who I am or what I feel...but, having royally ticked him off as well, he isn't here to say it. (...which may not be a bad thing, really...?) Also, time plus experience have taught me that "this, too, shall pass." In a week--maybe a month or two in this instance--the thoughts and feelings I now voice will be long forgotten, replaced by joys and concerns of a totally new stage of living and experiencing.












We will get through this rocky period, the children and I.

Our family will emerge on the other side of this annoying little detour all the wiser, all the stronger, all the more confident for having faced it all head-on.


Dickensian times, Ecclesiastical seasons all dancing to the music of time...and all that rot, don't you know!

Still...

All this having been said...




For right now, though,"in the moment," the future is confusing, daunting, and untenable. Everything stinks. Life is a muddle...and we're all going to suffer, suffer, suffer then die in a big ol' bloody heap!

Just Thinking

Life in and of itself holds such beauty...













that it is so very easy to lose track of those things which are most important...





How?


Why?

Me?

Outside, the sun is shining. Its piercing light and radiant warmth--even in these earliest morning hours--slices through the gloom and chill of the last three days. As I gaze at the pale, autumnal greens of the trees and grasses beneath me, I struggle to tap into some emotion, some reaction that will link me mentally, sensually, emotionally to the still, almost somnolent view below.

Recently, it has become more and apparent that my latest "ordeal" has wrought certain changes within me. Far more often than not, I feel as though beneath this skin, deep within these bones lies a different person altogether. Priorities have changed. My outlook on life is drastically altered.



I sometimes wonder if some part of myself has been lost and lies irretrievable, just out of reach....

I absolutely, positively hate to write!






This, naturally, is a development I never expected. The changes in appetite, sleeping patterns, and musical tastes were alarming enough. And, I doubt I will ever grow accustomed to the inability to sit long enough to enjoy a good book. Forgetting minor things, sending the wrong e-mails to the wrong people and staring at text messages (mid-word) because I cannot recall what I had intended to say, to whom, or why: this two has nearly reduced me to a quivering mass of paranoid indecision.










Yet, to find myself unable to write, to find little (if any) enjoyment.in the crafting of sentences or the process of transforming thoughts into first syllables then sentences, imagery: such a thing is, even now, beyond comprehension. Obviously, I can force the issue. With a tremendous amount of concentration, I can muddle through the process; however, to do so is hard: the act itself mechanical: the results, lackluster. I don not know what to make of it all. Everything still feels so very foreign--no thought, no feeling, no action quite my own. This detachment from everyone and everything , moreover, no longer strikes me as out-of-place or strange. The sensations have become a normal part of my everyday existence, incorporated into my every routine. I chew without tasting, move without thinking, walk without seeing, read without retaining...

And write without enjoying.


Again, I find myself sitting here wondering if anything will ever return to normal. Will I ever in any way resemble the person I was. And, if not, if that "Chanctetinyea" is forever lost, will I ever make peace with the woman who has sprung forth to take her place?

What Now?

As the rain beats unrelentingly outside my bedroom window, I recall just how incompatible the New England weather and I actually are.

I never thought I would be returning to Exeter New Hampshire. Now that I am here, I have no idea what I expected, in my planning and travels, my experience here to be. Now that I am here, however, I have no idea what to feel, to think, or even to be.

Following Ondrelique's graduation, the girls and I are staying on as house guests in Exeter, New Hampshire, . It was an unforeseen pitstop to say the least; and, being very unaccustomed to accepting hospitality of any kind, I find myself a rather poor house guest. It is odd how easily we all slip into modes of thought and behavior. For me, the objective has been the very frustrating cycle of survival-recovery-survival-recovery that basic human responses and sensations now seem...foreign. That kind of emotional and psychological detachment, I am told, is not unusual in "near death" situations. The problem is, I never felt as though death were particularly near to me: just the constant gnawing of my own perceived inadequacy.


(Chance, was it Dan Brown in your class...or his brother Chris?"

Drawing a complete blank: "Brown...Brown...I think so. I'd have to put a face to the name, though...?"

"Do you know who I'm talking about?"

"Uh...Brown...?" I mutter, still utterly lost.

"The Da Vinci Code?"

"...Oh. Yeah. Him." We were in the same general class, weren't we? Man, do I feel like a complete failure!)

Being here again has awakened sleeping ghosts--curled quietly in the dark corners of my hidden psyche--that I did not even realize existed. How odd it is that we human beings find phantasms of reality lurking behind every corner while the imaginary shadows of our most deeply-seeded insecurities take on the depths and dimensions of Unavoidable Truth. For me, the notion of myself as unforgivably lazy (rather than recovering from a severe medical setback)

Years before, when youthful confidence never allowed me to for a moment lose track of my own sense of self-worth, not once did I doubt my ability to take this world into the palm of my hand, then nonchalantly set the sucker on fire. Strength and determination lent to the illusion of invincibility which deluded me into believing that time, though of importance to everyone else, would bend to my will. Nothing would change unless I first gave it permission. Life existed to do my bidding. And if I didn't like it...well, then, life had to deal with my omnipotent wrath.

Now, as I struggle to relax and enjoy the respite so generously proffered, I wander the only semi-familiar pathways of Phillips Exeter Academy searching for traces of that fearless young girl. Where, exactly, is she...and why can I not find her (alongside those specters of my ever-growing dissatisfaction) within me? After twenty-plus years, did I truly expect to see her, some benign adumbration of my most secret longings, bopping past the Academy Building or Phillips Hall? Or, was I hoping to catch some whiff of her youthful essence--imagined or no--floating on some summer breeze as a reminder of all that I was, all that I once hoped to be?

Whatever it was that I had in mind, the fact remains that these last few years have caused a mental rift between the person I am and the person I now deem myself to be. In my mind, medical setbacks have come to represent abject failure. It was one thing, to be told that the end was unavoidable, leaving me no choice but to make peace with myself and my own failings. Now, this miraculous second (or third, maybe fourth) chance at life is...daunting. So much of my former passion for living seemed to have already passed on to the fabled Other Side: and, as such, I find myself left with no concept of who and what I now wish to be.

Do I even have a desire to write any longer? Does writing evoke in me any sense of pleasure or accomplishment any longer. Do I even care if I write Great American Novel at this stage of my life? At a time when everything I thought I knew or believed about myself and those around me has come into question?

I have no idea....

But here--now--is a great place to find out.

.

Onward and Upward

This morning I awoke late, having actually slept the night through. The morning being a chilly one, I found myself--now unaccustomed to the biting New England weather--shivering my way quite slowly through my morning routine. So many tasks lie before me, leaving me cringing at the thought of even facing the internet...much less the silent, menacing threat of my mobile phone.

Still, I remind myself that life holds the bright promise of each new day; and positivity is, as always, more productive than its evil twin. So, onward and outward we go, learning from the mistakes of yesterday, relying upon the wisdom of life lived, preparing for the worst...

Yet expecting the best.

Changing Identities

When I started this blog, I had no idea that life held such challenges in store for me. It seemed such a simple endeavor: now that my children were older and no longer needed such constant supervision and intercession, the time was ripe for making serious changes in my life. The option to make those choices, furthermore, based on my own wants, needs, and desires (within the boundaries of common sense and basic reason) had finally presented itself. And, albeit I had not regretted putting certain objectives on hold while concentrating on motherhood and raising a family, from the outset, the Master Plan had been to return to my first love (creative writing) once the children were older.

Yet, so many unanticipated obstacles have arisen.

Who could have predicted the sharp turns in the pathways ahead?

It amazes my how different the woman typing this entry is from the enthusiastic creature who embarked upon the process of chronicling this portion of life's journey an eternity ago! She is harder, less optimistic. Her faith in herself, in others, in love, in human nature, even in the basic premise of symbiotic balance in life have been ripped out of her, roots and all. What is left is a floundering of mind, body, and spirit so bewilderingly foreign that she stands bemused and disoriented, searching for familiar landmarks around her, within herself, within those she once held dear.

The most frightening thing of all?

I no longer enjoy writing.
As much as I tell myself the change in attitude is a temporary one, something deep within knows that this is not the case. Writing holds no interest for me now. It is a habit, comforting in some ways but by no means engaging or fulfilling.

It is all so terrifying.

Since childhood, the love of writing, of reading, of weaving sounds and syllables, sights and settings into intricate stories showcasing the many nuances of life--what it was, what it should be, what it asked of those who partook of it, and all that it demanded of us all--has defined me. If paper and pencil were not at hand, I scratched out lines on the soft-silted powder that dusted the summer-scorched earth. I wrote entire volumes in my head, able to mentally turn the pages and edit each individual line as easily, as concisely as my mother might have corrected her students' English papers.

It was all so vital. So very real.
Now I find myself wondering who I am, how I will spent my time, on what will I expend my energies, where will I direct my passions, what will become of me, what might I possibly do...

If I can longer write...?