insanity chronicles

musings on life through the looking glass of madness

[caexman]

Where I Stand

I know I keep coming back to this, but it weighs heavy. My daughter ran away from home. It was in the middle of the night. I suffer from a debilitating back disease and sometimes I have to call for help from my bed. This night it was 4am. I am writing this exactly as it happened. This is exactly what I felt. My son came to help me that night. It didn’t take long, a pain pill, some water and some repositioning. He walked out of my room and came yelling back. He had checked his phone and found this missive from my daughter. She was leaving our home to go live with her boyfriend at his family’s home. Done. Just like that. No goodbyes. No explanations. And no last hug. Just you won’t do any longer.

It broke me. Obviously, it tore me apart. But right now I want to unpack just what it did to my son. This is the man in her life who practically raised her. They were best friends. She would always say, “When I get married, I want you to walk me down the aisle.” All of that was gone, now. My son and I sat down in our den and cried. We knew where she was. If I tried hard enough, I could find the asshole’s address. But to what end?

I have tried to tell her the damage she’s done. But there’s nothing there, at least no one I used to know. When she was little, we called her by a nickname; it suited her. Once she started dating this guy, she wanted to be called by her full name. sometimes, this is how I put it into perspective: this new, changed person killed my little girl. I can’t find a trace.

This past weekend we got into a fight about how she was treating her grandparents. It was a complete waste of time. I had forgotten just who it was I was talking to. I forgot where I stood. I don’t think I will make that mistake again.

[caexman]

I Can’t Drive 55

I got a ticket today. I received it for “disregarding posted traffic signs.” In other words: I made a u-turn where I wasn’t supposed to. Another tidbit about my life right now: I am not doing very well. I am having a bipolar episode that includes depression and psychosis. The depression just means I sit at home (a lot) and sleep, but the psychosis is a bit trickier. It means that I often don’t feel safe, not at the grocery store, not at the library and sometimes—worst of all—not at home. I am having to take a great many sedatives and many baths (the warm water helps calm me down).

The ticket thing is annoying for many reasons: I didn’t see the posted signs. I was in an area where I’ve driven many times and this issue has never come up before. The ticket makes it even scarier for me to go out. I thought I was safe in my car. I thought I knew what I was doing, but it turns out I was wrong. I live on disability so there is no extra money to pay for a traffic fine. (That is an understatement). Worst of all, I really, really try to obey the law. I live near Dallas, Texas and when those officers were shot down I was going up to police officers everywhere and thanking them for what they do. I respect what they do. Traffic tickets and the actions they represent are not my thing. I am careful.

My son was with me in the car when I was pulled over. After I gave all my information to the officer, he went back to his vehicle while my son and I waited in mine. I started to cry, not sobbing, mind you, but still, tears were running down my face. “Mom, you’ve got to keep it together,” my son said, pleadingly.

I asked for Kleenex and wiped my tears. My son had me put my sunglasses back on. What were we afraid of? The officer came back and asked my place of employment. I told him I was disabled. He stared at me for a moment. I gave him no further information as I feel my bipolar disorder to be my own business (and now yours). He had me sign the ticket, tore the offensive thing off and gave it to me.

My son was quiet. I didn’t ask him, but I knew why he had been so emphatic about me holding it together. He has bipolar disorder as well, and due to his medication, his hands shake. When he gets nervous, the shaking becomes even more pronounced. He’s had his car searched because of the shaking. Police officers seem to think he is on drugs and therefore must have some in the car. Sadly, both of us are on drugs, drugs we will never be able to stop, but I don’t think we should be penalized for that.

They are doing their jobs. I was taking a beverage to my daughter while she worked—something I will be too afraid to ever do again, no matter what the route. We were all just going about our day. I broke a law. I didn’t mean to, but that isn’t the way the law works. I don’t know what I was expecting when he pulled me over—some understanding? A free pass? The proverbial “Get Out of Jail Free” card. If only…

Here’s what I think about the ticket. It is expensive and I will pay it. I broke the law so I will pay the fine, but I wish the law were a little bit more human. Over a year ago, I was called for jury duty. It was my first time so I was actually kind of excited. The case was about a man who was addicted to drugs and had been caught for the third time with them in his possession. He was looking at a long, hard time in prison. The lawyers asked us if we could sentence this man to the maximum time the law allowed for his offense. When they got to me, I had to say no. in my minor opinion, I don’t think jail is going to solve an addiction problem. I don’t know what will, but I know locking someone away forever won’t help him and I thought that was what our system was about: rehabilitation.

When I said no, that was the end of my time on that panel. I hung around outside to see what would happen. they made a deal. It seems when the man realized there were, indeed, twelve men and women who would sentence him to the maximum, he felt a deal was the best he could do. I wish I could say I felt the same way. A deal containing extended amounts of time in prison for addiction shouldn’t be the best we can do. Treatment should be the best we can do.

So, I will drive even more carefully from now on—right now, I may not drive at all for a while, and the man is locked away, surrounded by the drugs he so desperately needs to stay away from (from my understanding). I’m a little angry at the law (even though I got what I deserved). My son is terrified of the law because of his meds. And the man is locked away, no longer our problem, except for our taxes, I guess. We might want to keep all this in mind. And, don’t worry, I’m paying my ticket, ASAP.

[paperbackward]

“The scariest moment is always just before you start.” - Stephen King

(via paperbackward)

[caexman]

[caexman]

Being able to write becomes a kind of shield, a way of hiding, a way of too instantly transforming pain into honey.

John Updike

[caexman]

Dating After Divorce-the Abridged Version

Friday. August 5, 2016

Let’s talk about the children for a second. I used to call them my offspring, but now I call them my progeny. Why, you ask, don’t I just call them children? Well they aren’t little ones anymore. My eldest is twenty-five and my youngest will be nineteen in less than a week. I called them offspring for so long that it got boring so my boyfriend and I came up with progeny. The progeny were the reason I put my name up on that dating website. They are the reason I hit that man up to chat. So, in essence, it is their fault that I am in a relationship at all.

But, boy, I think they forget that all the time. They liked him in the beginning—probably because we had all of our dates in his hometown. (We live over an hour apart from each other). They did text a great deal with numerous emergencies that could only be handled by me. My youngest had terrible panic attacks that exacerbated her asthma. Every time I left them, I felt like I was doing a bad job as a mother (even considering their ages). Yet, once I was out the door and driving east I couldn’t help but feel exhilarated. I wasn’t just a divorcee with three grown children; I was a sexual being again. It thrilled me. Christopher thrilled me.

Then I brought him home to meet the clan. Keep in mind that I live with my parents and my children so his coming took a great amount of courage on his part—to my way of thinking. They all told me something that is always gratifying for a forty-something to hear, “You look much younger than he does.” Beyond that, we kept to ourselves. He was the first man to have sex with me in my bed. He gave me the feeling that I was more than I had been for the last ten years. Now, even home was fair game for moving forward.

That is what I have been doing. Instead of the endless stagnating of the past ten years, dating Christopher has given me a new sense of identity. I am more than I was before. Unfortunately, the progeny are fiercely jealous. They have flipped from liking him to thinking he is not good for me. This is the thing for this particular essay: since we have been together, I have had only the briefest of psychotic episodes. He is good for me. We even tell each other we love each other. I think it’s true for me; I hope it’s true for him, as well. I deal with the progeny and their issues one at a time. It is difficult and I wish there were a roadmap, but so far I flounder a bit in the dark. It’s okay, though, because every so often together or apart, I see light at the end of this tunnel. It is a light that I think will bring me closer to the person I want to be.

[caexman]

Ten Years

I’m back. Regrets for disappearing. I missed the freedom of writing and creating my own space on the web, so I’ve returned. I’ve decided to post daily this time. Life is coming at me pretty fast—as Ferris would say—and I would like to share that with you. To be fair, the big change started over a year ago. After TEN YEARS of not dating I started talking to someone on the Internet. That’s how it began.

Now, I don’t capitalize the number of years to scream at you but to force the reality of that number on myself. Good, God, what was I doing? I know that in the beginning, I was wounded. And like any wounded creature, I took time off to lick my wounds. I took a bit longer than the normal mammal, but I thought I was all healed up (until I started dating. I will get to that). Then I thought it would be too confusing for the children to handle me with someone else (I was right about that one, by the way. Even ten years later it has blown their minds—another day). Then I was simply scared. I had taken too long and I was afraid of the opposite sex. What would men think of me and my forty-eight year-old body? So I continued to wait.

Until, one Friday in a bar with my older children, they dared me to take a selfie—I hate them (selfies, that is)—and post it on a site. They continued to push me into hitting someone up as soon as possible. I did. Blame it on the alcohol, right? I wrote a brief note to one person and we continued with our evening treating the whole thing as a lark. It turned out not to be a lark at all. My children and myself both assumed that I would pick up men and fuck them then move on, one after another. I told my children (and, again, myself) that this was what I wanted. I never wanted to settle down again. That was what I told myself.

The man I wrote to took the entire weekend to respond. I was a little devastated. I expected an instantaneous reply. I told myself he had until Monday morning. When Sunday evening came I was resigned. I would spend the rest of my life alone. A spinster who lived for visits from her nonexistent grandchildren. Once the guy—let’s call him Christopher—replied I was terrified I would write the wrong thing, make a fool of myself. He was smart, a former teacher. He was well-read. I was impressed. Oh, and he was funny, so funny, exactly what I needed at the time.

The night before I our first date, I warned my family, “I have a date tomorrow night.” No real build up, just the words. It shocked everyone. Well worth the ten-year wait. The date went poorly. We had logistical difficulties that, I thought, could not be resolved. When he kissed me, though, I melted. Had it been too long? Was that the cause of the reaction? I doubt I will ever know. I told him the next day that we were too different. He was kind, accepting. This is the part I don’t think about very often: I was ready for sex that first date. I was ready for it when we decided there should be a second date. It was on the third date that we fucked—in a hotel room—logistics again. Still it was awesome, and not only due to the end of the ten-year hiatus. We had something. I like to think it was the way he made me laugh. Even when we were undressing he cracked me up. He was kind. He knew I was insanely nervous and he danced a striptease for me to lighten the mood.

I was looking for a sexual release and I found friendship and (eventually) love. We are still together. We are good for each other. I am a very different creature than I was while I was married. I am gentler and more loving. I am understanding and giving. I am also terrified, untrusting and jealous. I am working through this one day, one argument at a time. We don’t run; (as he puts it), “we work through things.” It is a new way of being for me and it is difficult, but it is also vastly rewarding.

I have so much to write about, so much to tell you. One day at a time. So that means more tomorrow.

[caexman]

There were times when the bond between them would be inscrutable to outside observers, and yet there was a mysterious fierceness to their attachment. They believed that their fluid modern relationship was more challenging than a traditional marriage: with no legal vows binding them together, they had to wake up every morning and decide that they wanted to be together.

Katie Roiphe

[caexman]

I do it because I can't not do it," as Sendak said about his art generally. "Something in me malfunctions

The Violet Hour

[caexman]

So it's been a while. I have no excuse, but to say that fair warning--what follows is the usual Thanksgiving "What I'm Grateful For" stuff. The thing is, this stuff really, really matters. So here you go--

  November 29, 2014

This is a couple of days after Thanksgiving. We had a wonderful one, everyone hanging around to play games and watch movies. I woke up today at 6am thinking of all the things I was thankful for. They are not special or overly original, but they remain mostly unspoken. I would like to list them now:

Without saying, without breathing, the thing I am most thankful for is the privilege to be the parent to three amazing children, pretty much all grown up now, but still my babies.

Then following naturally behind, I am most grateful for the joy I feel every day in being part of a wonderful family, both close and extended. We are more than family; we are friends, and I believe that is rare. I feel very lucky, indeed.

When I think of family I think of my father, who I think said it best when he said, “Being part of a family means being there for one another. When one of us falls down, it is up to the others to pick up the slack.” We work together and I think it is what makes us one of the most extraordinary families I have ever encountered. Again, I must say how lucky I feel.

I am grateful for my mother’s health and for my father’s successful test results in his health struggles. We love you guys, and we worry.

I am grateful for the home I live in. I never, ever take it for granted. Ten years ago my husband of fifteen years threw me out of my home. He tried to take my children away from me and even extract child support from any money I might inherit someday. My parents took me in. then they took my children in turning one-half of their home over to us to decorate and live in as we chose. They have been and continue to be generous to a fault. It is this fault that continues to allow me to live with and focus all my time on my children. Through their generosity my children have never wanted for anything, and many might say are a little spoiled. I just think of it as an abundance of love.

I am grateful for my health, as well. Not always so dependable in the past, it seems to be holding its own. Thank you, God, as I am needed here.

  So, in closing, it is an insufficient list of things I am grateful for. It is insufficient because I am grateful for a multitude of things every day. Thank you to the woman in Walgreens, who, upon finding me in tears in the holiday aisle, asked me if I could use a hug. I could and she graciously gave me one. It’s been that kind of year. Thank you, Mom and Dad, I am every day inspired by your graciousness and kindness toward the children and me. This is my list of “blessings” for the year 2014. Interestingly, it would remain pretty much the same every year, and when you think of that, the sheer unchanging abundance, I am very, very lucky indeed.

  Thanksgiving 2014

[caexman]

Dark Day--Journal Entry--Private

September 11, 2014

Am so fucking depressed. I hate this font. I hate this font size. I hate Avery being in the hospital. I hate Alex being away at school. I hate not knowing what I am going to do with my life. I hate this particular Starbucks. I am just fucking pissed off at God. I have this appointment with Avery’s therapist at the hospital today. I’ve done this already. It didn’t help anything. I am so fucking depressed. I am so fucking repetitive. I called Janie today to try to get the courage to talk to Jason about freelance writing. It sucks how scared I am of everything. And I am, I am so scared of everything. My hands shake all the time now. I want Alex to come home for the weekend. I haven’t asked. I can’t. He needs his own life. They all need their own lives. I know that and this master’s thing was a chance for me to begin my own life. How do I do that? Where do I start now? I’m wearing these shoes that hurt the hell out of my toes, but I wear them. I love them and I hate my toes. Is it horribly selfish to post this in an effort to express my disgust with the universe? God, my toes hurt. Who could imagine that toes could cause so much discomfort? I never saw this coming. I haven’t seen one thing in my life coming. Everything has scared the shit out of me. Following the plan has caused me nothing but heartache. I’m getting a tattoo this weekend and a new piercing. I don’t care how much they cost. I am desperate to express this portion of my life on my body somehow. I want the world to know that it scares me. Watching my parents age so much scares me. Watching my protection disappear terrifies me. I’m not real enough for this very real world. I’m like vapor; one swift wind and I will blow away. Fuck. I have to leave. I have to pretend to be real for the rest of the day. I’m pretty good at it, but my defenses are wavering. I need courage. I need substance. I need real. And the fact of it is I don’t believe the fairy tale about love making you real. I don’t believe in God making me real. I am hopeless. And this is my journal, yet I am going to post it because I don’t believe I am the only one who feels this way—at least about this fucking font.

[caexman]

The Tall Person in the House

July 7, 2014

My son is moving out to attend college in a couple of weeks.  We have been lucky enough to have him spend his first two years at home, but the time has come and the classes have run out.  This is not one of those stories where I suddenly realize how lucky I have been.  I have been very aware of that all along.  This is the story of the time Alex hung a chandelier for his sister.

It wasn’t a very big chandelier.  My daughter found it at my grandmother’s, who had recently passed away.  The chandelier was actually plastic, but the glass-like drops that hung from it sparkled with fire.  It was small and the tear-drop bulb suspended in the middle of it hung a little crooked.  When Maddie brought it to me and asked if we could take it home I could not think of a reason to say no.  Plus I realized her plan to hang it over her little twin bed was ingenious.  (She is good like that—I get to keep her for another year, but that is for another story).  So the chandelier came home.

Maddie and I are not tall.  Both of us top out at five feet, four inches, so when the time came to hang the chandelier, and we could not reach, we both naturally turned to the Tall Person in the House, Alex.  He is so used to this designation that he knows the job is expected of him before we do.  This was one of those times.  We thought we could hang it by ourselves standing on Maddie’s bed, but we were both too short.  We did not even come close.  Alex was in the doorway, laughing at us stumbling around on the unstable mattress.  We turned to him and he complained—as expected—then he told us to get out of the way.

He needed to screw a cup hook into the ceiling.  This sounds simple, but if you do not have a very good position (he did not) or good upper body strength (he did) it is very difficult.  In addition, we had to decide what to do with the cord as it needed to be stretched from the chandelier’s base to the wall, then down to an outlet.  Alex handled the cup hook first.  We got off the bed to tell him what he was doing wrong.

We watched as his feet bounced around looking for purchase.  His hands on the ceiling we unsuccessfully swallowed laughter as a rain of ceiling popcorn fell on his head.  He made sarcastic remarks about our size and continued with his work.  The cup hook finally screwed in and Alex a prematurely grey-headed man, he (we) moved on to how to handle the cord.  We had recently seen Christmas Vacation, the movie where Chevy Chase connects “one-hundred thousand Italian Imported twinkle lights” to his house with a staple gun—if he could do it, our Tall Person could do it.

We went out to the garage and found the staple gun.  I don’t know what Chevy Chase used, but ours is old and insanely difficult to squeeze.  It is almost impossible to tell where you are aiming.  These problems did not stop Maddie and me, although Alex was having some second thoughts.  Armed with the gun, extra staples, extension cords, and our resident Tall Person, Maddie and I ran in to finish the job. 

With Alex doing his best to balance on the bed and the cord lengthened for good measure, he (we) got to work.  But not without first making sure the chandelier was unplugged.  We know now why Chevy did not have those lights on while he hung them from his home.  Alex was just as terrified of electrocution as he was.  I think the whole process required five well-placed staples to do the job.  The number we used was significantly larger.  Staples rained from the ceiling as Alex missed, fired through the cord itself or just did not fire close enough to the ceiling.  He laughed and made jokes while we died with laughter from our safe place on the ground.  He was, as always, a good sport about it.  He is, unceasingly, a good sport.

Minutes (and a very tired hand) later, the chandelier was hung.  We plugged it in.  The slightly crooked light was pure and beautiful.  It turned Maddie’s room into a little palace.  Alex got down to go shower for the second time that day and Maddie went to work making sure everything looked great.  I took the heinous staple gun to the garage.  Another home improvement job successfully directed by Maddie and me and performed by the Tall Person in the House.

In twenty days we lose our Tall Person.  Alex reminded me of that yesterday when I asked him to take down the bleach for me from a high cabinet.  “I don’t know what you will do when I am gone,” he said.  I agree.  I agree.

[caexman]

insanity chronicles turned 2 today!

[caexman]

Harper Lyn

June 14, 2014

My cousin and his wife had a baby shower for their first baby, a girl.  Harper Lyn.  There aren’t many girls in the family.  I am a rarity.  It is good to have others coming along.  It is good to have a baby on the way.  She will live three hours away, but she will be ours—one of us.

The shower was perfect, exactly what you would expect for a little girl.  There were many friends of the expectant mother and there were many family members.  I like to think of myself as both.  There was so much joy and hope.  I was surrounded by this, and I knew the correct way to behave.  In fact, lately, I am an exercise in correctness.  I say the right things.  I do the right things.  Today was no different.  Don’t get me wrong.  I didn’t lie or pretend, well not exactly.

The issue is: the ghosts.  They were everywhere.  The ones who should have been there, who would have, in my recent memory, crowded the room and filled it with excitement.  They were absent, taken up, away.  I miss them.  I say it every day.  I cry every day.  It has only gotten easier in that I don’t expect to hear their voices on the phone when I answer it.  Follows is my message to them.  Here is what you missed.

There was a lot of pink.  There were few people I really knew.  My distant relatives were such a welcome relief.  I hadn’t realized how much I missed them.  And then I realized how much you must miss them.  You are missing the roundness of the young mother’s belly, the firmness.  Harper didn’t kick while I placed my hand on that sacred place, but I felt her connection.  I wish I could tell her, “You are connected to so much more.  There are so many people in heaven who adore you, who will for you to be safe and happy.  There are so many more and you are so very loved.  Here on earth and in the skies.”

I don’t say these things, not out loud.  It would be a downer for the party.  But my soul cries it out, and I try to serve as some sort of conduit between those that are here and those that have left.  Here’s my mistake, the fallacy in my logic: She is with them right now.  While she is surrounded by our love here, she swims in the current of the love of those who have come before.  It is she who is the true conduit.

So here’s my wish, dearest Harper, could you please tell them hello for me.  Tell them I hurt for them, there’s a hole in my soul and my world is a little darker since they left me.  I miss them everywhere and I want to tell them about my day, my life.  I hope they are proud of me and the life I have created.  Please tell them I will do a good job with you when you make your appearance.  Oddly, I started this thing thinking you were one of us, and you are, but right now, you walk with the angels.  Enjoy their love and rest easy knowing our’s awaits.

[caexman]

Summertime is here.  Time for stargazing.

[melodyintheclouds-blog-blog]

I think this is probably the thing I fear the most. #couldnthavesaiditbettermyself

[caexman]

Life-changer

I was admitted to graduate school today.  Actually just found out a little while ago.  The admission's process seemed impossible, but I did it.  Suddenly life is a whole new adventure--my adventure.