My mother has always remembered our birthdays. She has taken the time to fill these large rectangle tupperware containers full of the most simply angelic, yet delicious cupcakes you have ever tasted. They were her traditional way of saying happy birthday to you. The cupcakes themselves were Angela Day's cupcake recipe. And the icing was quintessentially mom's butter cream icing...Cream butter, add icing sugar, vanilla essence and maybe a drop of milk. They accompanied (depending on whether it was feast or famine) a lovely present, but most importantly, there was always a card.
I remember specific cards through out the years, not so much the pictures on the front of them (which often were Beatrix Potteresque scenes of anthropomorphic bunnies, frolicking in the woods, having tea parties), but the words. Her incredibly exacting, solid, perfect script, always written with a blue Parker pen (never black for birthdays, that was too dull),or in the later years with a purple Vector fountain pen, complete with hearts instead of dots on the tops of your i's... The cards always professed how much she loved us and how wonderful we were. I thought this was hilarious at times, because I was such a little $h!t, how in the world could I be so fantastic just because it was my birthday, but I graciously accepted them (as did my brother and sister) and honestly, genuinely, birthdays were always wonderful. Dads dyslexic spider scrawl also used to accompany mom's handwriting in the cards, although his was harder to read, would have been perfect for a doctor.
As the years have gone on and I have been lost in my own fog of regrets or things I wished I had done versus the choices I had already made, mom and dad's cards have punctuated my life and our lives and become (like all written forms of expression are to me) part of my favourite things. They would perk me up and give me that little bit of oompf or validation that I needed to face this cruel and brutal world.
I often times go without birthday presents simply because I don't honestly want anything, and I would prefer a card. My moms serious card giving has influenced my sister, and now we receive cards from not only my sister but her husband too. I keep all the cards you know... They go in my favourite memories of the year boxes... And they seem to me now to be my most treasured possessions.
Part of my moms' illness, the cruelest bite through our hearts, the part that leaves a palpable ache, a tangible loss versus this intangible theory of what is happening inside of her, is that she is losing her words, and her ability to express herself. Someone who used to talk to us all day. Someone who would have very in depth conversations with us about sexuality or choices, or doing the right thing, she now is silent. When she does speak, we're sometimes not too sure what it is in reference to. My dad says she especially speaks "Japanese" at night. We feel like we're losing our best friend. Which in effect, we are.
We're losing the matriarch, the keeper of the family history, the one who kissed all of our wounds, the only one we wanted when we were sick. I remember waking up early with her before she would go to work at the Park Lane Clinic, just so I could have those few special alone minutes with her. She would make herself Nescafe and she would make me Frisco, which was basically like chicory. We would be alone together whilst the rest of the house slept. It felt like we were in cahoots together and the rest of the world could just fall away, it failed to be important anymore.
I look forward to those minutes with her now these days. I visit her daily after school and after work. My kids run upstairs to play at her house, and we are on the couch, with our cups of tea. Her leg is glued to mine on the one side, from the hip to the knee. The words often catch in my throat when I wonder what I should tell her about, what I should let her know, because most things confuse her now. I watch her opening her mouth trying so desperately to tell me what she has been thinking about all day. I practice my patience, as best as I can. When she grows desperate I try to substitute some words for her, or help her out. Some times I can get it and she nods with agreement, her vivid blue eyes flashing. Sometimes I feel like I have failed her, because I cant decipher what she wants to tell me. She read her own text messages that she had sent to her sister last year December and then thought her sister was having dental work. She is living in a strange and scary place, the vacuous passages of her own mind, a personal labyrinth with limited access, the echos of her own thoughts, and the racing of her new compulsions.
My birthday was last week Tuesday. I went to go drop my daughter off there so she could spend the day with Granny. My mom was in her blue dressing gown, and was asking me if I would come and see her later in the day. I said yes. I hugged and kissed her. Only as I drove away, I thought wow my mom forgot my own birthday.
Once I got to work she sent me a text message wishing me happy birthday. But I am sure that my daughter had reminded her. She seemed embarrassed that she hadnt told me in person. I took no offense to it, as honestly I know she would never forget on purpose. To forget is totally out of character with the fibers of her being. Two days later for Thanksgiving, she noticed the cards on my mantle and said to me "I have your card I must give it to you"... I said "Cards are for people you don't see every day, don't worry about it"... Which honestly is true.
Finally yesterday, 8 days after my birthday, I received my card. It was there in the kitchen, in top of the insurance paperwork we're trying to keep up with. Long term disability, health insurance, social security applications, all the things that surround the chaos of someone with a terminal illness. My dad had written my nickname on the front, which is, if you dont know it, "Bendy boo". My brother actually routinely calls me "Bennie"... which is funny because Africans would also call me "Bennie"...My dad wrote in the card, thanking me profusely for all that I had done for "them"... I can't honestly even begin to think that I have done enough. There is nothing really that I can do, other than listen or be there.
Then the reason that I write this post, the thing I don't want to forget, was this tender moment I shared with her. She came and showed me the card she bought for her sister. She then asked me to write in it for her as well as address it for her. I said "Come here mommy, sit down, you tell me what to write". I pulled a chair out at the table for her. She sat on my right. My knee was touching hers again. She sat and then had this look on her face, the one you pull before you recite the Odyssey, or the Iliad... Her eyes looked over my hair, to the wall, became blank as if she were trying hard to remember, and she then told me " write 26th of December 2014"... and she pointed where, in the top right corner. She spoke again "Dearest Debbie"... and then "I love you so much!"... labored breath... tongue forcing itself to form these sloppy guttural words, so unlike the girlish voice my mom always carried, "I wish you were here! Love from Diana"... And I wrote as she said. But then I said "mom, you have to sign your name". Which she reluctantly took the pen from me, wrote her name, and added three x's...
I write because in the depths of her breakdown, in the depths of her loss of self and our loss of her, there is this intimacy, this beauty that only can be there because of true love. I love her still. I love her for the way she raised us. I love her for the tenderness that she has shown us, and for the tenderness that we are now able in return to show her.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
She
She will be leaving us soon. Her and all the memories of her. The first places I began to exist, she was there. The first person to show me things, was her. The person I wanted more than anyone in the world, the one who could make anything right again, is her. Yes, she. That, her. She will be leaving me soon.
She who knew everything, now asks me for my help and my opinion. She who had everything all worked out, who had all the solutions, relies on my logic now, my decisions. She who had a solution to any problem, now asks me for help for the simplest things. She holds my hand, like a child, and implicitly believes that I know all the answers. When I simply know only what she has shown me, and simply all that she has told me.
She, who would talk so much to us, our drives when were together, when the three of us were kids, were full of discussions, in great detail and such length, full of facts and feelings and opinions and exact terminology; now sits alone in a chair and watches TV, content in the spaces behind her blue eyes, content in the inaccessible space of her mind.
She, who would laugh and giggle, is now silent. She, who is my number one sounding board, barely speaks anymore.
I want to run to her and tell her I miss her and need her back. That I am not ready for her to leave me. That I need a "do-over", go back and spontaneously reenact every precious memory of my life, so I can remember it for always. I want to time travel back to every birthday cake she made me or to every dress she hand stitched, or every time she brushed my hair. The problem is that when you are living life, you forget to fully appreciate everything that you have, in that exact moment. You are incapable of fully enjoying every nuance and subtlety of your intimate connections with another human being, until it is almost gone.
She who knew everything, now asks me for my help and my opinion. She who had everything all worked out, who had all the solutions, relies on my logic now, my decisions. She who had a solution to any problem, now asks me for help for the simplest things. She holds my hand, like a child, and implicitly believes that I know all the answers. When I simply know only what she has shown me, and simply all that she has told me.
She, who would talk so much to us, our drives when were together, when the three of us were kids, were full of discussions, in great detail and such length, full of facts and feelings and opinions and exact terminology; now sits alone in a chair and watches TV, content in the spaces behind her blue eyes, content in the inaccessible space of her mind.
She, who would laugh and giggle, is now silent. She, who is my number one sounding board, barely speaks anymore.
I want to run to her and tell her I miss her and need her back. That I am not ready for her to leave me. That I need a "do-over", go back and spontaneously reenact every precious memory of my life, so I can remember it for always. I want to time travel back to every birthday cake she made me or to every dress she hand stitched, or every time she brushed my hair. The problem is that when you are living life, you forget to fully appreciate everything that you have, in that exact moment. You are incapable of fully enjoying every nuance and subtlety of your intimate connections with another human being, until it is almost gone.
Friday, September 5, 2014
Clutter
Today is "trash" day... The word "trash" really annoys my sister, so I say it here in reserved mirth for the irritation that it brings. All of our temporary rubbish is swooped away from our existence, and shuttled away to the dump.
Since I have returned from my UK, have had my sisters' wedding done and dusted, my mom's diagnosis determined, the frass has settled, my heart has not. I just am overwhelmed with anxious energy. The only thing that makes me feel better, is to purge. Not like some bulimic. But like a person whose life is in chaos and disarray.
One common thought I keep returning to: we have all this stuff to distract us from how miserable we really are.
If we are with the people we love, the ones who fill our hearts with glee, happiness, joy, etc... then you don't need all this stuff.
Since I have returned from my UK, have had my sisters' wedding done and dusted, my mom's diagnosis determined, the frass has settled, my heart has not. I just am overwhelmed with anxious energy. The only thing that makes me feel better, is to purge. Not like some bulimic. But like a person whose life is in chaos and disarray.
One common thought I keep returning to: we have all this stuff to distract us from how miserable we really are.
If we are with the people we love, the ones who fill our hearts with glee, happiness, joy, etc... then you don't need all this stuff.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
More
Grateful for the perspective, the opinion new
Grateful for your beauty, the access to you
Grateful for all caution, the distance you obtain
Grateful for the recklessness, the memories remain
Grateful for the knowledge, the things I couldn't see
Grateful for the hope, that there is more for me.
Grateful for your beauty, the access to you
Grateful for all caution, the distance you obtain
Grateful for the recklessness, the memories remain
Grateful for the knowledge, the things I couldn't see
Grateful for the hope, that there is more for me.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Professional Voyeurism
I think holidays always mess with your head... They mess with your routine, your scheduling, your priorities, your expectations, your sleep, your happiness and your heart. Especially when your holiday is a kind of "once in a life time" event... or when your sister is getting married in another country.... or when your mom has suddenly taken ill.... or when you see friends and family members that you havn't seen in so many years...Or when you do all of the above in two weeks, in a different time zone.
I expected the excitement. I anticipated the fun. I was prepared for the joy and the glee and the mirth. I was not prepared for the crushing, heart wrenching anguish that washed over me, the hopelessness that I felt. I suppose if I were better traveled, then I would be more prepared for such things. But as a travel newbie, it was devastating.
Most people in Georgia are from Town X. Born in Town X, raised in Town X, went to school in Town X, married in Town X and die in Town X. Their kids then repeat this cycle, ad nauseum.
South Africans have to be the most tortured of nations. We all run away. We have blurred memories of home, the concept of a family home is a tricky one to answer, we have pangs of pure heartbreak and a sense of longing for home, in the same sense whilst knowing we can never return there. Instead we seek refuge in whatever country will have us. We often leave in groups, or as individuals, and never return home, except for holidays if we can afford them, or to see family members we have left behind.
I left on March 11th 2005. And I have never been back.
So this recent trip to England basically was my first trip that I took for "fun"... Since arriving here in 2005, I have been working, trying to raise a family, trying to study. I definitely have not been traveling or spending a lot of time having fun. Even the holidays we have taken as a family were more of the perfunctory variety. The "we're here, lets do something" variety. Not the "you know what I want, dream, wish to do" variety.
There's always a place you envision yourself. And living in small town America was not where I placed myself. I have a hard time defining what I want. I normally start by a process of elimination. I normally can tell you what I don't want first, rather than what I do want.....
According to Woody Allen, delivered by Penelope Cruz, I suffer from "chronic dissatisfaction"... (Vicky Cristina Barcelona), so actually even if I get everything that I wanted or thought I wanted, I will still find flaws in it. I have a hard time with gratitude, or so I am learning. The grass is always greener, the beer is colder, the nights are more mystical in another life that isn't mine.
I feel like a professional voyeur, always on the look out, for an existence to call my own. All whilst not appreciating what is right here under my nose. I am the quintessential moron staring at her phone, missing an entire sunset. I spend so much time on sensory processing and what should be and what could be and what isn't, that I miss what is.
I expected the excitement. I anticipated the fun. I was prepared for the joy and the glee and the mirth. I was not prepared for the crushing, heart wrenching anguish that washed over me, the hopelessness that I felt. I suppose if I were better traveled, then I would be more prepared for such things. But as a travel newbie, it was devastating.
Most people in Georgia are from Town X. Born in Town X, raised in Town X, went to school in Town X, married in Town X and die in Town X. Their kids then repeat this cycle, ad nauseum.
South Africans have to be the most tortured of nations. We all run away. We have blurred memories of home, the concept of a family home is a tricky one to answer, we have pangs of pure heartbreak and a sense of longing for home, in the same sense whilst knowing we can never return there. Instead we seek refuge in whatever country will have us. We often leave in groups, or as individuals, and never return home, except for holidays if we can afford them, or to see family members we have left behind.
I left on March 11th 2005. And I have never been back.
So this recent trip to England basically was my first trip that I took for "fun"... Since arriving here in 2005, I have been working, trying to raise a family, trying to study. I definitely have not been traveling or spending a lot of time having fun. Even the holidays we have taken as a family were more of the perfunctory variety. The "we're here, lets do something" variety. Not the "you know what I want, dream, wish to do" variety.
There's always a place you envision yourself. And living in small town America was not where I placed myself. I have a hard time defining what I want. I normally start by a process of elimination. I normally can tell you what I don't want first, rather than what I do want.....
According to Woody Allen, delivered by Penelope Cruz, I suffer from "chronic dissatisfaction"... (Vicky Cristina Barcelona), so actually even if I get everything that I wanted or thought I wanted, I will still find flaws in it. I have a hard time with gratitude, or so I am learning. The grass is always greener, the beer is colder, the nights are more mystical in another life that isn't mine.
I feel like a professional voyeur, always on the look out, for an existence to call my own. All whilst not appreciating what is right here under my nose. I am the quintessential moron staring at her phone, missing an entire sunset. I spend so much time on sensory processing and what should be and what could be and what isn't, that I miss what is.
Thursday, June 5, 2014
Scrubbing the pots and pans.
I have this internal chatter, more like a prayer some days. I pray my children will be taken care of, whilst I am here, but mostly while I am not here with them. I pray that they have purpose. I pray they are never hungry. I pray they are protected from harm. I pray that the Holy Spirit guides them and that they are receptive to His voice and His suggestions. I seem to be talking to myself. I'm actually talking to my Best Friend. The one who is with me in the middle of the night when I feel so alone, comforting me, holding my hand, shielding me with His wings. I pray for my husband. For him to be the husband and father that us three ladies at home need. I pray that he knows that his prosperity is not from his own labor, but from grace, never ending, ceaseless grace, that abounds because He loves us, because we are His. I mostly pray for this only chance at life, to be the one that satisfies Him. That I am aware, and open, and cautious that my need for my sense of self, doesn't override the basic purpose for which we were made.
All whilst scrubbing the pots and pans. I speak to Him. And He speaks to me. Thank you for the arc of protection around me.
All whilst scrubbing the pots and pans. I speak to Him. And He speaks to me. Thank you for the arc of protection around me.
Saturday, May 24, 2014
She makes me feel brave.
My eldest said the most beautiful thing this morning about her sister. Her only sister. The one that she constantly fights with. The one that she critiques, pesters, annoys, harasses and pokes at. She looked at me with her azure eyes brimming, and said "it just didn't feel right to go without her". She said "I feel braver when she is there"... The little "annoyance".... The little "irritation" who is "constantly messing with her stuff" was also her morale boost and her emotional support. She was the one her heart longed for, even in anticipation of leaving her behind for a few hours. She was the one she couldn't imagine abandoning.
There are these seemingly mundane parental moments where everything you have been working towards is actualized. Standing there in my kitchen, both of our hair standing on end, the sleep in our eyes, the fuzziness prior to coffee still clouding our minds, this was the first thing on her mind this morning. She literally hopped out of bed to tell me what she had been thinking about all night. In that moment I knew that they were going to take care of each other.
My one friends parents told her and her sisters that they raised them "separate but equal". I am not sure if I fully agree with that statement. I agree that there is a level of separateness and individuality. But through equality the lines of separation are blurred. I remember being thrilled when my sister was a teen and could come to places with me. She was almost 3 years my junior. My brother who is 9 years my junior is as close to me as my sister is. I think if you have separation then there is discord. We never felt that my mom favored anyone. Obviously my baby brother was treated a different way than I was because of our age difference. But my parents allowed us freedom, they trusted us, they respected us as people, they applauded us for our talents and gifts, but they constantly reinforced that we were family. We don't have family members in our family who don't talk to each other. We have a lot of arguments in our family, there is constant chatter, constant disagreements. But there is constant love and constant support.
That is what I have always told my girls. They are each others first best friend.
When they went to daycare for summer camp when my youngest was 2 and my eldest was 6, they held hands through the chain link fence that separated the big kids from the little kids. That always touched my heart. Little Sis needed Big Sis and Big Sis was there for her.
But this weekend, Big Sis is 9 and Little Sis is 5, and Big Sis realized she too needs HER sister. The support doesn't just flow one way. There is a constant symmetry. God doesn't make mistakes on who he makes a family. He makes us for each other.
There are these seemingly mundane parental moments where everything you have been working towards is actualized. Standing there in my kitchen, both of our hair standing on end, the sleep in our eyes, the fuzziness prior to coffee still clouding our minds, this was the first thing on her mind this morning. She literally hopped out of bed to tell me what she had been thinking about all night. In that moment I knew that they were going to take care of each other.
My one friends parents told her and her sisters that they raised them "separate but equal". I am not sure if I fully agree with that statement. I agree that there is a level of separateness and individuality. But through equality the lines of separation are blurred. I remember being thrilled when my sister was a teen and could come to places with me. She was almost 3 years my junior. My brother who is 9 years my junior is as close to me as my sister is. I think if you have separation then there is discord. We never felt that my mom favored anyone. Obviously my baby brother was treated a different way than I was because of our age difference. But my parents allowed us freedom, they trusted us, they respected us as people, they applauded us for our talents and gifts, but they constantly reinforced that we were family. We don't have family members in our family who don't talk to each other. We have a lot of arguments in our family, there is constant chatter, constant disagreements. But there is constant love and constant support.
That is what I have always told my girls. They are each others first best friend.
When they went to daycare for summer camp when my youngest was 2 and my eldest was 6, they held hands through the chain link fence that separated the big kids from the little kids. That always touched my heart. Little Sis needed Big Sis and Big Sis was there for her.
But this weekend, Big Sis is 9 and Little Sis is 5, and Big Sis realized she too needs HER sister. The support doesn't just flow one way. There is a constant symmetry. God doesn't make mistakes on who he makes a family. He makes us for each other.
Saturday, April 5, 2014
How to deal with the aftermath of "What to expect when you are expecting".
A thought just occurred to me after a sudden but very brief illness. How do we learn to expect the unexpected in parenting if books like "what to expect" all the way through the preteen years give you a false sense that this sort of should be going on an expected track. That somehow all this craziness and mayhem leads to the same place. When maybe it doesn't.
This thought came to me when I was suffering from a stomach bug that my kids had so kindly given to me, despite the fact that I washed my hands so much they felt like sand paper and that all of the hard surfaces in my house stank of bleach. There I was, head shoved in the washing machine at four am, dealing with my daughters stomach bug issues, suddenly dealing with my own stomach bug issues... And although I have another older daughter, she's 9, no where in any book did I ever come across any seriously helpful or useful information on how to handle yourself or your household when you yourself fall ill to some nasty virus.
The only thing my daughter(s) (yes they both succumbed) wanted was her mommy... And the only person I wanted was MY mommy...
For two days I lay in bed with one eye open, its spring break, husband had to be at work, I missed two days of work this week, and I listened to their monster feet plodding through the house. Through the vibrations of the cardboard house and the cardboard walls I could keep an auditory visual on their whereabouts. Until they fell silent and I had to go and check on them. I had told my nine year old to ensure that her sister (four) did not do anything dangerous and to call me if she did. Otherwise I lay curled up in a ball, watching the clock, wishing I could sleep, befriending my bucket, and really really wishing I could call my mommy to make all things better for me.
Whilst in a half sleepy feverish stupor, I discovered that my daughter had moisturized the floor, had eaten all of the oreos and the girl scout cookies, and that my nine year old had "cooked" ramen noodles. Praise Jesus for ramen noodles otherwise the poor kids would have not survived. They stayed inside although the weather was gloriously mild and their swing set got to blow in the gentle breeze, all alone. I told them if they went outside someone would steal them and I would never see them again. So they stayed put. Thank God.
And this was a brief illness. How do moms cope when they have real problems? How do you have kids, raise them the right way, deal with all of life's demands, as well as be physically ill. There is one mom at the kids' school who has lupus and she is such a grand dame of smiles and congenial delight that you would never swear that anything is wrong with her. I would not be her. I would be, as I have been, in the same clothes for three days, with my hair in my kids' hair elastic, it has a heart on it and its pretty and it makes me feel better, and my life would be a wreck.
Thank the Father that I feel better today and can actually string a sentence together... And thank the Father for beautiful children who took care of each other and for a husband who came home after 13 hours at work with a bucket of fried chicken for the kids. Thank you for my family.
This thought came to me when I was suffering from a stomach bug that my kids had so kindly given to me, despite the fact that I washed my hands so much they felt like sand paper and that all of the hard surfaces in my house stank of bleach. There I was, head shoved in the washing machine at four am, dealing with my daughters stomach bug issues, suddenly dealing with my own stomach bug issues... And although I have another older daughter, she's 9, no where in any book did I ever come across any seriously helpful or useful information on how to handle yourself or your household when you yourself fall ill to some nasty virus.
The only thing my daughter(s) (yes they both succumbed) wanted was her mommy... And the only person I wanted was MY mommy...
For two days I lay in bed with one eye open, its spring break, husband had to be at work, I missed two days of work this week, and I listened to their monster feet plodding through the house. Through the vibrations of the cardboard house and the cardboard walls I could keep an auditory visual on their whereabouts. Until they fell silent and I had to go and check on them. I had told my nine year old to ensure that her sister (four) did not do anything dangerous and to call me if she did. Otherwise I lay curled up in a ball, watching the clock, wishing I could sleep, befriending my bucket, and really really wishing I could call my mommy to make all things better for me.
Whilst in a half sleepy feverish stupor, I discovered that my daughter had moisturized the floor, had eaten all of the oreos and the girl scout cookies, and that my nine year old had "cooked" ramen noodles. Praise Jesus for ramen noodles otherwise the poor kids would have not survived. They stayed inside although the weather was gloriously mild and their swing set got to blow in the gentle breeze, all alone. I told them if they went outside someone would steal them and I would never see them again. So they stayed put. Thank God.
And this was a brief illness. How do moms cope when they have real problems? How do you have kids, raise them the right way, deal with all of life's demands, as well as be physically ill. There is one mom at the kids' school who has lupus and she is such a grand dame of smiles and congenial delight that you would never swear that anything is wrong with her. I would not be her. I would be, as I have been, in the same clothes for three days, with my hair in my kids' hair elastic, it has a heart on it and its pretty and it makes me feel better, and my life would be a wreck.
Thank the Father that I feel better today and can actually string a sentence together... And thank the Father for beautiful children who took care of each other and for a husband who came home after 13 hours at work with a bucket of fried chicken for the kids. Thank you for my family.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
FaceDIS
I have a total problem understanding when people truly are my friend and need me in their world. I am 33 years old and I only found this out during the last six months. So that cliché about wasting time on people who don't really deserve your time, well yup, that's me... Actually if you Wikipedia it, my face shows up on the column on the right hand side.
My relationships in general have been a series of hit and miss. I have had the worst arguments with people who mean the most to me. I am unable to appreciate what they have to offer in the moment, I spit in their face, and then when they leave, I cry like a little girl like it is the end of the world.
Melodrama aside, this over-rumination of every thing that is said and done, ever observing, ever side checking and cross referencing for hidden nuances and innuendoes leaves me frazzled, suspicious and alone. I am constantly tallying lives, scores, events, people, things, places, words said, words left unsaid, and I struggle to have this quiet place in my mind that is just for myself.
Add in a large amount of time spent behind a computer desk at work, very little rules at work, sometimes very little work at work, plus the need to excessively outflow my vernacular from my largest facial orifice, I have spent an extraordinary amount of time on facebook in the 7 years that I have been a member. According to Time magazines facebook calculator, my posts average 27 days, and seventeen or so hours (give or take), that I have "wasted" online.
Also add in the fact that I needed to somehow have a quieter mind and be more focused (I am studying university mathematics and I did HORRRRRRRIBLY in maths in high school), I concocted this crackpot idea, actually it still theoretically is a good idea, its one I use in most areas of my life that give me anxiety (heck my anxiety gives me anxiety) and that core ideology involves PURGE. If something isn't glued, bolted down, cemented to the walls or fabric of my being, then it is PURGED.
So I looked at this every growing and evolving friends list online, some 320 individuals, God bless them truly, all of them, and started culling a few of them. I thought I would miss seeing them. You know the bartender at the nightclub I used to frequent when I was 20, heck, why am I even friends with them, beyond a morbid fascination of whether he's still as adorable as he was back then, as he is now. Whilst the answer to that question is yes, I gain no further joy nor happiness knowing he's holding up pretty well in his (oh facebook said his birthdays on Wednesday next week and I should get him a Starbucks gift card) old age... but I digress, I gain no further joy nor happiness knowing anything voyeuristically through his life than I did when I was on the one side of the bar ordering a coke (I barely drink) and wishing it came with him and a side of lime.
The more I culled, the more free I felt. And truly I did feel free. There were some people I culled because their posts were annoying, their nastiness drove me wild, I didn't like their drama. And then there were just some people I culled because I wouldn't miss them. And I don't. By the way I am using the word culled so it would sound like a knife through the heart, which a faceDIS truly is, if you have ever been BLOCKED by anyone, which I have been by the way... Talk about a stake through the old ticker....
So I knocked my list down to 200, which if given my large, oh so complicated, family in South Africa, Ireland, England, Italy, Germany, Australia, New Zealand and the US of A... (did I leave anyone out?)... mostly had taken up... My dad was one of seven and my mom was only one of two... But we are a family who love our family. And keeping up with our family and being family with our family is of the highest priority.
Then came my best friends, the ones who I cant live without, their fibers of their beings are intertwined with mine, as are their now spouses, and their children... You see already it is so complicated... (anxiety levels rising)....
So then one day I got a message from someone whom I hadn't thought would be that worried that I was gone, along the lines of "did I do something wrong"... And I felt so awful because this whole culling thing really truly wasn't about what they did (Its not you, its me...)... but of course the rejection HURT them and I felt terrible so I offered of course the only thing that I could which was a very humble apology and I felt truly awful and still do whenever I see their photos on my wall, because they "took me back out of the kindness of their heart"...
And then today I was asked by another dear soul to take photos of her on her wedding day and she says "I don't know what happened Bernie, but we weren't connected anymore on facebook".... and all of a sudden the bile is up in my throat, suddenly the Richter scale of anxiety has blown its seams and I am apoplectic, tongue fumbling in my mouth, "its not you, it was me"... speech again. But she didn't take any offense... Like an adult she said "You took care of what you had to do"... And that was it. So simple. So sensible. So true.
I did what I had to do at the time. And now one by one, each week, I am sending my apologies, eating humble pie, adding people back (If they will have me!)......
and c'est la vie.... this is me :) I love you. Good night.
My relationships in general have been a series of hit and miss. I have had the worst arguments with people who mean the most to me. I am unable to appreciate what they have to offer in the moment, I spit in their face, and then when they leave, I cry like a little girl like it is the end of the world.
Melodrama aside, this over-rumination of every thing that is said and done, ever observing, ever side checking and cross referencing for hidden nuances and innuendoes leaves me frazzled, suspicious and alone. I am constantly tallying lives, scores, events, people, things, places, words said, words left unsaid, and I struggle to have this quiet place in my mind that is just for myself.
Add in a large amount of time spent behind a computer desk at work, very little rules at work, sometimes very little work at work, plus the need to excessively outflow my vernacular from my largest facial orifice, I have spent an extraordinary amount of time on facebook in the 7 years that I have been a member. According to Time magazines facebook calculator, my posts average 27 days, and seventeen or so hours (give or take), that I have "wasted" online.
Also add in the fact that I needed to somehow have a quieter mind and be more focused (I am studying university mathematics and I did HORRRRRRRIBLY in maths in high school), I concocted this crackpot idea, actually it still theoretically is a good idea, its one I use in most areas of my life that give me anxiety (heck my anxiety gives me anxiety) and that core ideology involves PURGE. If something isn't glued, bolted down, cemented to the walls or fabric of my being, then it is PURGED.
So I looked at this every growing and evolving friends list online, some 320 individuals, God bless them truly, all of them, and started culling a few of them. I thought I would miss seeing them. You know the bartender at the nightclub I used to frequent when I was 20, heck, why am I even friends with them, beyond a morbid fascination of whether he's still as adorable as he was back then, as he is now. Whilst the answer to that question is yes, I gain no further joy nor happiness knowing he's holding up pretty well in his (oh facebook said his birthdays on Wednesday next week and I should get him a Starbucks gift card) old age... but I digress, I gain no further joy nor happiness knowing anything voyeuristically through his life than I did when I was on the one side of the bar ordering a coke (I barely drink) and wishing it came with him and a side of lime.
The more I culled, the more free I felt. And truly I did feel free. There were some people I culled because their posts were annoying, their nastiness drove me wild, I didn't like their drama. And then there were just some people I culled because I wouldn't miss them. And I don't. By the way I am using the word culled so it would sound like a knife through the heart, which a faceDIS truly is, if you have ever been BLOCKED by anyone, which I have been by the way... Talk about a stake through the old ticker....
So I knocked my list down to 200, which if given my large, oh so complicated, family in South Africa, Ireland, England, Italy, Germany, Australia, New Zealand and the US of A... (did I leave anyone out?)... mostly had taken up... My dad was one of seven and my mom was only one of two... But we are a family who love our family. And keeping up with our family and being family with our family is of the highest priority.
Then came my best friends, the ones who I cant live without, their fibers of their beings are intertwined with mine, as are their now spouses, and their children... You see already it is so complicated... (anxiety levels rising)....
So then one day I got a message from someone whom I hadn't thought would be that worried that I was gone, along the lines of "did I do something wrong"... And I felt so awful because this whole culling thing really truly wasn't about what they did (Its not you, its me...)... but of course the rejection HURT them and I felt terrible so I offered of course the only thing that I could which was a very humble apology and I felt truly awful and still do whenever I see their photos on my wall, because they "took me back out of the kindness of their heart"...
And then today I was asked by another dear soul to take photos of her on her wedding day and she says "I don't know what happened Bernie, but we weren't connected anymore on facebook".... and all of a sudden the bile is up in my throat, suddenly the Richter scale of anxiety has blown its seams and I am apoplectic, tongue fumbling in my mouth, "its not you, it was me"... speech again. But she didn't take any offense... Like an adult she said "You took care of what you had to do"... And that was it. So simple. So sensible. So true.
I did what I had to do at the time. And now one by one, each week, I am sending my apologies, eating humble pie, adding people back (If they will have me!)......
and c'est la vie.... this is me :) I love you. Good night.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Write
Write they say.
Write words that convey.
Some form of message.
One they want to hear.
One for eager ears.
Do they want contentment or contempt.
Do they want a lesson learned or better yet.
Do they want a story beyond all they have ever read, or ever thought.
But I've read that book, I have already bought.
A spine bound and the pages are torn.
A heart was broken, a dreamer born.
For the best book that was ever read
Lives inside of me, inside of my head.
Write words that convey.
Some form of message.
One they want to hear.
One for eager ears.
Do they want contentment or contempt.
Do they want a lesson learned or better yet.
Do they want a story beyond all they have ever read, or ever thought.
But I've read that book, I have already bought.
A spine bound and the pages are torn.
A heart was broken, a dreamer born.
For the best book that was ever read
Lives inside of me, inside of my head.
Friday, February 7, 2014
Letters
I don't write letters like the way that I did before. I don't write them the way that I did to you, trying to settle the score.
I don't write letters, so convinced that you had to know my every thought, and there was no point in saving face because I had already fallen short.
I don't write letters like before but there still are words unspoken, unwritten. At least from me. But they are unwelcome here. They lack civility.
I don't write letters anymore, ones that are used to convey, the desperation of a girl, and all that it is impossible to say.
I don't write you letters anymore, and swirl your name across the 'lope, whilst dreaming of your face, living in constant hope.
I don't write letters anymore, spelling out the secrets in my heart, open invitations for you to pull me apart.
I don't write letters anymore, simply because I cannot live that way. A misunderstood intention, an unintentional fray.
I don't write letters anymore, I can't handle the noise. Just because I gave them to you, don't think I gave them to all of the boys.
9-27-13
I don't write letters, so convinced that you had to know my every thought, and there was no point in saving face because I had already fallen short.
I don't write letters like before but there still are words unspoken, unwritten. At least from me. But they are unwelcome here. They lack civility.
I don't write letters anymore, ones that are used to convey, the desperation of a girl, and all that it is impossible to say.
I don't write you letters anymore, and swirl your name across the 'lope, whilst dreaming of your face, living in constant hope.
I don't write letters anymore, spelling out the secrets in my heart, open invitations for you to pull me apart.
I don't write letters anymore, simply because I cannot live that way. A misunderstood intention, an unintentional fray.
I don't write letters anymore, I can't handle the noise. Just because I gave them to you, don't think I gave them to all of the boys.
9-27-13
Wedding
My sister, almost exactly a decade ago, decided to set off to England by herself. She emigrated, by herself, as many South Africans do, with inferior coats and far too little money than really is needed to survive and thrive. Now exactly 10 years later we stand here today, to celebrate her wedding to Sukhi, a most wonderful mate, a real friend, a man with a taste of adventure, with a sense of soulful humour, absolute decency resonating throughout him, a family man... and most importantly, a man who loves to do the ironing.
In September 2006 when my mom had moved to Los Angeles, we gathered as a family and briefly toured Southern California. It was during that time when Antoinette told us she was going to India. We thought okay, you have gone to England by yourself now, and now you want to go to India... What next? China? Indonesia?
Little did we know that she was literally going to India... To be an Indian Bride... This fussy child who didn't eat a single vegetable, except potatoes, was suddenly cooking the most wonderful curries and educating us about spices.
And finally in December 2013, she did indeed go to India, this time to purchase her wedding dress.
So I salute you dear sister, for your incredible strength. You are so driven, so absolute in your needs and your wants and your desires, and you set your sights on a goal, and you attain them, almost on your own. It is so wonderful to see that you have met your match in this jolly soul named Sukhi. I am grateful that he is your soft place to fall. He is your best friend. And that he is absolutely deserving of your love. Sukhi, from the time we have met you, we have known you were our brother. We are beyond ecstatic with your nuptials. Salut!
In September 2006 when my mom had moved to Los Angeles, we gathered as a family and briefly toured Southern California. It was during that time when Antoinette told us she was going to India. We thought okay, you have gone to England by yourself now, and now you want to go to India... What next? China? Indonesia?
Little did we know that she was literally going to India... To be an Indian Bride... This fussy child who didn't eat a single vegetable, except potatoes, was suddenly cooking the most wonderful curries and educating us about spices.
And finally in December 2013, she did indeed go to India, this time to purchase her wedding dress.
So I salute you dear sister, for your incredible strength. You are so driven, so absolute in your needs and your wants and your desires, and you set your sights on a goal, and you attain them, almost on your own. It is so wonderful to see that you have met your match in this jolly soul named Sukhi. I am grateful that he is your soft place to fall. He is your best friend. And that he is absolutely deserving of your love. Sukhi, from the time we have met you, we have known you were our brother. We are beyond ecstatic with your nuptials. Salut!
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
She let me down easy
she's not who you think she is. she's changed. she has become something entirely different.
Words falling through the phone into my jumbled state of consciousness. The voice belonged to my eternal optimist friend, a girl who had seen enough things first hand that she should have been hardened. And there she was concerned about my heart that she felt that I was putting too much on the line.
she has become barely unrecognizable. i think she is lost to us. i don't think that she is salvageable anymore. you must give up on her.
The words have echoed through me. Not because of their harshness, because they were like a feather pillow wrapped baseball bat, but because of their point of origin. The way my friend positioned her tongue to lightly break my heart. The way her words conveyed her sense of loss, her disappointment, as well as her first hand experience of the mayhem that has ensued.
A dear mutual friend of ours has chosen a lifestyle that is so destructive, so painful, so illogical that it has sent us reeling. I think the warning signs were there over a year ago. But I rationalized it as "not my business" and "has nothing to do with me", and "jees, you are nosy"...
I never anticipated it would resonate so deeply through us because I never imagined that what has happened in their household would be possible. She has allowed things to continue and chooses to allow them to happen, due to whatever reason, I can only assume co-dependence, financial reasons, shame, guilt, and even optimism. Hope that it will get better.
I never imagined that this person that I admire so much as a parent could allow these travesties to continue to happen IN FRONT of her numerous young children. I have failed to realize that this person by doing so has chosen the abuse and the abuser over her children. What you tolerate, you encourage. In America there are numerous help groups for women. There is no reason to stay with your tormentor...
Words falling through the phone into my jumbled state of consciousness. The voice belonged to my eternal optimist friend, a girl who had seen enough things first hand that she should have been hardened. And there she was concerned about my heart that she felt that I was putting too much on the line.
she has become barely unrecognizable. i think she is lost to us. i don't think that she is salvageable anymore. you must give up on her.
The words have echoed through me. Not because of their harshness, because they were like a feather pillow wrapped baseball bat, but because of their point of origin. The way my friend positioned her tongue to lightly break my heart. The way her words conveyed her sense of loss, her disappointment, as well as her first hand experience of the mayhem that has ensued.
A dear mutual friend of ours has chosen a lifestyle that is so destructive, so painful, so illogical that it has sent us reeling. I think the warning signs were there over a year ago. But I rationalized it as "not my business" and "has nothing to do with me", and "jees, you are nosy"...
I never anticipated it would resonate so deeply through us because I never imagined that what has happened in their household would be possible. She has allowed things to continue and chooses to allow them to happen, due to whatever reason, I can only assume co-dependence, financial reasons, shame, guilt, and even optimism. Hope that it will get better.
I never imagined that this person that I admire so much as a parent could allow these travesties to continue to happen IN FRONT of her numerous young children. I have failed to realize that this person by doing so has chosen the abuse and the abuser over her children. What you tolerate, you encourage. In America there are numerous help groups for women. There is no reason to stay with your tormentor...
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
The Beautiful People
It always surprises me how I think I know how a situation is going to play out, and I am completely wrong. I am then always stunned because my belief of how a situation will be is based off of a falsified fact about myself. For example, I really believed that I love jewelry. And then this weekend, one innocent party at my lovely neighbours house totally blew that theory out of the water...
My neighbor, beautiful, together, grounded, wonderful, sweet, kind, caring and just totally lovely, invited me to her jewelry party. I made it there by the hair of my chinny chin chin. I walked in to a room full of what I call The Beautiful People. Of course this is a homage to Marilyn Manson, but more than that The Beautiful People have no idea what type of effect they have on us non-beautiful people.
The ladies sat in a u shape, clutching their clipboards full of glossy jewelry catalogues, with their shiny sparkly heads nodding in deep satisfaction. The hostess gleefully explained that the jewelry business was not just a vocation but it was a true calling to being in the Lord's service and enriching peoples lives through the personal contact and commitment to high standards. My neighbor asked me if I would like to sit down. I was skulking in the back ground which is where, I realized, I felt the most comfortable. I wasn't sure what I had signed up for. More than that, I was confused by the reality of the jewelry party versus what I imagined the jewelry party would be. I imagined the jewelry party would be a lot less rigid... And more about a party, than the jewelry, and that is where I was wrong, I was very, very wrong.
The hostess of the party modeled a couple of the "pieces" and passed them around. There was nothing "wrong" with the pieces... Just I don't wear accessories. So I wouldn't make the time to put on "beautiful matching turquoise beads" with a "beautiful matching turquoise necklace".... Then a lot of the pieces had metal clasps or bands, or links, so that also definitely disqualified them, as I have a severe metal allergy. In fact I have an almost everything allergy. Make up. Yep allergic to that. Doesn't matter if its Clinique or Dior, makes my eyes red or they swell up and are itchy. Contact lenses, yep allergic to that. Most creams and lotions. Yep. Shampoos. Yep. Detergent. Yep. I have contact dermatitis... Hair dye. Yep. Just had my hair done. Now my forehead and scalp are peeling. Have my eyebrows waxed and my face swells up like bozo the clown.
This one extremely beautiful Beautiful People turned to me, blonde hair, long eyelashes like a doe, just kind creature, soft, took the jewelry so seriously, and asked me what I liked. I started to tell her well, I really cant wear anything, because I have allergies to the metal. Suddenly the whole room went silent. The ladies moved over from the queso and chips, suddenly I was the center of attention, I had an entire room of Beautiful People umming and ahhhing and nodding in their deepest sympathy of my inability to wear the jewelry... I had their sympathy even that I couldn't find the right moisturizer or that, look, I am not even wearing make up! Suddenly my dour appearance made sense to them... I was forgiven for being so unaccessorized in a room full of dewy gem riddled blossoms of femininity.
The air grew thick with all of the estrogen, my heart rose into my throat and I escaped to the garden to hang with the boys. My neighbours husband was building his kids a fort, and we spoke about the durability of this Brazilian wood and the man made wood that people use on their docks or around the pool. The boys were doing double flips on the trampoline, my girls joined in, kids screaming, the frigid air, and my anxiety waned.
Out there, under the majestic pine trees, at the bottom of their garden, littered with their screaming sons, Tonka toys, trucks, wood, fort, climbing walls and my two little girls, it dawned on me that I was not a "normal" woman... and it also dawned on me that whilst I am very much appreciative of how beautiful the Beautiful People are, that I am also okay being the one who stands alone without adornment.
My neighbor, beautiful, together, grounded, wonderful, sweet, kind, caring and just totally lovely, invited me to her jewelry party. I made it there by the hair of my chinny chin chin. I walked in to a room full of what I call The Beautiful People. Of course this is a homage to Marilyn Manson, but more than that The Beautiful People have no idea what type of effect they have on us non-beautiful people.
The ladies sat in a u shape, clutching their clipboards full of glossy jewelry catalogues, with their shiny sparkly heads nodding in deep satisfaction. The hostess gleefully explained that the jewelry business was not just a vocation but it was a true calling to being in the Lord's service and enriching peoples lives through the personal contact and commitment to high standards. My neighbor asked me if I would like to sit down. I was skulking in the back ground which is where, I realized, I felt the most comfortable. I wasn't sure what I had signed up for. More than that, I was confused by the reality of the jewelry party versus what I imagined the jewelry party would be. I imagined the jewelry party would be a lot less rigid... And more about a party, than the jewelry, and that is where I was wrong, I was very, very wrong.
The hostess of the party modeled a couple of the "pieces" and passed them around. There was nothing "wrong" with the pieces... Just I don't wear accessories. So I wouldn't make the time to put on "beautiful matching turquoise beads" with a "beautiful matching turquoise necklace".... Then a lot of the pieces had metal clasps or bands, or links, so that also definitely disqualified them, as I have a severe metal allergy. In fact I have an almost everything allergy. Make up. Yep allergic to that. Doesn't matter if its Clinique or Dior, makes my eyes red or they swell up and are itchy. Contact lenses, yep allergic to that. Most creams and lotions. Yep. Shampoos. Yep. Detergent. Yep. I have contact dermatitis... Hair dye. Yep. Just had my hair done. Now my forehead and scalp are peeling. Have my eyebrows waxed and my face swells up like bozo the clown.
This one extremely beautiful Beautiful People turned to me, blonde hair, long eyelashes like a doe, just kind creature, soft, took the jewelry so seriously, and asked me what I liked. I started to tell her well, I really cant wear anything, because I have allergies to the metal. Suddenly the whole room went silent. The ladies moved over from the queso and chips, suddenly I was the center of attention, I had an entire room of Beautiful People umming and ahhhing and nodding in their deepest sympathy of my inability to wear the jewelry... I had their sympathy even that I couldn't find the right moisturizer or that, look, I am not even wearing make up! Suddenly my dour appearance made sense to them... I was forgiven for being so unaccessorized in a room full of dewy gem riddled blossoms of femininity.
The air grew thick with all of the estrogen, my heart rose into my throat and I escaped to the garden to hang with the boys. My neighbours husband was building his kids a fort, and we spoke about the durability of this Brazilian wood and the man made wood that people use on their docks or around the pool. The boys were doing double flips on the trampoline, my girls joined in, kids screaming, the frigid air, and my anxiety waned.
Out there, under the majestic pine trees, at the bottom of their garden, littered with their screaming sons, Tonka toys, trucks, wood, fort, climbing walls and my two little girls, it dawned on me that I was not a "normal" woman... and it also dawned on me that whilst I am very much appreciative of how beautiful the Beautiful People are, that I am also okay being the one who stands alone without adornment.
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