know thyself

I posted before about leaving a group for my own good. I know that it sounds crazy to love a group of women as individuals, even as a group, yet not want to be part of the group. But there it is...when have I ever done anything completely sane?

Anyhow, knowing who I am has paid off. As soon as I cut ties to these wonderful ladies as a group, I allowed myself to venture out to other groups, nearer to me. I cut my safety net away and I have high hopes that it will pay off for myself and my kids.

What will rock even more is having my old friends still, but letting myself make new friends too.

It's not the waiting!

(first let me warn you, although this is the last of three entries today, it will show up first, so get ready for a blogfest)

After taking steps and making calls yesterday, I realized that my impression of my impatience was wrong. I always thought I could not stand uncertainty, couldn't stand waiting and not knowing. That's not it! It's the waiting and not doing. As soon as I start taking steps, preparing for the future one way or the other, my heart settles.

I am starting on a path and I am content to see where it leads me. I am not dragged along. I donned my hiking boots and grabbed a water bottle and set off with enthusiasm. This has happened before, and is certain to happen again. But whether it's moving, career, family, love...if I feel I am preparing myself for the future, I have no fears of it.

Because of a conversation with a former advisor, I learned all preparation doesn't have to be tangible. It can be spiritual and emotional also. I'm am learning where to go to find my peace, what liferaft I can cling to. I won't even stop and regret not asking for the help long ago. I will only rechoice that I have asked for it, and found it now.

Dear Mrs. Williams,

I've been meaning to write this letter for awhile now. You made my first year teaching high school harder than it needed to be. Instead of a mentor you were a tormentor.

I don't need to recount all the wrongs. They don't matter. What matters is the realization of your motivation behind them. Many mentors would say they needed to be tough to make sure a rookie teacher has a solid start. You took it to a whole new level. There were rumors of teachers before me falling apart and the teacher after me being on the verge of quitting. The faculty knew what you were, yet were powerless to stop a tenured teacher. Maybe you had terrorized them in the past, because surely co-workers that had known you for years would have spoken up as friends to point out your folly. Maybe there was fear there too. I have no idea what was happening in the county offices. They said they had many complaints about you, yet their hands were tied until a more egregious offense.

My theory about you is that you are a small person in search of power. That's why you enjoyed the horse races so much. Imagine those tiny jockeys just controlling those massive animals. You were short, you were a woman and you were black. I can only imagine what growing up in the decades before mine were like. They left you with a taste of resentment that you had to pour out on those you had power over. There was a limit to what you could do to the students, because the parents in that county had all the say. So you brandished your power over the fledgling teachers.

What did you accomplish? Did you weed those that aren't meant for teaching from the herd? Or did you do the scholastic community a disservice by leaving us with a bad taste in our mouths for teaching?

I loved teaching, and I loved the students. What turned everything sour was my experience with you and the resulting realizations about the power of the faculty. If you don't have their support, a hard job becomes a burden instead of a challenge. Teaching is indeed a career where dinosaurs rule. If you happen upon an 'old skool' school, the tenured have the power and refuse to see any new ideas as good.

Even now though, years later, I smile at the memory of what my students accomplished. I feel that it reflects on me as a teacher. And nothing pleases me more about my relationship with you than to know that the students I taught, many of them your former students, passed the Standards of Learning under my care after they had failed through you. Somewhere, I managed to give them a spark of learning you couldn't impart. Napoleon has her Waterloo, she just doesn't know it yet.

Healingway Part two

I have been doing a lot of thinking about a Healingway, even if I haven't written about it here.

I've realized that just like labor, there will be a path that is different for each person we celebrate in a Healingway. I had also started thinking about the Healingway as an ending, when it's really a beginning, just like the Blessingway. Imagine the power of your closest friends and family setting you out on the path to healing! Knowing that they have helped you give birth the to process, and if you feel you steps falter, they are there to steady you.

Don't get me wrong, you still have to find your own way, but you won't be doing it alone. I recently talked to someone who has been a blessing in my past. She told me about counselors that actually worked on healing those old wounds instead of opening them up over and over. People who helped you remove the residual cancers of sadness, regrets and pain. How come help like that is so hard to find? It reminds me of a quote from Harry Potter, where Harry asks Ron, "Are these doctors?" Ron answers, "Doctors? Those muggle nutters that cut people up? No, these are Healers." Forgive any liberties, I know it's not an exact quote, but you get the idea.

For those that can't find a Healer, I want to continue learning about the different paths to healing, and maybe one day anyone will be able to start on their journey with a Healingway.

Walking through the gentle autumn day, so many sensations float past me. I'm infused with a sense of happiness for the moment. As I lift my daughter to my shoulders, it hits me again that I am the grownup. My time of the heady joy of someone sweeping you along, higher than the world on their shoulders is long past. Instead of regretting that it didn't happen often enough, I smiled at the thought of carrying my children high so they could reach for the clouds.

As I turn the corner, the acrid sent of burning leaves fills my nostrils. I'm reminded of an assignment from my 9th grade English teacher, Mrs. Evans. One of the options was to describe newly mown grass. I chose the simpler task of describing the state I had lived in the longest until then, California. But now, I understand. I'm still not sure how I would describe freshly mown grass, but I would describe the smouldering smell of the leaves as chances gone. The smell of burning leaves still swirling through my senses, another familiar smell pushed its way in. The smell of fresh laundry, hot in the dryer. The smell of promise and futures. Preparing for the days ahead with crisp clothes, comforting to all of your senses.

The sharp smell of the leaves, while not unpleasant, served its purpose. It made me appreciate the clean smell of laundry all the more. The two smells swirled about for awhile, then disappeared. The memories stay for much longer though.

Four Times a Rule Breaker

No solid food and no milk products after midnight-
whoops, she nursed. Although breastmilk is technically not dairy so I'll let myself slide. It isn't on the list of acceptable clear liquids though.

Notify surgeon if symptoms of a cold appear-
we had a ped check up on Monday, she was free and clear. Tuesday afternoon a runny nose started. I didn't feel she was too sick, so I didn't call. I was right, her lungs were checked and cleared.

No siblings please-
with P. out of town and us leaving at 4:15 am, there was nobody to watch C. So to the hospital he came with us.

Please note women who are pregnant or breastfeeding may not enter the operating room-
uh, ok. I wasn't actively breastfeeding. That counts, right? What- my breasts were going to spread diseases just by having milk in them? Next on Dateline: More dangerous than a runny nose, more infectious than an open sore- it's the lactating breast!

It was a hard, scary experience. But J. sailed through it and C. was a trouper during all the waiting. What was it? Fixing of the teeth. You can see her modelling her new choppers above. While dentists are hesitant to confirm it, I am convinced bad teeth (esp. baby teeth) run in our family. I believe it's enamel hypoplasia (or something like that). I had the same problems with my top 4 teeth, so did C. and J. From what I understand so did two of my brothers and at least one neice. Most dentists blame it on 'bottle-mouth' but not all of us were bottlefed (C. and J. sure weren't). I'm just glad this one was able to fix everything for J. Two of her front uper teeth were chipping away from the inside, one of the center teeth was rotting away (you could see a black circle). C. had the same problem, the same cavities. His dentist said it was because of night nursing, I still don't get that. The nipple is pulled back to the soft palate (well behind the front teeth) and only releases milk when sucked. Since neither child is a tummy sleeper, there's no way they didn't swallow milk and it pooled in the front of the mouth.

C.'s dentist also papoosed him (tied him down to work on him) since he was 3yo and uncooperative. He then yanked two teeth and filled the other with metal amalgam, finishing off with two ugly side caps. With this dentist, we can't even tell these aren't J's teeth.

I love my little girl, and now I can love her smile!

what i am doing right

With all my negativity lately, I thought maybe I should think about the good things.

I have been allowing myself more creative outlets. Writing more, even if most of it is for this blog.

I have been keeping the house orderly, although every surface could use a good wipedown.

I'm accomplishing more and making less excuses for what I don't do. I allow myself lazy time without guilt.

I am recognizing in my head (if not my heart) that I deserve to be loved. That I deserve time to myself. That I deserve to be an individual.

I am letting go of some resentments, some slower than others, but still, it's an accomplishment.

I am going out and doing things of my own accord; over the years, moreso in the past two, I have made myself a shut-in off and on. Doing things that don't have to be done is a big step.

I suppose, what is most hard to hold onto, is looking forward to a better future than my past (I have always lived under the assumption that things would get worse- woah- I'm a pessimist- who knew!) Even though the past is hard, there is the chance of a brighter future as long as I don't let anyone, especially myself, stand in the way.

Happy Feet, Sad Mom

With the husband/father person out of town, I decided we deserved a couple of hours off and we set off to the movie theater. Both the kids have been loving the previews for Happy Feet and it looked like something I could enjoy (with the bonus of the Harry Potter trailer in the previews).

It is a very cute movie. I honestly didn't even recognize Hugh Jackman's voice, he did such a good job at being the character "Memphis". Nicole Kidman was back in her Moulin Rouge glory and Robin Williams was...Robin Williams. I think he could have been better (see the Genie in Alladin) but he still added quite a few laughs to the movie. Catchy songs, cute penguins a great initial message: it's ok to be different.

Both kids (6yo and 2yo) were good through it. At one point, J. had happy feet of her own, tip-tapping while the music played. C. just had a happy bum...wiggling because, as he said, "This is loooooooooong."

There came a point where the message wasn't just the quest to find your heart song (whether vocalized or tap-danced) but also about people encroaching on animal habitats. It felt awful to see how we're making an impact, even in Antartica.

There was a point where I thought- how can this end happily? Not only are they teaching us it's ok to be different, but they're lecturing us about our impact on the planet. From that I can see why Steve Irwin was involved (he did the voice for an elephant seal). But it resulted in me leaving the theater filled with guilt. Maybe justified, but not what I expected to feel after a kids movie called Happy Feet.

What might have felt better was to have some solutions included at the end. I waited in vain through the majority of the credits for that- and some sort of dedication to Steve Irwin, but saw nothing. The kids could have distracted me during a crucial second, but overall nothing came of the heavy message.

saying goodbye

One more post for the day (on a roll, huh?)

Recently I left a group I have been in for years. I got to the point that seeing interactions/non-interactions was a negative experience to me. Let me emphasize: to me. It's all about my perception and what I could handle. Individually, they are fantastic women. Even as a group, just wonderful. But the particular dynamics weren't something I could handle in my life at this point.

I didn't want to leave in a huff of drama, like I have seen others leave email loops. The melodramatic good-bye posts are often really a ploy to get others to beg them to stay. So I just quietly left, figuring nobody would notice/comment for awhile.

What was there to say? No matter how I say it, it would seem like an accusation. Ya'll aren't meeting my needs at this point and I would like to move on instead of trying to live in the past and recapture the golden years. But that reads wrong, since (as the old break-up line says) its not you (all), it's me. It's my lack of the social ins and outs that other women seem to have. It's my fear of asking for help while intensily longing to have very close connections. I don't expect anybody else to meet my needs as I often don't even know what my needs are.

I just wanted to leave while leaving was a strength for me. While I was doing it for the right reasons, to decrease the negative feelings I have. The only problem, is because I have seperated myself so quietly, and I already have a habit of not reaching out, I fear that I have cut myself out of their lives completely rather than just this aspect of it. And par for the course, I don't know how to fix it.

Coda: Who I am

I just wanted to make clear, I am not throwing a pity party. Part of what throws me about myself is the fact that things could have been so much worse, yet I am still so messed up.

I know and have seen people who had so much more go wrong in their lives, and yet they are so together. I just don't get what is in me that I can't do the same.

My heart goes out to all the little children in people that went through so much more than I did.

one step forward, two steps back

Somehow, no matter what steps I try to take to make myself healthier, it seems like I just contribute to staying as I am.

I accept who I am. I don't like it, so I try to change. The problem is the act of change when habits are so deeply ingrained.

Do I purge, letting everything out and wash over me like a tidal wave? Will that release and cleanse me in such a way that I can move on, move past? Or do I find the right building blocks to contain who I was and on the other side of the dam create who I want to be?

To some extent, I have tried both ways, and they haven't worked. I still sometimes hate who I am to my very core. I'm puzzled, how can I look at what has made me, me; know the influences, know the patterns and yet still not fight myself free from them. Devil's snare I suppose- the more you fight it (a bit of a HP movie reference there ;) ). I hesitate to go to someone for help, because the hope hurts worse when they don't help. I have known one person that gave me toold that worked, but mere months later I had to move away.

Right now I have two options of promising churches, and after this weekend I will pick one. Here's hoping it will help, it did once. Meanwhile, I think I will email my old pastor and get some perspective, and unconditional love like my Gram used to give me. That's always a good thing.

The Precipice of a Choice

You know how it feels when you have a big choice to make, right? The kind where nothing feels right, there's no real answer?

Well, I get so wrapped up in the act of making the choice itself that I forget what it feels like when the choice is made. It's a huge relief. You know you'll have second thoughts later and maybe regrets, but until then, nothing feels better than having the weight of choice making off of your shoulders.

You feel confident, you feel like you have a direction to take in life. You feel like you have flown off of the precipice and all that's left is the waiting to see how you land.

That, on the other hand, is a whole other weight to deal with. But for now, you're flying and free and you can live in that moment.

Who I was, Who I am and Who I Want to be (Part Four)

I look at the women in my life, past and present, to discover who I want to be.

I want to be like my Gram, who had so much affection in her marriage, even as her life faded from her, her love for Boompa was still strong. She saw who I really am and still loved me. I still hold her unconditional love to my heart. Her life was sometimes the only thing that kept me alive and her death nearly broke me. Knowing that she saw the reality that I lacked a childhood still touches me to no end. She loved me enough to notice, even living thousands of miles away for much of my life.

I want to be like my third grade teacher (well, one of them, the second one I had after moving to Alaska). Her self confidence and strength were uplifting.

I want to be part of a close-knit family like my close high school friend, B. It could be frustrating, but she knew there was always someone there for her. I want to be interesting and have many topics I can talk about like my friends C. and I. They are women who have lived, who are intelligent and witty and not afraid to be themselves.

I want to be a patient mother like J. and R. Also, R. is just so accepting of who her children are, and works with them at their need levels. She also has the patience and fun attitude that I admire in G.

I want to be confident as a wife and businesswoman and mother like K. She knows what in her life works.

I want my faith to shine through me like T's does. She is the embodiment of what a Christian is to me. She lives the Word and holds it close to her heart. S. is striving for that too, and I just admire her so much for finding a resting place in her life and letting go of the torment of a sad childhood, so much more than I have ever been able to.

I want to be like M. She can be negative (er...a realist), but has such a zest for life that it more than makes up for negative spells. Of all the people I have met, she comes closest to reaching back to me. To just accepting me as I am.

I want a marriage with steady companionship like C., she's married to her high school love and it has not faded with time. I want a marriage like I's, who found the strength to leave an abusive husband, even with two children. And then found even more strength and loved herself enough that when a good man came along, she was able to accept that she deserved love and joy. I want a marriage like M. She can talk to her spouse about anything and not be judged. When they are feeling weak, they lean on each other and grow stronger.

I want to deserve love- and know that I deserve it. I want to stop hating myself, my very being. I want to one day celebrate the day I was born and mean it. I want someone else to celebrate my life and mean it.

I want to create. I want the confidence to put myself out there. I want to know what I want to do when I grow up. I want to find my bliss, instead of just taking the safe path. I want to go to my death knowing that I have found as much joy as I could. I want to wash away my regrets, or at least have fewer in my future. I want my children to look back at any point in their lives and think, "I really liked my childhood."

Who I was, Who I am and Who I Want to be (Part three)

At barely 19, I started out in this new, parent-free phase of my life. They didn't contribute anything to my life, material or otherwise at first. It's actually sad how easily detached we all were. But again, there I was, starting an entire life over with new people and new responsibilities. I was overwhelmed and that's when the depression really started to grow. It was like a snake, each stage of my life it shed its skin, but only to grow and change slightly, just enough to keep me off balance. I remember when I was really young, learning the concept of suicide and thinking that was actually a good idea. I became obsessed with the idea of what happens after we die. It's the great mystery that nobody knows until they experience it. The first time I tried to commit suicide I was twelve. My mom had sent one of her BS "I care about you enough to guilt you" letters. My dad had me write a letter stating exactly how I felt then throw it away. It was later that night. It was dark and I was in the living room. Crying quietly enough not to wake someone, but loudly enough that anyone who was awake with concern over me could hear. I wanted to be held, I wanted comfort. But I couldn't go ask for it for fear of rejection. I realized my entire life would feel like this, over and over. So I wrote a tearful goodbye note and placed a plastic bag over my head. I lasted until I was very close to passing out, then ripped it off in fearful panic. I crawled into my bed, huddled in the fetal position and cried myself to sleep.

That's who I am now, still. Hurt easily by those I love, afraid to ask for comfort because I am certain it will lead to more rejection and pain.

We went through a year of college. I paid for the first semester on my own, by the second I had earned my financial aid back. At the end of the year, we decided we were in love and didn't want to be separated for the summer. We decided to get an apartment. I suppose I should have seen the sign that he was reluctant to be with me when he drove off with a friend the day of the move leaving me to move the contents of our dorm rooms to our apartment all by myself.

I got a job at the local fabric store and that when the see-saw of bills and resentment began.

I don't think that at this point in my life it is productive to go over what happened in my marriage. I just know that I built on old patterns over and over again. I expected and hoped for love and compassion from someone who couldn't give it to me. I was afraid to ask for it because of rejection and because I believed that showed me as weak, yet another awful trait I wanted to erase.

Even now, I ache to be held but hold myself back from asking and reaching out. I tell myself not to be a burden only to find out that's all I am. I haven't grown much past the 12year old that was convinced life was pain, love was a hopeless dream and she was worthless.

I have felt successful as a mother. There I have been able to give all the love I know how to and have it reflected back to me. Where I stumble is falling into the pattern of being one of my parents. And the guilt from doing such wonderful souls wrong. They started out pure, lit with love and needs. I try to keep them like that for as long as possible, yet my own past gets in the way. I hate one more thing about myself, just because I fear my past is making their future.

Who I was, Who I am and Who I Want to be (Part two)

One Christmas, after Dad was remarried, we went for a visit. Suddenly he was more present and even my stepmom was fun. I wasn't someone to be tolerated or packed away to be ignored. I remember getting on the plane, crying. Watching dad through the window, his head in his arms sobbing. I was loved- well, we were loved, but for once I felt like part of it.

That summer, I experienced what other kids did for one of the first times in my life. Girl Scouts, summer camp, family kite flying. Things I thought were only in TV shows. When I got back to moms, I knew I didn't belong there. I begged to be sent back to Dad. I don't know what had to happen, lots of grownup negotiations. I do know that a month later I was being packed up while mom threw every guilt trip in the book at me. She wouldn't let me take all of my cherished possessions. This was to be a one month trial, she would send them to me after the month was over.

I loved being at my Dad's. It wasn't just being an only child. Suddenly I wasn't in trouble as much. Suddenly my 'parents' were doing things for me. I moved there around Halloween, my stepmom sewed me a beautiful (to me) Halloween dress from pink gingham. Puffy sleeves, ribbon trim, full skirt, complete with a hoop petticoat. Her hairdresser friend did my hair in a bun with ringlets and flowers, and I was beautiful. It was a stark contrast to when my mom used to dress me up in pink and curl my hair in Kindergarten (every day) telling me, "Your sister is a natural beauty, you need some help." I wore the dress again when we visited Calico Ghost town, and again for the Thanksgiving dinner with Janet's family. Never before had I been with people who used special plates and multiple utensils for dinner. The worst things I got in trouble for were for manners (I had never been taught about them before) and speaking too loudly while inside.

Of course the month came and went and I wanted to stay. Because of that, my Dad's transfer to Clark AFB in the Philippines went through. It had been on hold until he had full custody of me. We packed up and moved to the Philippines. Well, I packed what I had. My mom claimed she had packed my treasured books and toys into garbage bags to store them and then accidentally thrown everything away. So my life was to start completely new. New things, new parents, new country even. But the same fear, deep inside, that I would screw up and not be loved.

I adjusted very well to the Philippines. Maybe not so well to being a nuclear family. I started avoiding homework, not doing well in school. They called me lazy because they knew I could do the work but wouldn't. I know I'm not perfect, but looking back, there was a chance I was a child trying to adjust to a completely new life. It was at this time that Janet started taking me to my first of new counselors. I was now a problem child for them. Besides the schoolwork, I wet the bed and the ever present messy room. Obviously I had issues.

I was nearly 11yo and getting into fights with my stepmom and not hearing from my mother most months. Yes, I was the awful person that other people didn't love- even people who should automatically love you. Janet would yell at me that I loved my father more. Of course I did, but I felt guilty. I got a post card from my Great Nana Mann. She had visited the family not long after I left and was so sad to miss me. I kept that postcard as a badge of guilt for years. Finally, many years later, I discussed the visit with my sister. Only there had never been a visit. She confirmed the postcard was a fake. Too bad the guilt that lived within me was real.

Then came a time when Janet was pregnant. We were all thrilled. But after Matthew was born, I did even more things wrong. Rather, they were the same things, but the pressure of two kids made any little thing harder to take. Now, as a mom of two kids and a husband that is at work often, I understand that. I would commiserate with all my heart, maybe write a letter to Janet that was full of apologies and thanks. Except she had live in help in the form of a housegirl that not only cleaned, but watched us. Or, there was always the 12yo to watch the baby. One night, in a knock down drag out fight, I locked myself in the bathroom. Hoping to retreat from the pain, anger, fear. Janet banged ton the door until the cheap wood reverberated. She threatened to call the fire department to break it down. I dared her, knowing full well she would never want to admit to them she couldn't control her child. I think that's when the dance of anger and guilt and retreat began for me. Another time, she was holding baby Matt, yelling at me because I had shaved my legs without permission. The fight kept growing and growing. I was growing and growing and she wanted to control every aspect of my life, even person hygiene. I said something snotty for her, and she said, "I should slap you for that." In the snottiest preteen voice ever, I told her, "You wouldn't dare, you're holding your precious baby." She promptly put her precious baby on the edge of the bed and smacked my face as hard as she could. The world dropped from under my feet and I learned I was now step-daughter. I had been replaced by a biological child. I was Pinocchio, screwing up time after time and he was the real boy, longed for heart and sole.

During all this time, I was a project to be fixed. I was too smart, must be bored in class, that's why the school issues. So I was tested and moved up to a Talented and Gifted class. But I still fell short of expectations. Where I excelled didn't matter, only where I faltered. She spent time reading self-help books on how to fix me. Then Matt had his first seizure. Suddenly he was the project to be fixed. Sadly, I missed the attention. Because any child needs attention, even if all they can get is the negative kind.

I bounced from being Janet's friend and confidant while Dad was away to being the pain of her existence. Just like Mom, I never quite knew when I was going to mess up. I never quite knew what behaviors would tip the scale one way or another. I honestly tried to be good. I was true to my friends and heartbroken when their 12yo selves couldn't return the fervence. I helped out other kids, stuck up for what I thought was right and spent all of my allowance on other people. It was like I was trying to buy love with good works. I had a pattern of befriending people and expecting things. If they were more wounded than I was, I was the person there to help. If they seemed to have it together, I expected them to understand and be there for me. But most kids are too young to understand someone needs help if they never have. It's like there's a mark on you that you can only see if you have been marked yourself.

Finally, our tour in the Pearl of the Orient was over. I had my last weeks with the two close friends I had made. I wanted every moment I could. Calonte was staying, as her dad was a DoDDS teacher and she didn't move as much. Susan's dad was transferring out also. I wore myself out walking miles just to go to my school the last days. Since there was a nearer school, I was supposed to go to that one. But I hadn't wanted to switch and lose my friends, so when we had moved (after being allotted a larger house after Matt was born) I asked to be allowed to bike to my school. My parents allowed me. But our belongings were packed in those last weeks, including my bicycle. The trip took longer and I slept harder. One morning, after sleeping through the alarm, my stepmom woke me much later than I should have been up. She was almost gleeful as she told me I was late for school. When I shouted at her for not waking me earlier, my Dad barged in, picking me up by the collar and slamming me against the wall, feet hanging helpless in the air as his forearm pressed against my neck. We had come full cycle. Now he was doing for my stepmom what he had done for my mom. I was only Daddy's girl as long as his woman was happy with me.

We moved to North Carolina, my ego shrinking as I realized how out of place I was. I was clueless in the feminine ways, while living in the South, the core of feminine expectations. I was struggling to find friends in a place where everyone had known each other their entire school careers, some for generations. Their parents had been friends with each other while I hadn't even lived with the same set of parents my entire life.

I found my niche, mostly. But if I had a hard time figuring out how to balance friendships with girls, boys were a complete mystery. I just knew I wasn't pretty enough (hadn't mom told me often enough?) and I couldn't see what other qualities I had that a boy would like. After all, I had surely been told I was lazy and messy and had no idea how to make a future for myself. I was afraid to put myself out there, because if my life taught me anything, it was that the more people knew of me, the less they loved me. Therefore, I must make sure not to let myself be seen. I must be what other people expected and wanted.

The problem with that was that my stepmom complained that I must have more help. When I got upset, I built a wall and shoved everything behind it. She could see my face go from anger, sadness, fear to nothing and it scared her. But what else was I to do with those feelings? Letting them out brought negative reactions and so did hiding them. I was at a loss, even after weekly conversations with the school shrink and more still with one of Janet's picking. Those became doubled when my sister came to live with us for a brief period. Then he got cancer and died and she ran away, back to my mother and her life of welfare, mooching and pot. Knowing how my sister lived with that and what attitudes she had at the cusp of her young adulthood, I am even more proud of who she has become now. But I just wonder, what is wrong with me that I can't make the same strides. What is the difference between the two of us?

In school, while I had shining moments, my parents kept telling me it wasn't good enough. So with a GPA on the high end of 3.something and an SAT score of 1200, I was convinced enlisting in the Air Force was the only outlet for me. I wasn't fit for anything else. My step-grandmother was determined I try college, so she paid for a year as my graduation present. It was too late to apply and be accepted, so I applied for later acceptance at the school my best friend was going to and waited out the time going to community college while working night shift in McDonalds. Nights until 3am sometimes then getting up for school was hard. The days I didn't have school, I was still expected to be out of the house by 8am. I spent many days, bundled in my junker car, coat, layers of clothes and blankets, trying to sleep through the winter morning so I could stay awake on the drive home from work that night. I paid for most everything on my own. It was ok, a habit I was already in. After all, I had to pay the SAT fees and college applications with my own money, painstakingly earned at $2 an hour babysitting. It sure set my expectation level low when I went to college.

The problem with trying to continue going to college after that first semester was that financial aid assumes if you have parents, they will help in some way. They didn't know my parents. In addition, I had picked the wrong classes for my first semester in college. Latin? Seriously, I was at least thinking it would give me a good base as a writer while fulfilling my foreign language requirement. Then, I also fell in love. And for the first time I was loved back. I couldn't believe my luck. He was so handsome, so smart, so good with people. I let it consume me.

During this time, I rarely heard from my parents. Other kids had weekly calls and some care packages. I had the rule I wasn't allowed home on weekends unless invited. To tell the truth, I didn't want to be back there. I was loved, I was learning, I was free. Until the semester ended and it was time to go back home. The rules were set again. If you live with us, you pay rent, do a third of the housework and yard work and take care of yourself (feeding, cleaning and material needs). Oh, and be out of the house during the hours 8am-5pm. They expected that on top of that, I would be moving with them the Washington state when Dad retired from the Air Force. That somehow, I would move to a new state and find out how to pay for college with no financial aid and out of state tuition.

I decided to stay with my friend's parents. They had less rent for me to pay, less rules and they wouldn't require me to 'play the field' on my boyfriend while he was in boot camp. I still remember standing on the bench in my dorm lobby, hugging him and not wanting to let go while his friend shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. I promised him I would be faithful, what was there for me in that country town anyway? I proudly wore my silver band, a promise ring. We were too young to be engaged I thought, so instead of an engagement ring, he bought us matching silver bands.

I knew the only way I could earn the funds to go to college in that area was to work at the local pickle plant. I got a job there, operating the huge machines that processed the pickles on their way to being jarred. It was 12 hrs a night, 7pm to 7am, six days a week. Drudgery and boredom. The only thing that I could hold onto was the promise of the future- my education, my love. For Father's Day, I got off work and went to my parents' house. I crashed onto my old bed, in my room which had been redecorated and turned into a sewing room my first week. It seemed like only minutes later my stepmother was screaming in my face. Apparently, my brother had come in to wake me up for breakfast and I yelled, "Get the fuck out of my room!" I was no longer welcome in their home at all, sleep deprivation and lack of memory of the incident didn't count. Even after a long talk with my dad about it, I just knew I was an unwelcome guest. So I walked to the nearest phone and called for a ride to my 'rental' family and their home. I clung to the only sign of love in my life, sporadic letters from my soon-to-be-a-Marine boyfriend. They were filled with his misery and occasional dirty talk. No sweet nothings there, but I still knew there was someone out there loving me and thinking of me and holding onto my memory as a raft in adversity, just as I was doing with the memory of him. When it came time for my parents to leave, I hardly missed them. I had stepped fully into the newest stage of my life. Who I am now. The strange mix of confidence and self-doubt. The yearning for complete love while absolutely certain there is no love for me. Self-hatred but too afraid to end things. Hopeful for the future but scared that it would be just like the past.

While living with Dad and Janet, I was constantly told that they didn't want me to grow up to be like my mom, leaning on everyone. Asking them to carry her. In their quest to make me independent, they made me afraid to ask for help. I don't know if the lesson I learned is the one they intended to teach, but either way, it has not worked well for me. We are not islands. We are not rocks. We are people and need to lean on each other occasionally. In being strong, I have only weakened myself.

Who I was, Who I am and Who I Want to be (Part One)

When my parents were married, I remember being a normal kid for the family life we had. I tried hard to make my parents happy. Mom never seemed pleased. Dad did, but then he was rarely home. Words like TDY and graveyard shift only meant, to me, that I didn't see daddy. Back in those days, there wasn't a phrase called "quality time", so when I did, he was hanging out with friends, working on cars and motorcycles, drinking beers and smoking. I knew early on that Marlboros and Coors were what we kept in our house. I would fetch the beer, when I got old enough, I would open it and sneak sips from the can. I didn't get why they liked it so much, but I wanted to try. Once, I remember getting ready for bed without being told and Dad was so proud, he swung me up in the air and hugged me. So I kept trying to get ready on my own but that never happened again. By the time I was in Kindergarten, the fights were full force. I did my best not to anger mom, she would strike out at a moment's notice. But even trying to be good didn't work, because she would punish me for things I didn't do. Once she accused me of eating her chocolate mints. I knew I didn't, but she smelled my breath and pronounced she smelled them on my breath and punished me. I have vague memories of hiding in an old dog house, but none of a dog.

I know from stories from dad that I was stubborn and precocious. I remember trying hard to be good, but it was impossible. I wanted to run and jump and play. I wanted to be swung in the air, to be cuddled and held. I wanted to feel special. But there was my big sister and little brother, always being more right than me. Not too long ago, Dad told me that mom made me the "bad one" and he went along with it. That I took more punishment than the others growing up and it sure felt like it.

When the fights went all out, more fear started. Mom taking us out, late nights bowling with her friends. So late we were the only kids there, sitting at the bar trying to mooch maraschino cherries and olives, anything to snack on I suppose. It was the same with dad, except with him, we were at Amvets. Not always at night. Sometimes they had barbecues and family parties. I remember they had a post outside, cinder blocks leading like steps up and down. I would walk those over and over, waiting for dad. Playing in the back 'yard', loving how the doors to the ladies room were western style- you just had to bang them open like a gunslinger in a saloon. Of course, after dad's seizure in our bathroom at home (Stace also had a fainting spell there) I was afraid of all bathrooms and the loud flushing and the mirrors. Scary things happened in the bathroom, just listen to the tales of saying "Bloody Mary" to the mirror in the dark.

My parents' marriage culminated in us sleeping over with mom's "friend" Jim, curled up on a narrow bed in complete darkness, a tiny window what seemed like miles above and afraid to make any noise. One day, we come home to the coffee table chopped to bits, Dad's machete thrust deep in the remains. After that, it is a blur of things. Dad driving us through the desert, deep darkness surrounding us and he railed about mom taking his kids to that man's place. A near fight in front of Jim's place, sleeping at the baby sitter's house, I never liked going, there was something there that made me feel bad. I still can't remember what, but maybe it was sleeping on the floor instead of in my own bed. Dad had us for the longest. I think mom had truly run off. But then there was the courtroom. Being asked to choose, crying about wanting both. Mom not wanting me, but getting me. The memory of a display about coins and indigenous Indian baskets. Years later, when I was13 or 14, we came back and Dad got a ticket there and we went to the courthouse. There, from the shadows of my memory were the displays. Oddly, I felt comforted, knowing there was a real memory in there rather than one from the recesses of my retreat of choice, my imagination.

We sat at a friend's house, watching The Fog, scared and lonely and wondering why mom left us out of her wedding. Why weren't we a part of the love? Soon, we moved to Alaska and my retreat became even more complete. I buried myself in books. The only time mom took notice of me was to lock me in my room, sans breakfast/lunch/dinner until it was clean. I remember eating tubes of toothpaste because I was so hungry, stealing coins from my mom's purse to buy snacks at school. Standing in front of the washer that seemed so huge, wondering how I was supposed to use it, yet knowing I had to- because mom told me to do the laundry. I was only eight. Instead of cleaning, I spent that time reading Amelia Bedelia and the Oz series. I wished and honestly thought that if I thought and imagined hard enough, I could be taken to another world. I loved on my doll, crying into her matted hair and truly believing she was alive and had feelings- that she felt for me when nobody else seemed to.

All this time, I always second guessed myself. I loved people, but was afraid I was unlovable. Every friend and act of friendship was a gift. Every act of anger, cruelty and school child thoughtlessness was a betrayal and evidence that I was unlovable. Somehow, I was this person embracing life, wanting to live out loud yet afraid of what would happen if I did.

disquiet

Some days, when I appear all peaceful inside, underneath feelings are churning so much I can't even tell one from another. It's when I want to connect with someone else, but I don't know who or how. When you can't even name what's going on to yourself, how can you talk about it with someone else?

I've been told I overthink things, and I'm sure that's right. I suppose though, that I would rather overthink things than be a person who never thinks about anything. I've seen those people and their lives seem incredibly boring.

mix tapes

So when we were young, the thing to do was make mix tapes. I remember taping directly from the radio, pausing between songs, trying not to have duplicates. As I got older, they became jokes, "What, you made him a mix tape?" *sneer*

Now, in these days of technology, we make mix CDs, or possibly mix iPod playlists. Gone are the days of going through tapes, syncing up and trying to rewind those three seconds to make it perfectly timed.

A friend of mine recently made me a couple of mix CDs. I listened to them, now and then reading a bit of the notes she sent along with them. Today was the first day I listened all the way through, reading the entire letter. Let's just say I am glad I was having a strong day. Her life and mine had parallels, we've thought and felt the same things. It's funny how music speaks to people and creates a pocket of a memory you can call up at a few notes. Some of the songs totally made me feel the same way. Others, I had strong memories of my own.

"Losing my Religion" will always be a parody song to me. In our HS, we had the requisite high achiever. He happened to hook up with one of the 'easy' girls. Rumor had it that one night he lost his virginity to her. Then spent an hour in the shower trying to wash everything off to assure he didn't catch anything from her (no word on what she felt about this post-coital sterilization attempt). So, among my friends, the song lyrics, "That's me in the shower. That's me in the spotlight, losing my virginity. Trying to wash the stank of you...but I don't know if I could do it..." became almost as popular as the song.

I'm glad I had those moments to make me smile, because just knowing my friend cared so much, that she knew I hurt often, that my self-esteem is so low, that I need to take care of myself more, it made me cry in a bittersweet way. I knew I wasn't calling out into the darkness with nobody hearing. There is someone there who cares.