I woke up today thinking about Gregor Samsa...who woke up one day and discovered that he was an insect. (Gregor - Kafka - The Metamorphasis) Twenty seven years after reading that in the God-Awful freshman humanities class (hi Jen) it dawned on me what had happened... I know what happened to Gregor, because it happened to me.
I woke up, one day, and no longer recognized myself. Everything familiar --- gone. I didn't know who I was anymore. I didn't know what I liked, what I liked to do, what I wanted to do, where I wanted to go...I gave up on my dreams, I gave up on all of my goals...Each day, every day, I got up, got dressed, and got through the day. Nothing more. When did it happen? How did I get there. And I say "there" because it was "there" and I am no longer "there". But I was. It was, I realized, a slow burn. An eroding of the soul. Each grain. Each small piece that didn't make a statement of it's own. I don't know how it started or why I had been so willing to give up things that made me happy, or brought me peace or just simply were fulfilling in some indescribable way. But, one day, all of those small grains, collectively known as "self" were simply gone. Washed away. As if they were never there in the first place.
Which makes me ask the bigger question...the question that has been haunting me for weeks as a distant echo, but now rings clear...Why, oh why, was I willing to give up so much for so little? And I don't have the answer yet, nor do I know if I ever, really will. What I do know, is that one day, as the last grain of self was quickly disappearing, I grabbed it. I held on to it. I was not going to let go. And I made an instant decision...never again would I be so willing to surrender that which I held dear. There would never be an other opportunity to erode my soul without knowing full well that I was voluntarily letting it go. The most remarkable thing happened. As I held on tightly to the final grain of soul, like a magnet, I was able to reclaim others that I was so willing to let go before. And so the journey begins...the journey to rebuild...I bought new hiking boots...can't wait to see where they take me.
If you don't know who Gregor is...Kafka...the Metamorphasis -- maybe nostalgia brought me back to Gregor...I walked yesterday at UCSD. The place where I first met Gregor nearly 30 years ago.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Secrecy v. Privacy
Since my last blog, it's been an incredibly challenging season. The grief I hold for Alex is still viable and tests me every day. But it's taken on a new form. Through the haze of all that didn't make sense, my life was handed to me with brilliant clarity. Strange. And in conflict with the disproportionate price that was paid. But that boy handed me my life. That I know for sure.
This one has been rambling in my brain for so long. I am going to post it like this...raw. Because I can't, in any way articulate the cunundrum I am in when I try to reconcile the difference between secrecy and privacy. So, take it or leave it, here it is. My friend Wendy is the brain child of my blog. Why don't I usually mention her? Because about 90% of our conversations begin with the words..."I've got to tell you something...you swear you won't tell anyone"... Wendy and I should go down together because we share many secrets...or are these just issues of privacy? It's been an amazingly challenging time for me. I have come to learn that secrecy can be very dangerous, often carrying shame and so by it's sheer nature, develops the power of a giant tidal wave. Should the secret be exposed, the wave crashes to the shore. It seems so ominous, yet, the funny thing, is that just like the wave that crashes, once the secret is exposed, all the power is gone. It simply dissipates into the sand. And all that energy is diluted.
Privacy on the other hand is simply the level of discretion we use to exhibit respect we hold for ourselves or others.
By nature, I am a very private person. It is strange to some of my friends, because I am also very social. But what I've learned about myself is that I can talk to anyone about anything...anything that really doesn't matter. I'm also inherently interested in other people and so there is always room for conversation. When push comes to shove, however, it's only my nearest and dearest who know my deepest and darkest. (Unless some drug induced coma forces a drunk dial or something peculiar like that). You know who you are.
I'm a good secret keeper. Maybe too good. Because with a secret comes a huge level of responsibility. I would be lying if I said I have never shared a confidence. But, in the rare instances that I have, it would be under a circumstance that the recipient would not be able to identify the secret's owner. (there is an occasional very bad slip, but so rare it's hardly worth mentioning). My general philosphy on this...if someone tells me a secret, it isnt' MINE to share. It's only MINE to keep. Secrets are toxic. Secrets, with all the power of the tidal wave, create an environment of isolation and lonliness. Challenges seem insurmountable and juggling appearances to maintain an alternate reality so the secret isn't exposed, is simply exhausting.
I have struggled with the line. When does a privacy become so big that it builds into a secrecy, so powerful that it tears you down. At what point, have you gone from maintaining discretion to buidling a wall of shame. Is the line clear? Does it happen quickly? Or is it a slow burn, when one day you wake up and you have no idea how you got to where you are. You don't even remember the journey. When all of a sudden you notice that you are isolated and alone and desperate and looking for help. Only, you have forced yourself into isolation by allowing a privacy, which is another word for discretion, to grow so big you have given it more power than deserved and so it comes crashing until truth is revealed.
This has been my journey. And only now, as I write this, am I able to realize that think it has most to do with is trust and vulnerability. So I am left without answers, only the question remains. When does it become dangerous to allow a privacy to become a secret?
This one has been rambling in my brain for so long. I am going to post it like this...raw. Because I can't, in any way articulate the cunundrum I am in when I try to reconcile the difference between secrecy and privacy. So, take it or leave it, here it is. My friend Wendy is the brain child of my blog. Why don't I usually mention her? Because about 90% of our conversations begin with the words..."I've got to tell you something...you swear you won't tell anyone"... Wendy and I should go down together because we share many secrets...or are these just issues of privacy? It's been an amazingly challenging time for me. I have come to learn that secrecy can be very dangerous, often carrying shame and so by it's sheer nature, develops the power of a giant tidal wave. Should the secret be exposed, the wave crashes to the shore. It seems so ominous, yet, the funny thing, is that just like the wave that crashes, once the secret is exposed, all the power is gone. It simply dissipates into the sand. And all that energy is diluted.
Privacy on the other hand is simply the level of discretion we use to exhibit respect we hold for ourselves or others.
By nature, I am a very private person. It is strange to some of my friends, because I am also very social. But what I've learned about myself is that I can talk to anyone about anything...anything that really doesn't matter. I'm also inherently interested in other people and so there is always room for conversation. When push comes to shove, however, it's only my nearest and dearest who know my deepest and darkest. (Unless some drug induced coma forces a drunk dial or something peculiar like that). You know who you are.
I'm a good secret keeper. Maybe too good. Because with a secret comes a huge level of responsibility. I would be lying if I said I have never shared a confidence. But, in the rare instances that I have, it would be under a circumstance that the recipient would not be able to identify the secret's owner. (there is an occasional very bad slip, but so rare it's hardly worth mentioning). My general philosphy on this...if someone tells me a secret, it isnt' MINE to share. It's only MINE to keep. Secrets are toxic. Secrets, with all the power of the tidal wave, create an environment of isolation and lonliness. Challenges seem insurmountable and juggling appearances to maintain an alternate reality so the secret isn't exposed, is simply exhausting.
I have struggled with the line. When does a privacy become so big that it builds into a secrecy, so powerful that it tears you down. At what point, have you gone from maintaining discretion to buidling a wall of shame. Is the line clear? Does it happen quickly? Or is it a slow burn, when one day you wake up and you have no idea how you got to where you are. You don't even remember the journey. When all of a sudden you notice that you are isolated and alone and desperate and looking for help. Only, you have forced yourself into isolation by allowing a privacy, which is another word for discretion, to grow so big you have given it more power than deserved and so it comes crashing until truth is revealed.
This has been my journey. And only now, as I write this, am I able to realize that think it has most to do with is trust and vulnerability. So I am left without answers, only the question remains. When does it become dangerous to allow a privacy to become a secret?
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The Stamina of Grief
This week, dear friends of mine lost their son in a tragic car accident. (I'm sitting here frozen).
Where does one go after that statement. This blog will be scattered and careless and really just a reflection of observations of the week. I have had dreams that have seemed more real than my first sentence. I have woken up, startled and confused. I am waiting for the alarm clock to go off, any minute so that right can be restored and the mundane tasks of life can continue at a regular pace.
Sadly, my intelect is telling me otherwise. I never really knew before how powerful grief is as an emotion. If we could harness its energy, we could kiss our relationship with OPEC good-bye. I am gripped. At such a primal, deep level. For my friends first, but my own grief seems so palpable. The cliches become evidence. That life is short. That you must seize the day.
I have realized that the gifts we are honored with in family and in friendship are fragile and sometimes, fleeting. They are ours to borrow. And we must cherish them while we are so fortunate to have them in our grasp. I am heartbroken to the core. More than at any other time in my life. I was 17 when I met my friends. The child was 17 when he was taken from us. While I didn't know him personally as a big kid, he was barely weeks old when I held him on my chest, afraid of his smallness, and he nuzzled up and fell asleep. It had been years since I thought about that and this week, the tape keeps rolling, and rolling and rolling. Just to bring me back to my senses.
There is a (an?) heirarchy of grief, too. I had never really thought about. In this case, parents first. But who's hurts more? The mother or the father. And does the sister hurt any less...but what about grandparents, aunts, uncles and just friends, like me. And then there are my friends, who don't know this family, but have seen my own pain. And they have comforted me. Somehow, I don't feel deserving of it. But I'll take it.
I try to put life in rational, pragmatic format. That isn't happening now. Maybe someday it will. My friend stood next to me the other day. She cuddled up to me and buried her body in my arms. I felt so good that for that moment...that brief moment...I was strength for her. And believe it or not, she for me. I will continue my thoughts...I can't wait til it all comes into focus.
Where does one go after that statement. This blog will be scattered and careless and really just a reflection of observations of the week. I have had dreams that have seemed more real than my first sentence. I have woken up, startled and confused. I am waiting for the alarm clock to go off, any minute so that right can be restored and the mundane tasks of life can continue at a regular pace.
Sadly, my intelect is telling me otherwise. I never really knew before how powerful grief is as an emotion. If we could harness its energy, we could kiss our relationship with OPEC good-bye. I am gripped. At such a primal, deep level. For my friends first, but my own grief seems so palpable. The cliches become evidence. That life is short. That you must seize the day.
I have realized that the gifts we are honored with in family and in friendship are fragile and sometimes, fleeting. They are ours to borrow. And we must cherish them while we are so fortunate to have them in our grasp. I am heartbroken to the core. More than at any other time in my life. I was 17 when I met my friends. The child was 17 when he was taken from us. While I didn't know him personally as a big kid, he was barely weeks old when I held him on my chest, afraid of his smallness, and he nuzzled up and fell asleep. It had been years since I thought about that and this week, the tape keeps rolling, and rolling and rolling. Just to bring me back to my senses.
There is a (an?) heirarchy of grief, too. I had never really thought about. In this case, parents first. But who's hurts more? The mother or the father. And does the sister hurt any less...but what about grandparents, aunts, uncles and just friends, like me. And then there are my friends, who don't know this family, but have seen my own pain. And they have comforted me. Somehow, I don't feel deserving of it. But I'll take it.
I try to put life in rational, pragmatic format. That isn't happening now. Maybe someday it will. My friend stood next to me the other day. She cuddled up to me and buried her body in my arms. I felt so good that for that moment...that brief moment...I was strength for her. And believe it or not, she for me. I will continue my thoughts...I can't wait til it all comes into focus.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Tipping is not a city in China
My friend in college, Morgan, used to work at St. Germains deli on Villa La Jolla Drive, near UCSD. She used to make sandwiches there. She kept a tip jar on the counter with a small sign that read "Tipping is not a city in China". I loved that sign.
Do you tip the people at Starbucks that pour your coffee? There must be something wrong with me. I really don't think I'm cheap but when you are paying nearly $5.00 for a cup of coffee, it seems odd to tip on top of that. It wouldn't bother me a bit if I was being served coffee, but standing at the counter, waiting 20 minutes at times for the Mocha to come out and having to push my way to get it, somehow feels like I should be tipped instead. Which leads me to my next point. This one was the best.
About a week ago, Max and I went to lunch followed by a quick stop by the Extreme Yogurt in Bressi Ranch. I'm loving frozen yogurt these days. Remember when it was on every corner in the 80's, and then it disappeared for years. Well, luckily for me, it's back and with a vengeance, I might add. In our truly automated, do-it-yourself world, there is now self serve frozen yogurt. This is great...try and taste all that you like. You can put 20 flavors in the same cup if you are so inclined and pour the toppings on until they overflow. Extreme Yogurt, it this kind of place. You pull the lever, load your toppings, get the cup weighed and pay. Great huh? I think so.
So back to a week ago, I fill, I weigh, I pay and I notice there is a tip jar next to the register. It actually had tips in it. They might have been planted but money none the less. Does this make any sense to you? I just offered myself my own tasters, filled my own cup, weighed my own yogurt and payed. What was I supposed to tip for? I know it's tough out there and I'm happy to see the college gal behind the register trying to make a couple bucks, but this seems so odd. I actually laughed about it all day.
I think I'm going to go back, take a picture and send it into Leno for his new it's-not-the-Tonight-show Tonight Show.
Do you tip the people at Starbucks that pour your coffee? There must be something wrong with me. I really don't think I'm cheap but when you are paying nearly $5.00 for a cup of coffee, it seems odd to tip on top of that. It wouldn't bother me a bit if I was being served coffee, but standing at the counter, waiting 20 minutes at times for the Mocha to come out and having to push my way to get it, somehow feels like I should be tipped instead. Which leads me to my next point. This one was the best.
About a week ago, Max and I went to lunch followed by a quick stop by the Extreme Yogurt in Bressi Ranch. I'm loving frozen yogurt these days. Remember when it was on every corner in the 80's, and then it disappeared for years. Well, luckily for me, it's back and with a vengeance, I might add. In our truly automated, do-it-yourself world, there is now self serve frozen yogurt. This is great...try and taste all that you like. You can put 20 flavors in the same cup if you are so inclined and pour the toppings on until they overflow. Extreme Yogurt, it this kind of place. You pull the lever, load your toppings, get the cup weighed and pay. Great huh? I think so.
So back to a week ago, I fill, I weigh, I pay and I notice there is a tip jar next to the register. It actually had tips in it. They might have been planted but money none the less. Does this make any sense to you? I just offered myself my own tasters, filled my own cup, weighed my own yogurt and payed. What was I supposed to tip for? I know it's tough out there and I'm happy to see the college gal behind the register trying to make a couple bucks, but this seems so odd. I actually laughed about it all day.
I think I'm going to go back, take a picture and send it into Leno for his new it's-not-the-Tonight-show Tonight Show.
I'm back
It's been so long.
I'm trying to embrace Facebook. I'm even going to post a link to this blog on my page. I still don't really get it, but if the rest of the world is using it, I've got to figure there's something to it. Sometimes, I'm a little slow with this stuff. I will hold on to the most comfortable, out of style shoes for the longest time. When I finally say my tearful good-byes and run them to the nearest Goodwill, the fashion is back. My husband says the technology is more of FacePAGE because I'm not really using it right. He has an issue with my use of technology as a whole. I think it kills him to think there are applications on my devices (ie phone, ipod Touch) that I am not maximizing. In contrast, I use technology as I need to. I really am not interested in all the functions a device posesses, simply the features that work for me. I learn as I need to. I suppose I could see his point. Wasted is what he is thinking. But I'm not going to change. It is simply too much for me to manage.
One thing about Facebook (PAGE?) that really has me baffled is this friend suggestion business. I am suggested to make friends with people whom I may know or just may know from work or may not know at all, but how does it know that I know them or not? There are suggestions about people that I may have exchanged an email with or maybe only interact wtih tangentially but somehow it tracks me down. Is it reading my emails? This scares me. Not because there is anything particularly interesting in them, but just because there is some technology that is actually designed to waste time reading others' boring exchanges.
You know after 9/11 when the government started talking about monitoring phone conversations and bank accounts? While I wasn't for it, I actually felt sorry for the guy who would have gotten assigned to me. Could you imagine? Spending all day having to listen to chick chat or read emails about swimming lessons, what's for dinner, and how I managed to walk 9 miles last Saturday. If he were to record the ins and outs of my bank account, he would wonder how anyone survives in Southern California without winning the lottery. He would be stunned at the possiblity that one actually needs something from Target three or more times a week and can't survive without the morning McMuffin (hold the Canadian bacon). I guess the truth is, where there's smoke, there's fire. In my house, there's not even an oven. (And that isn't an actual true reference to the fact that I hate to cook).
I scared Kristi a couple weeks ago. I called her to tell her I found a recipe I wanted to try out. Would she come to dinner. She thought it was cryptic for a ransom call. She knew it couldn't actually be me on the other end of the phone. She thought I'd been abducted and was trying to send a secret code. Fact is, I actually cooked some recipe I found in People and it wasn't half bad. Fact is also, that I haven't cooked anything since. That was August 21. Don't get me wrong, I feed my kids, but I mostly heat food, not cook food. And I've fallen in serious LOVE with my outdoor grill. You could actually cook food without having to be present and better still, not have to wash pots and pans. Max said it needed repair. It was on our "list" (you know...the list of all things that need repair or replacement). Once I started using the grill (grilling, I thought was the boy's job), the repair moved way up.
I'm back.
I'm trying to embrace Facebook. I'm even going to post a link to this blog on my page. I still don't really get it, but if the rest of the world is using it, I've got to figure there's something to it. Sometimes, I'm a little slow with this stuff. I will hold on to the most comfortable, out of style shoes for the longest time. When I finally say my tearful good-byes and run them to the nearest Goodwill, the fashion is back. My husband says the technology is more of FacePAGE because I'm not really using it right. He has an issue with my use of technology as a whole. I think it kills him to think there are applications on my devices (ie phone, ipod Touch) that I am not maximizing. In contrast, I use technology as I need to. I really am not interested in all the functions a device posesses, simply the features that work for me. I learn as I need to. I suppose I could see his point. Wasted is what he is thinking. But I'm not going to change. It is simply too much for me to manage.
One thing about Facebook (PAGE?) that really has me baffled is this friend suggestion business. I am suggested to make friends with people whom I may know or just may know from work or may not know at all, but how does it know that I know them or not? There are suggestions about people that I may have exchanged an email with or maybe only interact wtih tangentially but somehow it tracks me down. Is it reading my emails? This scares me. Not because there is anything particularly interesting in them, but just because there is some technology that is actually designed to waste time reading others' boring exchanges.
You know after 9/11 when the government started talking about monitoring phone conversations and bank accounts? While I wasn't for it, I actually felt sorry for the guy who would have gotten assigned to me. Could you imagine? Spending all day having to listen to chick chat or read emails about swimming lessons, what's for dinner, and how I managed to walk 9 miles last Saturday. If he were to record the ins and outs of my bank account, he would wonder how anyone survives in Southern California without winning the lottery. He would be stunned at the possiblity that one actually needs something from Target three or more times a week and can't survive without the morning McMuffin (hold the Canadian bacon). I guess the truth is, where there's smoke, there's fire. In my house, there's not even an oven. (And that isn't an actual true reference to the fact that I hate to cook).
I scared Kristi a couple weeks ago. I called her to tell her I found a recipe I wanted to try out. Would she come to dinner. She thought it was cryptic for a ransom call. She knew it couldn't actually be me on the other end of the phone. She thought I'd been abducted and was trying to send a secret code. Fact is, I actually cooked some recipe I found in People and it wasn't half bad. Fact is also, that I haven't cooked anything since. That was August 21. Don't get me wrong, I feed my kids, but I mostly heat food, not cook food. And I've fallen in serious LOVE with my outdoor grill. You could actually cook food without having to be present and better still, not have to wash pots and pans. Max said it needed repair. It was on our "list" (you know...the list of all things that need repair or replacement). Once I started using the grill (grilling, I thought was the boy's job), the repair moved way up.
I'm back.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
My Bat Mitzvah - Becoming a woman
Kristi and I were at dinner tonight. We were sharing our normal banter of covering every detail that has transpired since we last caught up about three days earlier. She shared with me an interesting "call to readers" in "Real Simple" magazine. The open-ended question was, "At what point did you know that you were an adult"...or something to that effect.
Of course it prompted so much thought and conversation to follow. There are pivotal moments for all of us.
What seems so funny is that as a Jewish girl, I celebrated my Bat Mitvah within days of my 13th birthday. Somehow, our religion belives this magical age to be a rite of passage into adult hood. What in reality it became was a lot of Hebrew classes, reading (or in my case MEMORIZING) a portion of the Torah and reading a Haftarah, which I admittedly still don't know what it is. I got a big party at the Sportsman's Lodge, many gold charms for my charm holder, and a lovely leatherette photo album which I haven't seen since. While I love my rich culture, I'm not sure turning 13 prepared me for anything that 12 or 11 hadn't already done. I was no more able to face the world than a kitten, timid and small.
At 16, I could drive. This surely meant I had snuck over the line to adulthood. Wheels ='d freedom. I went to sleep on December 17th, still a mere child. I woke up on December 18th, and mysteriously was now ready to have 3000 pounds of high-powered steel beneath my clutches. On the morning of December 18th (it was a Friday), I got up early. Got dressed in my favorite jeans, my I Love Lucy t-shrit and my brand new red Nine West shoes with the stacked wood heals and the bronze trim (it was 1981, remember). My so-called father took me to the DMV to be the first one in line in my brand new opal white Volvo Turbo 240 GLT. I drove a block, perfected a three-point turn, and alas, was given enough rope to hang myself. At 16, sweet or not, I somehow thought I was an adult. That was until Monday, December 21. I was hit broadside by the guy that worked for GTE (aka The Phone Company). I totalled the new car, broke my collar bone, collected a massive concussion with an adult dose of amnesia, and could do nothing for myself or anyone else for that matter all of Christmas vacation and for some time after that. Adulthood was off to a rip roaring start.
I went to college at 17. Now THIS is adulthood. No calling to say when I'd be home. Go to class or not...that was up to me. I could schedule the classes I wanted to take, at the times I wanted to take them. Pretty adult of me to schedule all early morning classes so that I could spend the rest of the day at the beach. College and all it's fun was financed by my generous parents. OK...this adult thing isn't so bad after all.
At 18, I was allegedly truly emancipated. Only, I was still completely bank rolled by the folks. Doesn't quite work well when you are in this limbo sort of phase. I mean, it's nice and all, but deep down, I knew that adulthood meant being independent and I was anything but.
At 21 I could drink alcohol. It was very mature of me to pour the poison down my throat as fast as I could and spend the next 12 hours barfing it up. Afraid that I might die. Or worse, that I might not. Making deals with God while hugging the delicious white porcelain of the toilet, pressing my face so tightly to the bowl just to stay cool. Yeah...this adult thing is great!
And so went the 20s...At 28 Europe at 29 I met my husband, I got married I had kids.
None of these things had the impact it did until the realization at 42, that this is my life. This is MY life. There are kind friends and my dear family. But it finally struck me, something my mother had told me my entire life. When you go to bed at night, you sleep alone.
I never really knew what this meant. What I have come to learn, is that no matter what is going on in the world outside, or who is laying beside you, your life, your happiness, your sadness, your thoughts, your worries, your grit, your dreams...they are exclusively yours. This is when I truly knew I was an adult. When I knew that my heart could break in a million pieces and my parents could pick up those pieces, one at a time, but putting it back together could only be done by me. That's when I knew.
When I stopped coveting the lives of others and started to be inherently, consciouly grateful for every gift I'd been given. When looking at my children play at the beach, chasing the waves seemed like enough to fill my entire world, I knew I was an adult. When knowing that an uneventful day is an event in and of itself. And that that makes a wonderful day, that's when I knew. When I tuck my children safely in their beds every night and I am thankful for their saftey and I am totally conscious of how fragile that moment is. When I was thrilled that my Life Insurance exam came back with a Super Plus rating. These are the moments that I know I'm truly an adult. I don't take a single laugh for granted and I stopped wishing away time. Every bit of good news is GREAT news. I stopped thinking in and started thinking out. When I weathered a very difficult time, day by day, and came out still standing. When I was able to objectively evaluate my own worth in this world, and I liked my score. That's when I knew. It wasn't one event. It was a series of events. But it wasn't at 13, or 16 or 18 or even 21. I don't really believe I became an adult until I knew and truly trusted that I could stand on my own two feet. That didn't happen for me until the most recent of times.
Of course it prompted so much thought and conversation to follow. There are pivotal moments for all of us.
What seems so funny is that as a Jewish girl, I celebrated my Bat Mitvah within days of my 13th birthday. Somehow, our religion belives this magical age to be a rite of passage into adult hood. What in reality it became was a lot of Hebrew classes, reading (or in my case MEMORIZING) a portion of the Torah and reading a Haftarah, which I admittedly still don't know what it is. I got a big party at the Sportsman's Lodge, many gold charms for my charm holder, and a lovely leatherette photo album which I haven't seen since. While I love my rich culture, I'm not sure turning 13 prepared me for anything that 12 or 11 hadn't already done. I was no more able to face the world than a kitten, timid and small.
At 16, I could drive. This surely meant I had snuck over the line to adulthood. Wheels ='d freedom. I went to sleep on December 17th, still a mere child. I woke up on December 18th, and mysteriously was now ready to have 3000 pounds of high-powered steel beneath my clutches. On the morning of December 18th (it was a Friday), I got up early. Got dressed in my favorite jeans, my I Love Lucy t-shrit and my brand new red Nine West shoes with the stacked wood heals and the bronze trim (it was 1981, remember). My so-called father took me to the DMV to be the first one in line in my brand new opal white Volvo Turbo 240 GLT. I drove a block, perfected a three-point turn, and alas, was given enough rope to hang myself. At 16, sweet or not, I somehow thought I was an adult. That was until Monday, December 21. I was hit broadside by the guy that worked for GTE (aka The Phone Company). I totalled the new car, broke my collar bone, collected a massive concussion with an adult dose of amnesia, and could do nothing for myself or anyone else for that matter all of Christmas vacation and for some time after that. Adulthood was off to a rip roaring start.
I went to college at 17. Now THIS is adulthood. No calling to say when I'd be home. Go to class or not...that was up to me. I could schedule the classes I wanted to take, at the times I wanted to take them. Pretty adult of me to schedule all early morning classes so that I could spend the rest of the day at the beach. College and all it's fun was financed by my generous parents. OK...this adult thing isn't so bad after all.
At 18, I was allegedly truly emancipated. Only, I was still completely bank rolled by the folks. Doesn't quite work well when you are in this limbo sort of phase. I mean, it's nice and all, but deep down, I knew that adulthood meant being independent and I was anything but.
At 21 I could drink alcohol. It was very mature of me to pour the poison down my throat as fast as I could and spend the next 12 hours barfing it up. Afraid that I might die. Or worse, that I might not. Making deals with God while hugging the delicious white porcelain of the toilet, pressing my face so tightly to the bowl just to stay cool. Yeah...this adult thing is great!
And so went the 20s...At 28 Europe at 29 I met my husband, I got married I had kids.
None of these things had the impact it did until the realization at 42, that this is my life. This is MY life. There are kind friends and my dear family. But it finally struck me, something my mother had told me my entire life. When you go to bed at night, you sleep alone.
I never really knew what this meant. What I have come to learn, is that no matter what is going on in the world outside, or who is laying beside you, your life, your happiness, your sadness, your thoughts, your worries, your grit, your dreams...they are exclusively yours. This is when I truly knew I was an adult. When I knew that my heart could break in a million pieces and my parents could pick up those pieces, one at a time, but putting it back together could only be done by me. That's when I knew.
When I stopped coveting the lives of others and started to be inherently, consciouly grateful for every gift I'd been given. When looking at my children play at the beach, chasing the waves seemed like enough to fill my entire world, I knew I was an adult. When knowing that an uneventful day is an event in and of itself. And that that makes a wonderful day, that's when I knew. When I tuck my children safely in their beds every night and I am thankful for their saftey and I am totally conscious of how fragile that moment is. When I was thrilled that my Life Insurance exam came back with a Super Plus rating. These are the moments that I know I'm truly an adult. I don't take a single laugh for granted and I stopped wishing away time. Every bit of good news is GREAT news. I stopped thinking in and started thinking out. When I weathered a very difficult time, day by day, and came out still standing. When I was able to objectively evaluate my own worth in this world, and I liked my score. That's when I knew. It wasn't one event. It was a series of events. But it wasn't at 13, or 16 or 18 or even 21. I don't really believe I became an adult until I knew and truly trusted that I could stand on my own two feet. That didn't happen for me until the most recent of times.
Monday, July 13, 2009
MJ - My thoughts from June...never posted
So I know this is a big point of controversy...did he? didn't he? molest those kids. Personally, I don't really think so. I think he made horrible choices and was a very confused and tragic person. I have watched every minute of Jackson coverage that I could possibly fit into my tv viewing schedule. Mind you. I'm not a huge Jackson fan. But I beleive that he is more a tragedy and the result of crazy, exploitive parents. Most people as adults could not handle the life he was forced to live at 5...but I digress. This really isn't about him. This is about the crackpot Mayor of LA. Is it possible to be more stupid than that guy? I'm glad to say although I'm from LA, I have not lived there for 26 years. I am not skilled enough with the English language or any other language for that matter to come up with the adjectives my gut is begging for.
The city is underwater to the tune of a billion and half dollars at least. People are losing their jobs right and left and this moron thinks that it is the obligation of the city ie the taxpayers to pay for MJ's funeral and compared it to the presidency? What? Additionally, chastised his staff for soliciting money to help defray expenses. I don't know politics or the heirarchy of things, but is there some one above the philandering whore that can over ride him. The sales tax in LA is at nearly 10 %. If I was living in LA right now, struggling to pay my bills, I think it simply time to cash in the chips. God help us all if this guy has the same devil spawn that ends up in politics and any other position of power.
And, while I have so much empathy for MJs children, if the rest of his family had any class, they would have stepped up and paid the mere pennies it would be to them to cover the costs. Additionally, the cheap, elitest Hollywood types who entertain me yet I still can't stand, would certainly be looked upon more favorably if they pitched in. Truly, a couple of bucks is what it would amount to for 100 of the most visible. They'd truly shine as stars if they did that. Funny...all of a sudden...the impossible to shut up politically correct Hollywood, went silent.
The city is underwater to the tune of a billion and half dollars at least. People are losing their jobs right and left and this moron thinks that it is the obligation of the city ie the taxpayers to pay for MJ's funeral and compared it to the presidency? What? Additionally, chastised his staff for soliciting money to help defray expenses. I don't know politics or the heirarchy of things, but is there some one above the philandering whore that can over ride him. The sales tax in LA is at nearly 10 %. If I was living in LA right now, struggling to pay my bills, I think it simply time to cash in the chips. God help us all if this guy has the same devil spawn that ends up in politics and any other position of power.
And, while I have so much empathy for MJs children, if the rest of his family had any class, they would have stepped up and paid the mere pennies it would be to them to cover the costs. Additionally, the cheap, elitest Hollywood types who entertain me yet I still can't stand, would certainly be looked upon more favorably if they pitched in. Truly, a couple of bucks is what it would amount to for 100 of the most visible. They'd truly shine as stars if they did that. Funny...all of a sudden...the impossible to shut up politically correct Hollywood, went silent.
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