They Don't Have a Greeting Card for This

Stirrings of sanity from the inside looking out

September 10, 2014

TW for child abuse/sexual assault

I remember talking to myself a great deal while growing up amidst chaos. Through memory and journals I was able to piece some of this together, mostly for self validation, but also to give people a look into the active, alert mind of quiet victims.

Three year old me: Stop. But I need to get my medicine. Do not go that way. That’s where the angry voices are. Turn around and go back to your doll and your thumb and your bunk bed. I am wheezing because I’m scared probably. It’s ok though, Mommy will give me medicine maybe later then. I want to see what the loud noise is coming from but it scares me and I want my mommy. It’s okay. Be calm. Turn off the light. I promise it will be better in the morning.

Five year old me: It’s only half day. Mom will be home when I get off the bus. Don’t be afraid. He’s gone now. Mommy said he can’t come back until he apologizes and gets help. Go. Be smart. Learn new things to tell Mommy. Make a friend at this new school. It will be okay. Mommy promised she would be home when I get off the bus. This isn’t like the play she couldn’t get to. The one I had a part in but wouldn’t speak cause mommy wasn’t there. She says I don’t have to cry this time. Mommy will be home for me. She will this time. Don’t worry. Don’t cry. Hold it together for once.

Six year old me: Another new school. I’m tired of smiling. Mommy says, “Don’t worry. This time your teacher is really nice. She will want to know what is so upsetting to you. It’s okay, you can talk to her if you want to…about stuff at home”. I say to Mommy that I won’t tell her. A teacher won’t understand, I don’t think. They are perfect. They don’t even go to the bathroom. That’s why they are teachers. She might call those police service people to take me away. That happens you know. I watch TV when I’m really supposed to be sleeping. I hear all kinds of things when I’m supposed to be asleep. Maybe this teacher can let me stay at school til Mommy gets home from work. I don’t like to be home alone with Daddy. He scares me. He looks at me mean. He yells a lot.

He told me there’s no Santa, but I think he was just mad at me cause I wanted my new walkie-talkies back that Santa gave me for Christmas last week. Daddy took them away from me because they are supposed to be for CIA police people like he is. I don’t believe him. He’s mean. Police people are supposed to be nice and helpy people. And he yells all the time. Dad does that cause he is sick my mommy said. He says lots of things when he is not well, she said. I’m sad when I have to be around him like that. Maybe he will give me those walkie-talkies back before he returns to the hospital. Mom says he is going back maybe today. The doctors at that hospital won’t let him have my walkie-talkies my mom said. He has to fix what’s broken inside him, she says.

Eight year old me: Dad lost another job. I know this cause he screamed a lot and said superintendent was an asshole and doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Mom is not handling it okay. That sound I heard was her crying last night. She started smoking again too, that means she’s upset…which means sad and lonely and maybe afraid. There were so many angry noises in the house last night. Nobody even remembered to make dinner. That’s ok, I wasn’t feeling hungry anyway. Good thing my thumb is still attached. I like to sneak it when I go to sleep. Looks like we are moving again. I have to hold on. Mom needs me to be strong. She is not doing as well as she has the last few times we had to pack up and get out. Maybe she’s tired of moving like I am. She needs to figure out how to stop the fighting. By the way, I have to stop pulling my hair out! I’m seeing bald spots again! My friend asked me if I cut my hair too short in that corner. I said yes. I’m embarrassed. Mom doesn’t know what to do with me when I start that nervous stuff. It makes her feel even more sad and hopeless. Be good I tell myself. Don’t upset mom. Try to relax. I want to make myself go to a friend’s house for once. I could wear a hat or something. I need to let go of Mommy a little. She can manage without me, she says. I think she needs me to protect her though. Once I stopped Daddy from maybe hurting her. I jumped in the middle of them when they were fighting and he had his arms on her arms. She screamed at me real mean like to go away and close my bedroom door behind me. But I stayed with her. We left in the car and went to my grandmother’s house. Not the grandmother that only gave me a hand towel and toilet paper roll for Christmas, the other one where we get ice cream. We go there a lot when they don’t get along.

Ten year old me: Please accept an invitation to play a Katie’s house. It is healthy for me to be away from my mom sometimes. But I worry about her being alone with Dad. He’s not right still. He yells bad words and talks fast and is loud and angry all the time. That probably won’t happen again, Mom says. He’s on those funny looking pills now, not the first kind that made him throw up all the time anymore. And please stop hiding in the bathroom at recess. That big kid, Bobby what’s-his-name was only joking. I’m sure he won’t really pull my pants down and humiliate me. He would get in too much trouble if he did that. Teachers at school could help me but I’d have to ask. I won’t ask. I can handle it. Mom says to, “Please trust somebody. A teacher or friend or my sister or someone.” I said no. I’m okay. Mrs. Green made me go to each classroom today and show the teachers my “cute new hairdo”. She doesn’t know that I had to cut it cause I have bald spots from pulling it out. I felt stupid. Why do I do such stupid things?

Twelve year old me: I guess there are reasons that Dad talks to the static on the car radio. Just ignore it. At least we don’t have to have sleepovers at his little gross apartment anymore. When mom found out about us eating cereal with water she stopped letting us. Thank God really. I am sick to death of watching baseball games all night every night. He never does anything fun. He drinks beer all the time. He has very strange friends. One lady staying with him was praying really loud in his bedroom while she had some really loud vibrating thing going in their with her. I’m not sure what a vibrator is, but that’s what my older sister called it. Why didn’t she close the door? We were trying to watch a football game. I sure wish Dad didn’t have to pick us up for visits. He drives like a freaking loon and I need to hold on to the door handle for safety when he drag races down neighborhood streets. I don’t feel safe, but that’s nothing new. It will be okay. Trust me. And that hair under my armpits is perfectly normal, by the way. I asked my friend who already has her period. She also has big boobs. Yuck.

Thirteen year old me: Welcome to my new life all the way in Ohio. Cow tipping? What is that? Who does that? And why? Another new school. God help me. New stepfather. New friends. New life. I got a job? You want ME to babysit a four month old baby? Oh, he’s a friend of yours from work. Wow! That’s cool, Mom, ok, I’ll do it.

That was a quick dinner out you two! Your baby is beautiful. All she did was sleep though. I changed her diaper once just in case you know…Fifty dollars! Wow! That’s probably too much money for just watching your baby sleep for a couple of hours.

Hey!…wait. Why are you pulling the car over in this empty parking lot? Is my mother supposed to meet us here? It is night time almost. I really need to get home. I have lots of homework. This is creeping me out a little. Stay calm…stay calm. He Probably got lost. Why are you stopping the car? I hear you talking but I can’t understand what you’re saying…I should know how to drive? I’m JUST thirteen! Say something, Jules! Tell him you’re only thirteen. Tell him. Why isn’t your mouth working?

“Oops!” he said, “I’ve fallen over my seat onto you!……do you like that?” He’s laughing, like he’s funny. NO! I DON’T LIKE THAT! Get your filthy face off my neck! You smell like alcohol! STOP BREATHING ON ME! This is weird. Of course I am too young to drive! Why would you even ask me that? Open your mouth and tell him you do not want to drive and for God’s sake remove your hands from my chest! I don’t care if it was an accident!

“Tell me what feels good, now tell me…”

WHAT???? NOTHING FEELS GOOD! GET OFF OF ME YOU BASTARD! STOP TOUCHING ME! OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod. I want to die. Please God…I will go to church…I will do anything…don’t let this man rape me…please help me, please help me…this hurts me. I can’t breathe….I see another’s car lights…help me!…noooooooooo…don’t go!don’tgo! I involuntarily must have cried out loud…

“OHHH…You like it this way?” He’d mistaken my despair for ecstasy somehow?….car…don’t…go…don’tgodon’tgo…don’t…………….Do. Not. Cry. Be. Strong.

Tell him to stop pulling you over onto his lap. Listen to me: Get. Him. Off. You! But he’s so heavy…his weight is bearing into me. I can barely breathe. Please stop, Mr ICANTEVENREMEMBERYOURNAME please… stop. THAT HURTS!

…I’m going away now. I see water…murky green water…I’m at Beech Hill where we always went with Meme and Pepe when we were little. I love Beech Hill, Maine…so peaceful…serene is the word maybe…

What the hell? How am I driving a car! On a perverts lap….is this really happening? Did I hear him right? He just said I am very pretty! Oh my God what in the hell is going on? This fucker is blind! He just said I am “well endowed”! I’m pretty sure that means I have big boobs. What a joke! I hate you! You are sick! Take me home! donotcrydonotcrydonotcrydonotcry…

Tell him it is illegal to touch you. Tell him! Stop him! LET GO OF THE WHEEL! I’d rather get into an accident. AIM for the side of the road…that embankment…NOW DAMMIT! Listen to me: GET OFF HIS LAP! Tell him he can’t touch you like that! Tell him you will report him! TAKE HIS HANDS OFF YOU! NOW!! Do not be afraid. You have to be strong. I know you are afraid. He’s big. He’s a full grown disgusting man for God’s sake! Why isn’t he home doing this to his WIFE?!

Come back to me. Jules, don’t go. Stay here in the present. Fight for yourself. SAY SOMETHING. KICK HIM IN THE NUTS. SAY SOMETHING! I need you to be strong. Please be strong. He is lying to you, he is lying to you! HE can’t get mom fired if I tell on him, can he? GET OUT OF THE CAR! You are not going crazy. You are not turning into your father. What is that? Don’t smoke that! Are you crazy? It won’t make this nightmare go away. Ok. Ok. Almost home. Every. second. is. a. day. Stay calm.

“Listen,” he says, “We can do this a lot more if you want. Would you like that? I really like you. You’re so beautiful. You just have to keep this between you and me, ok? He reaches in his pocket and pulls out more dollar bills to hand to me. I am in shock. My body aches below my waist. My head hurts. My mouth that wouldn’t work is dry. I am a fucking prostitute at thirteen. A fucking mute prostitute. I want to die.

Get out of this car I tell myself. My legs are going to give out. MY LEGS ARE SHAKING. I’m scared. I’m disgusted. I let myself down. I didn’t fight him. My body was useless, my words wouldn’t come out. Ok…ok. We’re in my driveway now. Breathe. Listen to me, go into the house. One step at a time. Stay cool. Oh my God he is following me into the house! He wants to make sure I don’t tell on him. This monster is crazy! Keep walking, keep moving…that’s it, do not make eye contact with Mom or stepdad. Go right down the steps…onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineteneleventwelve steps. Go into your bedroom. Shut the door. Now Breathe. No, I said breathe. STOP CRYING! STOP IT! BREATHE IDIOT, BREATHE!

Fourteen year old me: What am I still running from? I’m safe now. I got this. I am in control. Please try to let go of the pain. No man will ever hurt me again. Here!…I know…I’ll tryout for basketball, and student council, and plays, and choir and band! That’s it! See how busy I am? I can do it all! Be a star! No one will ever really know me or that nasty ugliness I carry inside of me. There now, put on some mascara and eyeliner. Perfect! Now go and enjoy this new date. He’s a nice boy. Everyone likes him. He’s on the football team so stepdad is able to keep tabs on him. If he hurts me stepdad won’t play him in this weeks game maybe. Yeah, that’ll work. Besides, he’s cute.

Sixteen year old me: Yay me! I got my drivers license! I’m free! Don’t drink that. Do not drink that. Not now.They trust me. Stop, I’ve had enough. Just one more. I cannot operate a motor vehicle now. What am I doing? Get out of the car. I can’t drive this way. No, I’m fine. I really am. I don’t think so. See? Watch me.

I made it! Phew! That was close. I’m funny. I am cracking myself up all the way home! These are the most windy roads ever! It’s like driving up and down a rollercoaster! WAHOO!

Shit I’m late. Need a story…need a story….thinkthinkthink…ok, I had to drop people off because their rides didn’t show up. Okok…that’ll work. I won’t do this again. think I’m going to throw up. I’ll stop lying to the only people who care about me. What in the hell is wrong with me?
Do I have a death wish or something?…

…maybe.

Can You Stomach Your Future? Flash forward with me

September 8, 2014

by Emotional:(:Thinker

comments 2

human experience / Humor / relationships / Uncategorized

I am dedicating this…well…whatever it is, to

my precious niece and her betrothed on the year anniversary of their impending nuptials:

“I love you without knowing how or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride; I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.” Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

Sweet, sweet nothings whispered…tingling sensations abound as skin gently grazes past skin…the scent, brilliantly seductive and sensual…you smell so nice!…You are so beautiful…I missed you SOoooo MUCH!…I’m walking on air…can you feel that too?…The very thought of us. is. magical. I can’t wait to marry you, Sir! Well, Madam, I too, cannot wait! Oh…you make me blush…do that again! More please…I’m giddy…you are my soul mate…my best friend…my light…let’s dress up and play and be light and young and full of hope!

You. Complete. Me.

Can I tell you how utterly breathtaking love is? Obviously you two already know it. You can feel it from the nonsensical verbiage that form involuntarily in your frontal lobes only to sneak out as cute-isms such as, sweetiekins, punkin, love nuggets, squishy face, darling, dear, beloved, poopsie, honeybear, BHM (big hairy man), hunkydoodles, sweet cheeks, lovey, angel, prechie-presh, snugglebug …to name but a few.

People you engage can see the cute and clever banter exchanged between the two of you. In fact, an outsider, AKA anyone else, might feel as if he is intruding into your own personal bubble, the one you both share together. Synchronicity has taken over where awkwardness once lived (however briefly). You have conquered many a beast especially in those more youthful days of courtship where it could have been make or break: …previous relationships…personality differences…nasty habits…style preferences…all in the name of coupledom. The art of complementing prevails! The joy of accommodating presides! Compromise, a valuable tool indeed, is your friend! And for heaven’s sakes please pass the validation!

So…all that in mind, I’d like to take this opportunity to introduce you to a highlight reel of your life…fast forward to year twenty-two:

(disclaimer: This is sensitive material, I am not now, nor was I ever, intending to upend a courtship I helped to form. Sometimes graphic information maybe spewed forth. I might even sound a bit hostile at times. Please read responsibly. Stop reading now if you have a.) a weak stomach, b.) a bad marriage or current relationship that needs considerable work, c.) indigestion, neuralgia, a weak immune system, d.) good taste, or e.) unresolved commitment issues.)

1. Words such as “fluff” and “burp”, along with embarrassment and a slight blush to the cheeks have now become “Fart” and “belch”, “released a stinker”, or before you know it they become a source of pride or accomplishment, such as “I think I just shit my pants” or better yet, “Do you smell that? That was a GOOOOD one! I bet I left skidmarks on that one!” Even little ladies will end up suggesting at some point, “I think you better check your pants, mister! You stink!” or “Dutch oven? What are you doing?? Stop pulling the covers up over my head! OMG! Get out of this bed! You are a pig!”

—fortunately for you both, The Better Marriage Blanket, which promises that it “banishes bedroom flatulence” has been invented! And not a moment too soon! This novelty retails for between $29.99 and $59.99 (Twin-King). It is available in white and beige shades and is a comforter constructed from the same military grade fabric used to protect against chemical weapons (a two-fer!). Now your “silent but deadlies” will at long last remain not only silent but dread-free!

2. We laugh when we watch a sitcom in which “headaches” are enlisted as a means to distance oneself from the drudgery of sex on an hourly, daily, weekly, or even monthly basis at times. Keep in mind, we’re talking 22 years in your future, folks. NOT NOW. Headaches, though cliché and totally misleading, give way to these often used goodies:

Leave me alone. I don’t want to be touched…please stop. Don’t even bother I’m having my period. Do you have to wake me up with that? I still have my period, gawd. It’s soooo late. Give me a rain check, will ya? You smell. Stop. Did you brush your teeth? You smell like cigars. Honey, I have to work early in the morning. That’s nice, but no. Ok, but only if you massage my feet first. Ok, a quickie. You have thirty seconds. Ok, but do you mind if I keep reading my book? Hold on, Mom is calling. Did you hear that? I think one of the kids is up–get dressed dammit!

3. Remember how funny each other is. Place humorous moments in your memory bank; better yet, write them down, as in twenty-two years that same instance will sound quite different. “I love his laugh” turns into “Oh my Gosh! You sound like a hyena in heat! It’s so embarrassing! Did you just SNORT?!” She will spout off one of her brilliant one-liners that you and all your friends always adored…”she’s refreshing!” you all used to say. Well honey, times have changed. Now that wit is welcomed with “Do you have to be so damn sarcastic all the friggin time?”

4. Couples are just adorable, aren’t they? Young married or engaged couplings are the best though. It is amazing to me how two completely different individuals from totally different places and backgrounds can come together as “one”. How precious is it that the two of you can finish each others sentences? For Example:

(Innocent Bystander) Hey guys, how was that trip to the Virgin islands?

(guy) Oh man, it—

(gal) was amazing! We went swimming with dolphins and

(guy) drank sangria with (gal) natives living around the resort, which was so beautiful and picturesque! I took a million pictures of the botanical gardens.

(guy nods).

That my friends, is an example of synchronicity. A medley of team sportsmanship.

In just twenty-two short years the fellow will glare directly through his beautiful bride. He could bore holes with that look. He will start to correct her in public in response to the fact that she consistently, and without fail, takes over his question. That same vignette twenty-two years later will sound something like this:

“Hey guys, how was that trip to the Virgin Islands? (guy) “Oh man, it –“

(gal) “was amazing!”

(guy glare at gal…long look…girl gets message, hey it’s been twenty two years, she knows…she retreats with sheepish grin that says she gets it)

“oops, sorry honey.”

Guy continues: “We went to an all inclusive resort and boy did–“

(gal) “We see dolphins and–”

(guy) “They weren’t dolphins, dammit, I tell you this every time. They were porpoises! There’s a difference you know! And when they have those tuna commercials you’re all, (male falsetto sounding nothing like gal, but he’s built this resentment up so now it is a bit dramatic) ‘Those poor baby porpoises!’ he mimics, ‘they get hurt when fisherman fish for tuna!’ That is not the problem at all! The problem is that spotted dolphins often travel with schools of yellow-fin tuna, which can be dangerous to the dolphin, the dolphin, say it with me, the. dolphin!”

My advice: Move on. Work on allowing each other to speak. You’ve probably got better fish to fry (pun intended). while it was once okay, even sweet to be considered “one” now it must be described as two individuals sharing one heart, one ultimate goal, one life…blahblahblah….

5. Be ever so careful of two beauties I like to call the masters of disasters. Their names are always and never. Generalizations are now your norm:

ALWAYS —

As in: You always ______________(fill in the blank)___________, (you bastard/bitch! — optional)

leave the toilet seat up

fart

chew too loudly

talk too much

interrupt me

whine

complain

drive too fast

leave your dump in the toilet

criticize me

NEVER —

As in: You never _______________fill in the blank______________, (you bitch/bastard! — optional)

want to have sex!

cook dinner

clean your mess

eat what I make you

go out dancing

visit my family

buy me flowers

take me out to dinner

massage my feet

pick up your socks

say you love me

Now it is important to remember, friends, these are gross generalizations. They don’t have to be you and your spouse or betrothed. Perhaps you two might even forgo expectations of doom and make it all work without any drama whatsoever. Good luck with that. The divorce rate remains pretty steady, however, so does the marriage rate. Meaning, people just keep taking that risk and for better or for worse, it is a fairly calculated one with big rewards if you are able to go with the flow…ride with the tide…live and let live…keep your pants zipped, legs crossed and your vows sacred. Like any beautiful thing, it needs to be taken care of, nurtured, shaken up at times and left to just “be” at others. Surround yourselves with good people. Love each other 500%. No fears, no regrets, pure unadulterated love. Honesty, faithfulness, respect, love, strength for the one who is isn’t feeling so strong that day, compassion, !communication!, patience, HUMOR, lots of ice cream, chocolate and whiskey over ice.

But all you really need is a good dose of agape. Hold the rocks.

Cheers, my loves!

I needed his Darkness in exchange for my Light

September 5, 2014

by Emotional:(:Thinker

The Socratic Method…and shit like that

September 4, 2014

by Emotional:(:Thinker

comments 3

cognition / human experience

I believe that using a coercive approach to interviewing people, especially those who withhold information as a religion, is paramount to their good health and well-being…is what Socrates WOULD say.
Take that, buddy ole pal 🙂

In case you hadn’t figured it out already, the Socratic Method got it’s name from a fellow named Socrates, a classical Greek philosopher. I just heard the term when a buddy of mine suggested I might be using that approach when we chat. Initially I giggled as a narcissistic young lady might when she believes she’s being the subject of a compliment about her high intelligence. Imagine my chagrin upon realization that it has far less to do with my superior mind and much more to do with a negative method of hypothesis elimination. Meaning, I guess I tend to seek answers while placing others in a defensive mode. Or making them question themselves or their motives or word connotations, or where they put their drug stash….I don’t know. According to my research, this method of drawing out information creates a situation where people may feel they are being coerced into responding in certain ways that aren’t necessarily representative of their thoughts or feelings. Ut uh! I do not do that! Those of you who know me don’t think that, right? RIGHT?! *stomps feet…throws pen off desk*

That was an example of a more extreme, albeit juvenile, form of Socratic Method. Ok well that just sucks for me. I am a clinically trained therapist. A helper. A bleeding heart, a people-loving-womb for Pete’s sake!…A receptacle for others’ pain and suffering and shit, dammit! Putting people on the defensive is a huge no-no.

Now if I were a prosecutor maybe…

What do I do with this ~~stupid~~ constructive information? I change, I guess. I want to be a soft place to land, not a slab of concrete where others fall and crack their heads open, fracture their skulls and bleed out at the ears and mouth just so I can say I told you so! and walk off smugly.. (anymore). So, I did what any inquisitive, well-intentioned person might do. I decided to investigate the situation in order to ~~prove my friend wrong~~! better myself. To this end, I shall delve into the world of personality inventories and see if who I believe I am is accurate on some level; then multiply that by two as I tend to be loud, and then I will systematically weigh out, or sift through complex combinations of personality trait pairings to achieve maximum benefit from said test results. Here I go.

I will briefly discuss two of the hundreds of personality tests or inventories available. The Myers Briggs Personality Inventory has been given to individuals since 1962. It stresses the value of naturally occurring differences in how people perceive the world and how they think in general. It is not excruciatingly stressful as some of these tests can be both in length and in content. The best part is that the results all make each of us look rather exceptional. There are no wrong answers. Just you learning about how you interact with the world. This test is not the end-all or be-all of personality information. It is probably more entertaining than it is reliable over the long haul, but I find it helpful in giving basic strengths in people as well as the differences in how people see the world. I consider it the Kool-Aid of personality exam beverages.

⇒I’m about to go out on a limb here and share what makes me tick. There’s a waiver at the bottom of this blog. Be a doll and sign that, would you? It protects you from my wrath if you happen to, at any time in our association, make fun of my personality quirks.⇐

The.MyersBriggsTypes.com

I am an I/ENFP, for example. In a nutshell that tells people that I am an intuitive feeler who tends to see the big picture – how things connect. I am rather spontaneous and open-ended. Not much of a rule follower, I might add. I like people, however, in small doses. Rather I enjoy being in my head or reading or writing as much or more. I believe in causes and exposing elephants or other varieties of overt mammals in the room, pink or otherwise. I care and care deeply – for people, animals and nature. Perhaps that is why I tend to retreat. I give 500% or maybe nothing. You people exhaust me. Some believe me to be too much. I agree. I exhaust myself. I see the world as open to change, optimistic overall, full of blessings if we take the time to consciously embrace them. I am a hippy in soccer mom’s clothing.

With regard to the Enneagram personality inventory we are talking about a whole different beast, mammal, if you will. According to the Enneagram Institute (enneagraminstitute.com) the Enneagram can be seen as a set of nine distinct personality types, with each number on the Enneagram denoting one type. It is common to find a little of yourself in each type, although one of them will probably stand out as being closest to yourself. Mine screamed at me. There are two easy tests you can take if you are so inclined. They are both at the site I have listed above. One is free and takes about 10 minutes and the other is ten bucks and takes about thirty minutes. Naturally I took both…just to be thorough. (I didn’t believe any of the 47 pregnancy tests I took either). I came up with an 8w7.

EnneagramInstitute.com

Keeping in mind that I am essentially a hippy by MBPI standards above, with the Enneagram I am labelled “The Challenger”. According to this I am “powerful, dominating, self-confident, decisive, willful, and confrontational”. All true. Have you ever heard of a hippy in those terms? Not particularly like that. Hippies have been known for nonviolence and peace-loving but also as nonconformists who aren’t too awfully excited about authority. These are historically the weed-loving, sit-in having, acid-twirling, love-making, braid wearing types, right? Clearly I am born in the wrong generation, however I am as close to that as people in this suburb get. If my hippy friends were doing less acid they might be more confrontational, i.e. using something I am now becoming proud of: the Socratic Method! Let’s face it. None of us are 100% any one trait. It’s just easier to place ourselves in a box.

Back to my initial musing: it IS entirely possible, then, that I could pull off the Socratic Method and still enlist my empathetic self at other times…like if I were giving this pal of mine therapy, for instance. For which s/he may very well need after I get a hold of her/him! So perhaps as an integrated personality trait coercion tactics can be toned down, perhaps softened around the edges a bit. There is hope for me! Which means there is essentially hope for everyone.

And that, my friends, gives me great joy.

What is your personality type? Do you find that it is accurate? Do you believe it helps you to understand others in a different way?

Waiver of Liability:

I__________________understand that julespgsite.com is only trying to educate me on this day________. I will under no circumstances hold her accountable for using the Socratic Method on me at any time during our relationship. However, verbal and physical abuse will not be tolerated. Henceforth, I acknowledge that her Enneagram score of an 8w7 may delude her into thinking she is God-like. I have her word that I may suggest ever so gently, however, that she enlist her affable, I/ENFP side (right brain) to soften the blow. I have her express permission to ignore her completely and go on with me day if all else fails. ~~Amen~~

Hi. I’m here to get Lucky.

September 3, 2014

by Emotional:(:Thinker

Seeking Solace in the Madness

September 1, 2014

by Emotional:(:Thinker

comments 7

emotional health / emotional scar tissue / human experience

How in the bloody hell do you do it?

Do what?

Get through days where all you hear about are the media enhanced war stories, suicides, child abuse and neglect atrocities, gun violence on our neighborhood streets, ISIS, Syria beheadings, earthquakes, fires, melting ice caps, Ebola, political deadlock, the 99%…

Oh. That. Well, I just have to look at my children. I look into my young son’s deep brown eyes that wrinkle up when he laughs. He has a wide smile with two front teeth that have grown in ever so slightly crooked. He has a couple of freckles on his cheeks and nose and the most deep down genuine laughter, from his belly up. He makes me want to smile. I see hope through his eight year old eyes.

My light brown curly haired daughter with the gorgeous fair skin sparkles. She does! I don’t know how she does it, but I look at her and feel special somehow. Though a young teenager, she speaks to me in a low, sultry kind of voice that soothes me. She wants all to be well so badly that I do too.

My senior in high school has shown me that hard work and focus can take us anywhere. She enchants everyone she meets with her wit and disciplined work ethic; while at the same time she knows she is imperfect and laughs and cries and cares deeply about our world. She is fully alive and involved, encouraging me to want to promote a better world for her to thrive in.

My eldest daughter is refined and classy, but with tattoos strategically placed on her lithe body that carry words that have deep sentimental meaning depicting her journey thus far. She was my turtle. It took her a while to warm up to this world of hers. Now she practically owns it. She reminds me that life events or expectations don’t necessary all come together the instant or even the way we think they should, but they do come together, probably even better, with patience and optimism.

That’s how I get through, I would say.

How did you come to be able to do that? It sounds strange and wonderful and thought-filled, and yet, and I mean no disrespect, almost too candy-coated somehow. Are you living in the same world I as am?

I chuckled. You’re right. That perhaps did sound a bit like a cream-filled donut might if a pastry could talk. A bit naïve perhaps. Let me tell you how I got to this point. It’s a rather lengthy story so please, empty your bladder and come have a seat if you really want to hear.

Ok, I’m ready.

My husband and I lived in the DC Metropolitan area for over twenty years. That was where we met, married and had our four children. That was where I went to graduate school and grew up well beyond academia. Less than a year after we’d married I found out I was pregnant. It was a rather reckless time for us both as we were young and financially stable in a city that was incredibly stimulating…the people – all intelligent and beautiful, the magnificent landscape, the bright lights…truly a magical time for a young couple in love and in control of what appeared to be an amazing future together. The pregnancy was not expected and I had to change my lifestyle considerably, including a nasty eating disorder that was taking control at the time as well as my joyride with alcohol. I willingly let go of the narcissism. I felt a strong desire to be a better individual on behalf of our unborn child. I was now responsible for a life. It was a daunting task, but I never shied away from a challenge.

I immediately began to take prenatal vitamins prescribed by my doctor and made myself eat properly. I exercised with limits and actually cared about something worthier than myself for once. Someone needed me to be strong and able. I would be. I will be. At twelve and a half weeks I had an appointment to meet my baby via sonogram. I could hardly wait! I was witnessing a miracle. Two days later I was flat on my back in the midst of a very painful and frightening miscarriage. It was the worst physical pain I’d ever experienced. It was the most horrific emotional pain that I’d ever allowed myself to feel without self-medicating. We were devastated. In that short time between peeing on a stick and hemorrhaging uncontrollably in my bed, I’d felt a whole range of emotion. I had built a beautiful fulfilling life in my mind. One that included diapers and cuddling and name selection and an unconditional love for someone I’d helped create. I realized that people don’t really get the devastation of miscarriages. No one got to see anyone dying inside you. No one heard your baby’s cries or felt your baby kick or saw even a picture of your baby. So it didn’t happen. Yet it did. And I knew it did. And I’d changed my life to accommodate this little life. And now a vacuum had to come and suck out a dead life that got no bigger than a pea. And I mourned for the loss of my little angel. And nobody else really got it.

Fast forward eight years later. My husband and I own a decent home in a quiet tree lined street and have just had our third daughter. Our eldest is seven and our middle is four. It is an amazingly clear blue sky in our DC suburb. My husband is off at work in DC, close to the White House, I liked to brag, while my younger two were at home with me that day. My middle daughter was having an asthma attack episode and I was on my way to the doctor when the first plane flew into the Twin Towers in NYC. I am at the doctors office where they are showing it on a television in the office adjacent to the waiting room. People are stunned at the horror. A fluke of course. Minutes later the second goes down. This is no coincidence. We are under attack. The media was a series of organized chaos unfolding before our very eyes. Humvees deployed to our capitol city to protect the President, who was kept hidden. There was talk of another plane headed toward the Capitol Building or White House. Oh dear God…my husband is there! Where is my husband? My daughter! I’ve got to get my daughter out of school! What if they attack our schools? At that moment that’s all I wanted to do. Talk to my husband and go get my little family together. Nothing else mattered. Then the news of the Pentagon plane happened. This just couldn’t be happening. This was surreal. We were from then on a nation in mourning. The losses were indescribable.

Just a week later our city was rocked by five more deaths and seventeen others affected in an anthrax scare that began in a mailroom in DC and seemed to be focused mainly on media personalities. Our first foray into bioterrorism on U.S. soil that I was aware of at that time. Prior to pinpointing media as intended targets, all of us living in the DC Metropolitan area were frightened to pick up our mail. Anthrax spores…great. We were instructed to be prepared for bioterrorism. Protection would be needed in the form of facial masks and plastic covering for windows and door leaks. Fantastic. My luck I’ll be shopping at Nordstrom’s Rack when the news hits…I chuckled nervously at the thought. I know I missed the attack, honey, but I was in the check-out line at Nordy’s. Don’t you want to see what I got for you? You’ll have to take that nasty gas mask off though or it won’t fit over your head.

Essentially we were instructed to duct tape plastic everywhere in the event of another catastrophic event. Needless to say, I prepared box upon box of supplies for my family to survive for a minimum of three days under a house arrest of sorts…that’s if the biological terror agents didn’t seep into our leaky old home prior to us collecting sufficient amounts of plastic and duct tape. Unfortunately for us, Home Depot and Lowe’s were ill equipped to handle the large influx of plastic and duct tape demand in a metropolitan area of millions. I settled for asking my parents to get me tons of it in their hometown in Ohio and get it to me stat. It was to be my Christmas gift that year, though I was really hoping to get a family package deal on gas masks.

Just over one year later our immediate area was subject to what became known as the “Beltway Sniper” attacks. Once again the media flew into a frenzy and we residents flew into hypervigilance mode. For three weeks in October 2002, Virginia, DC and Maryland saw a spree killing unlike anything the area had ever seen. Brazen morning, afternoon or nighttime murders where victims were randomly selected and intermittently timed. One of the final shots rang out at a large public school as a child was entering the building. This in particular sent chills down the spine of each and every parent within a one hundred mile radius of the previous shooting. Prior to that only adults had been targeted. All told, ten people died and three people were critically injured prior to the perpetrator’s vehicle being found and the two shooters, one a man and father figure to the other, a boy just shy of eighteen, were apprehended.

Prior to that it was pandemonium on the streets in and around DC. Since several victims had been shot as they were filling their gas tanks up at random stations, many of us plotted where we might go and whether or not it was prudent to take the kids along, you know, in case we got our heads blown off or something. It was so frightening that even prideful people like myself ended up ducking behind our minivans just in case the sniper was watching us from some high perch just waiting for that next hit. We’d glance at each other and kind of shrug, like well whatever… as a perk, some gas stations put tarp around the gas pumping area so people would feel safer purchasing gas there.

When I picked up my daughter from her school, which sat conveniently on a major road with quick access to the interstate that the sniper had utilized numerous times, they had a tarp draped over the exit doorway so parents could drive cars up to it and one family at a time could retrieve their kids and go. On several of those days, SWAT Teams with men in jumpsuits and guns were lined up around our school looking out for the kids as they left the school building or in the morning at drop off. On the morning that a school boy was targeted as he was walking to the entrance door of his school building an administrator at my daughter’s school was heard over the loud speaker exclaiming, “Holy shit! He shot a kid!” Given that my kids attended a Catholic elementary school, or any school for that matter, I’m assuming that was said in horror and disbelief rather than meant as an actual announcement. The intercom system was most likely NOT supposed to be activated. Since it did happen however, we got a letter home with our children stating humble apologies and that it might now be a good time to chat with our children about the happenings in neighborhoods surrounding our school; however, please don’t “overshare”…only what they need to know. Or already know, thanks to this administrator’s loose tongue…

The tragedy in our area just seemed endless. We didn’t get over one before another hit. In 2005 Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans and moved right up the coast to where we lived. It tore down trees all around our home and left us without power for a week. Since we lived in an older neighborhood with very mature trees surrounding the property we had to bring the kids to various strategic spots to sleep in the hopes that the room we picked wouldn’t be the one the trees toppled over. The massive and deadly storm sounded like a freight train for about six hours before there was absolute silence. In that time I heard trees uprooted and falling, debris flying and I imagined total devastation. Why not? We’d been through it all it seemed.

So, in answer to your question, yes, I am living in the same world you are. I realize that danger and sadness and injustice are all around us. Devastation comes in so many forms it can be blinding. It can be stifling and fear inducing…or freeing almost.

Oh, come on! Freeing? Whatever you’re drinking, I want some!

It’s freeing to me, I guess because I’ve looked fear in the eye. I know I can either live or I can roll up in a ball and die. I figure I’ll die at some point anyway. Now I’m going to live. And dammit, I’m going to live outloud. When my light goes out, and it will, I want to be known as the one who left this earth with a smile on my face and the knowledge that I was the best me I could be despite what life threw my way. No regrets. Nothing fancy or even remotely close to perfect. But those kids…those amazing kids of mine will shine on, God-willing, to brighten the world just a bit more. And right here and right now, that gives me tremendous joy.

How do you keep yourself sane in a world that appears anything but…? How can you be the change you want to see in the world? Where do you find solace in the madness? ♥

photo cred goes out to my beautiful niece, Emily Winslow

Are you who you want to be?

August 30, 2014

by Emotional:(:Thinker

Pulling hair, er…Rank

August 26, 2014

by Emotional:(:Thinker

comment 1

human experience / Uncategorized

Staples commercial circa 2009

It says it all really…I’m sorry, it just does.

Meanwhile, I sit in a my counseling office doing Gestalt therapy* on myself. The session goes something like this:

Q – Do I wish that a commercial highlighting the idea that summer is over and my four children have to return to brightly lit classrooms with assigned seating and designated computer use didn’t make me giddy with delight?

A – Yes. Yes, certainly I do.

Q – Have I always been this excited for my children to spend more time with peers and an adult who they might listen to, minus the constant ~~arguing~~ ~~begging~~ ~~bribing~~ negotiation?

A – Well…no, I guess I haven’t. Not always. That sounds so…well, ungrateful somehow. There was a time when I looked at my perfect little cherubs and savored each and every minute of time I had with them.

I really believe that statement and I’m sticking to it.

Q – What changed for me?

A – Well…I guess it was when my eldest, now twenty (I was a child bride if you absolutely must know) was in 6th grade. Puberty has changed me. HERS, I mean. Well, theirs actually…all my girls. Her too, of course, but definitely me and my feelings toward children. Children and summer break, I mean, not just children.

Q – How has my daughter’s puberty changed me?

A – Well, I’m not as tolerant as I was when the girls were each younger. It’s like each time another hit that phase I began to feel like the priest in The Exorcist; you know, that time when a morning greeting turns into a power struggle somehow and a look, any look, gets a “What ARE YOU LOOKING AT?!” response? I seriously wonder if exorcism really works. I have friends who really subscr…

Q – If I might, let’s continue with exploring how I came to maliciously enjoy the Staples commercial…

A – Ok, well, “malicious” is your word, not mine. Write that down. I don’t want to be accused of being a sadist or something. I love my kids. Don’t get me wrong here.

Q – Yes, of course, I do. Now tell me, was it a gradual letting go process for me, or a one-and-done-type thing that triggered my ~~cruel~~ sadistic anger toward the children I gave birth to?

A – I’d have to say it was a process by which I grew increasingly more frustrated at my daughters’ attitudes toward authority figures, er, me. I mean, heck, I’m ok with attitude. I have plenty of that myself, it was the omnipotence maybe. They act so high and mighty, like they don’t need…

Q – Go ahead…’like they don’t need’…need what?

A – me…Oh. My. Gawd. Me! My babies…they don’t need me…

♦♦The sacred Gestalt therapy space I’d just shared with myself has turned into a courtroom, Judge Jules presiding ♦♦

Q – Is it true then, that I want to reject them before they reject, or, in my own words, don’t need me? Is that a fair assessment?

A – *gulp* Maybe…

Q – I’m sorry, the court cannot hear me. Would I mind speaking up so I can hear myself?

– Um. I said Maybe. MAYBE. Can I hear me now?? Dammit! Maybe I do have feelings about my children growing up and leaving me and…

Q – And…? SAY IT!!!

A – NOT NEEDING ME! I scream at an empty chair.

Q – Case closed. Well done, counselor.

I walk away with my anger dissipated. It has been replaced by melancholy. My babies aren’t babies anymore. I take out my iPhone and scan through hundreds of pics from throughout our summer together. I finally reach my senior girl’s face but after I’d begun to lament the first day of her last year of high school. Soon she will join her eldest sister in college. She will be both feet out, maybe a toe or two in at best. I feel the ~~tearing~~ pulling away like it was just yesterday that she’d been born and taken to the nursery to be checked out. Sigh…I look at my baby girl, now a young woman…

First Day of Last Year of
High School…oozing with love and nostalgia…

And then I remember how fond I am of that Staples commercial….

*Gestalt Therapy is an existential/experiential form of psychotherapy that emphasizes personal responsibility, and focuses upon the individuals’ experience in the present moment, the therapist-client relationship, the environmental and social contexts of a person’s life and the self-regulating adjustments people make as a result to their overall situation. An “empty chair” method can be enlisted so the patient can communicate freely, without bias or interruption, with that who the patient needs to work through issues. The chair symbolizes the other person in this interaction, who may not be able to join in treatment (death, legalities, proximity) or the therapist feels it may not be as beneficial to have the other person present either at that present time or ever.

Painting beauty With the Ashes

August 21, 2014

by Emotional:(:Thinker

comments 7

emotional health / emotional scar tissue / human experience / mental health / Uncategorized

Her tattoo read “just be held” in black lowercase typewriter-key font. It was perhaps one of the most impulsive decisions she’d made for the time commitment it required of her body. She treated herself to those particular three words on a warm day in July when she felt like she was coming completely undone. Casting Crowns new release,Thrive, had premiered on Pandora. In a moment of utter despair their song, “Just Be Held” spoke to her. It cut straight through the heavy fog in her brain and gave her hope. What a thought…how about if she let go of her pain and allowed herself to just be held? What if she didn’t have to lug it around beside her anymore? What if she just let it go? Would there be anything left of her?

Who is she without this horrible nagging, stabbing pain in her heart?

In the five months since the sudden death of her father she felt none of the time-healing-all-wounds garbage. In some ways it was even worse because she had only expected to feel like shit for a little while. At almost six months she was nearing what she’d thought would be the statute of limitations on grief over a man who existed mainly as a “poster child” for chronic mental illness in her life. Her father’s illness, bipolar disorder, controlled not only his life but hers, introducing her at a very young age to the active all-consuming subculture brought on by mania in her father’s paranoid and delusional mind.

Sometimes she heard cries of wrenching pain then — what was that?…whimpering, maybe….coming from the direction of her parent’s bedroom in the middle of the night. A small child should not be privy to this sound; nor should they understand the cause of it. And she wouldn’t have understood. She may have merely shrugged the noise off as some hungry fox targeting a Canadian goose, who fought its way around his predator, the fox, who’s instinct simply could not be denied. The goose would squawk and fight for as long as it possibly could before it had no more fight left.

“Our bird friend”, stated Marlin Perkins, narrator and star of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom “must then give in to the pain of its flesh being yanked open and its blood spilling out. The circle of life would once again claim another beautiful creature.” This “circle of life” did not scare her.

“Ma, did you hear that sound last night?” she’d inquire, “I think another goose got cooked!” An innocent giggle might escape her just then.

Peering up from her cup of tea her mother might barely look up, then maybe attempt a smile and nod in agreement.

Except for the fact that her father needed to boast and brag about his virility during these more hypersexual mania-filled peaks, no one would be the wiser. He might tease her mother good naturedly about “a good time again and again and again last night” with her mother physically shuddering at the words, abruptly excusing herself from the small kitchen table in one breath and then abruptly, forcefully yelling at the two girls to please get their book bags together to catch the bus for school. NOW. She thought her mother must truly hate her father on those days. He was finally in a good mood too. This was but one example of the hundreds of behaviors that were completely incongruent to words spoken in her household.

Eventually, the knowledge of what was happening in those late hours was stifling. It was then that she hugged her blanket and “dolly” a little tighter at bedtime. She pretended to be even more invisible than usual by lying flat. Flatter. Flattest. Tummy to mattress until they became one. Pillow tightly stretched to cover both sides of her head. That was how she slept the day she heard that the circle of life she saw played out frequently on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom was not exclusive to the outdoors. Survival of the fittest was happening in her small rambler on Washington Street in the very late hours of one’s workday.

Surrealism to her was not defined as “an art form”. Surrealism was a way of life in her first 40 years. So then, how come she was still caught in the grips of a tightened rope around her neck? Where was the relief? Her first sardonic thought after her father’s death had been sadly, “Ding dong, the witch is dead”. But with no actual relief to back it up whatsoever.

No Dorothy hugging the Tin Man and Scarecrow, no scooping up Toto and hightailing it back to the Wizard of Oz in Emerald City. No collecting of courage or brains or hearts, and alas! No clicking of heels together or wands waving with the Good Witch of the East; no return to the normalcy that was the wheat fields of Kansas and the love of Auntie Em.

When one grows up in a household where there is delusion and paranoia present one grows up questioning each and every one of her senses, behaviors, feelings, body aches and pains. One is always trying to decipher what is real from what isn’t. Only by comparison and contrast with other families does one realize that behind her closed door, she is living in a whole other world. And that whole other world isn’t quite as “normal” or stable as everyone else’s in the neighborhood. It’s a strange feeling in and of itself to realize that most moms and dads don’t argue over “poisoned oatmeal” or their moms having “affairs with Sears and Roebuck salesmen”. Or that going to Sunday mass could be responsible for “damned feminism and brain washing by the Pope” (feminism in the Catholic church? Really? That should have clued her into the abnormal nature of her family right then and there).

And now, forty years and no father later, she was grappling with his death. And his life. And her life without him. There was no relief. No feeling of a reassuring presence telling her he loved her and was so very sorry he’d been so ill her whole life. That he couldn’t control it; he’d certainly not asked for it. That he was so proud that she’d grown up so “healthy” and “happy” in spite of it all. Maybe he’d even throw in that her mom did the right thing by divorcing him and moving twenty four hours away; sure it had crushed him, but it probably saved her. Nothing.

What she did get from sitting bedside vigil for almost three weeks as he went in and out of sleep and various states of consciousness was hard to describe. She got a view of how fleeting a life is maybe. She got a realization that she really loved this man, her father, deeply and painfully. She got to see an extremely prideful man humbled to his lowest point as he lie there unable to go to the bathroom or move, to talk clearly, to swallow to wipe his nose or spit out his phlegm. Perhaps it is the middle part that she misses so much. That part which she waited rather impatiently for and never got to experience with him.

She lived with devastation of the disease that took over a once brilliant mind and she lived seeing the sickening slow death part. What about the happy family part? WHAT ABOUT THE HAPPY FUCKING FAMILY PART? What about the part where he lives through the stroke and gets on the right medications and his mind goes back to it’s original state before the disease crept in and took ownership? What about that part? Why can’t she see that part? Please don’t tell her she’ll never know her father. Please don’t. I’m not sure she can handle that. Having him ill…was that better than not having him at all? That’s the kind of question she asks herself. And that’s where it stays because she’s stuck.

And all that is left of this man she truly never even knew is seven pounds of ashes, his “cremains”. And she’s stuck. And she looks up to the heavens and she raises her hands up and she asks her God why her father doesn’t somehow communicate with her? And she asks her God to hold her up and keep her from unraveling again. And she mourns an unkind past with a man so diseased that he couldn’t be a father to her; she believes he really, really wanted to. And she mourns a present that doesn’t include this man who was somehow supposed to eventually get better. And didn’t. And she wants relief. And she wonders how to make something positive out of all that they’ve been through. How can she paint beauty with her father’s ashes?

Looking up to the sky she seeks her answers. Kneeling and praying she yearns for peace. She waits. She listens.

Yet she’s stuck.

My daughter/Myself

August 19, 2014

by Emotional:(:Thinker

comments 9

emotional health / human experience / mental health / Uncategorized

She looked up at me, tears streaming down both sides of her face. All I could see were her beautifully lilac-tinted eyes full of water. It must be the way her tears had accentuated the blueness that she’d been born with, I thought sensibly I don’t remember them being quite that distinctive a shade. I’m just buying time. I’m being observant while I think of how to respond to my overwhelmed woman-girl. Her long wavy hair – both tousled and matted down in places where tears had checked in and settled. Remaining parts of her mane had flown wildly over her mascara-stained pillow, free from rubber bands or that pink headband she wore almost daily to restrain it. One of those black and white Calvin Klein commercials they used to run where waif looking young females looked wantonly at some sculpted young beefcake wearing only CK briefs drifted through my mind. I always found them sickening. More so at the moment.

Turning her body away from me, she eased into the fetal position she’d begun lying in prior to my interruption.

“Why don’t you ever knock?” she said between sobs, which I interpreted to mean please go but don’t leave me.

My daughter’s voice sounded flat. It lacked the passionate “Go to hell” angst I was so accustomed to when her older sisters were her age and I would storm into their rooms using my “parental pass”. This daughter, my third, had spent a good part of the day avoiding parental contact. Unless she was pushing me away with her angry, defiant words, she was AWOL. When together, she was expertly pushing buttons, which I played into it brilliantly. By merely suggesting that she make her way up to her room when/if she felt the need to spew hateful commentary at the rest of us, I was giving her the ammunition she needed to claim how little we understood her.

That’s what she’d wanted after all, further proof that she was a little shit and therefore deserved to be sent away from we, the happy zombie-like family glued to the notion of non-communication = harmony while watching some show I don’t even remember watching on television. I mean, after all, it is she who has been teased all her life about having the golden hair when all her siblings have dark brown; it is she who has the beautifully pale china doll-like skin while all of her siblings are dark, almost olive looking; it is she who has the light starry eyes while her siblings have dark chocolaty brown shades. What more proof does one need to feel outside the “popular” group?

Her current distress was a bit different than her usual anger consisting of yelling and verbal assaulting behaviors. She seemed more vulnerable and delicate somehow. The usual teenage omnipotence, the moodiness that came from the utter injustices of the little bubble she lived and breathed, was missing. I could tell by the apathetic tone she was taking around all of our most recent interactions lately that something was eating my baby girl up inside. And now it was as if I was feeding her more of the sadness and despair that she’d already been thinking to herself. This wasn’t a power struggle. She came in defeated. she just wanted confirmation from a source that she peered through daily that it was so. I am that mirror into her soul. That is my responsibility for better or for worse. I know that, but never quite so clearly have I seen it. Maybe I just haven’t wanted to.

My stomach began to feel tight. I went to wipe a tear away from her thin puffy face and observed her flinch as if I might be going forward to strike her across the face. The furthest thing from my mind. oh my God, has someone physically hurt you? I wanted to ask. But I didn’t. The way it might come out would startle her. She would enact another layer of defense and retreat. Not yet, too soon. I need to just breath in her rhythm. I just need to be still. Without words I eased my hand to her back and began slowly, softly stroking the length of her curled up spine. She sobbed quietly. I sat watching her stuttered breaths.

After weighing out my words carefully, I tenderly said, “You look like someone who might be feeling alone. I know it might feel that way to you and that’s totally ok; but I am here and I love you. I am here. You are my love. I adore you.”

“Why…Mom…? I don’t know why…”

“Why what, Angel?”

“Why am I so different? I don’t even know why I’m crying…nothing has happened. I’m just (sniff) so (sniff) sad. And I’m tired. I’m so (sniff) tired…and I don’t even care what my friends are doing…and…” Sobs take over again. My girl is so conflicted at this moment. I want to scoop her up (as if I could) and hold her and make her know how special and unique she really is.

I totally get it. She is a little bit different. It’s not necessarily a good thing at this point in her life. I believed that this day would come for her, unfortunately. With the years she has grown more and more aware of her gift of compassion as well as her curse of caring to a point where her body aches and she can’t figure out why she feels so overwhelmed. I know why. It’s because she has just spent several hours with people who suck the literal joy out of her. This girl is a giver. She lends her strength, her humor, ideas and thoughts, her time and energy to be one hundred percent “with” others who may or may not be in need. She does this involuntarily for the most part, not understanding the toll it will take later on what will be her empty emotional bank account.

When she acts “phony” (her words) to join with other girls her age who might be talking about someone behind their back, she feels physically ill. On those days she comes home from school anxiety-ridden. She analyzes everything she may have said or done in the hopes that she didn’t come across as mean to anyone. Over tea or hot chocolate she relates to me what its like for her when she is playing the game of being “popular” and trying to fit in. She is feeling great sadness for the person who isn’t invited to. She punishes herself for being callous and judgmental or most likely, thinking about being that way, as the cost is too much for her sensitive side to bear.

Aren’t all teenage girls callous and judgmental by nature? I ask her.

“No Mom. Only the ones most other girls are afraid of. The mean girls.”

Why are people even caring about the “mean girls”? They’re mean, for Pete’s sake!

“Because they have all the parties and the boys like them and stuff.” What’s “and stuff”? I would love to ask and don’t. For now.

If my “nice girl” is empathy-ridden, then another’s “mean girl” is uncaring and callous? How does this happen?

More than just “an old soul”, I believe my girl is an “empath”. She feels so deeply that she gets overwhelmed by people and their varied energies. She sucks others energy in like a sponge and then falls apart depleted, needing to be refueled by her own space, time and distance.

“Empaths are highly sensitive, finely tuned instruments when it comes to emotions. They feel everything, sometimes to an extreme and are less apt to intellectualize feelings. Intuition is the filter through which they experience the world. Empaths are naturally giving, spiritually attuned, and good listeners. If you want heart, empaths have got it. Through thick and thin, they’re there for you, world class nurturers…”

“The trademark of empaths is that they know where you’re coming from. Some can do this without taking on other peoples’ feelings, however, for better or for worse, others can become angst sucking sponges. This often overrides the sublime capacity to absorb positive emotions and all that is beautiful…When empaths absorb the impact of stressful emotions it can trigger panic attacks, depression, food, sex and drug binges, and a plethora of physical symptoms that defy traditional medical diagnosis from fatigue to agoraphobia.”

Adapted from Dr. Judith Orloff’s New York Times Bestseller, “Emotional Freedom: Liberate Yourself From Negative Emotions and Transform Your Life” (Three rivers Press, 2011)

This child of mine is all spirit and positivity and light. My husband used to look at her utter joy and creativity and tell me he imagined I might have been very similar if I hadn’t grown up so afraid in a home that wasn’t safe or predictable or sane. I have to agree. We are very similar in many ways. Not all of them so positive.

People are drawn like a magnet to her playfulness and love. Until she’s not. At which point she is sadness and frustration and anger. A twister in varied colors of dark. I’m not sure how much of that she is able to hide from peers, though I don’t see it when she’s around others. What all this says to me is that my loving daughter is very possibly prone to depression at some point. I dare not diagnose her at this point, it is just something to be aware of. God knows she carries it within her ghastly genetic pool. There is absolutely nothing we don’t talk about in this house, so she is aware of the potential as well as the support that we all garner from one another around anything anyone feels might be an issue.

I stop rubbing my child’s back. I ask her if she’d prefer if I stay or go. I tell her that it is ok to feel crappy. I totally get the cloud cover she’s under. I’ve been under that cloud cover myself, I say. I empathize with how hard it can be to be “on” all the time. When we’re not goofy and joy-filled and funny, people wonder what is wrong with us. It’s almost like they get angry when we aren’t charming. Sometimes we are just refueling or need some alone time or don’t damn well feel like being the entertainment. I give her permission to “just be“. No one ever taught that to me. That I was perfectly ok even when I wasn’t the funny girl or the talkative girl or the pretty girl or the smart girl.

Some days it’s good enough to just be the breathing girl.

I tell her how special her gift is, and yet how much more she will be called upon to share her love of life, while balancing the dark parts. it’s a responsibility that she has to herself and to others. What she has to share is goodness and she doesn’t ever have to compromise that. What she does have to do is to take care of herself always. I tell her that eventually she will be aware of her limits and that she may need to step away from certain people that she cannot help. That she cannot allow this sensitivity to destroy her either.

Don’t hide from the intensity of them, I say, it is a part of you, learn from these feelings. Express these feelings.

Then I remember something I’d done for her just a few days prior to this day. How did I know the time was upon us? I say wait. Before I forget I have something for you. I run to my room and return with two small hardbound books. One, a brown leather journal all battered and beaten by years of page flipping and flooded out basements; and another, red and brand new. Here, I say as I hoist the books into her hands. The brown one was my journal at your age. Be gentle with it, it has kept lots of secrets and has been through many moods and deep thoughts, like the ones you carry. I thought you might want to know what a deep thinker and a deep feeler looks like on paper. The other is blank. It is for your own deep thoughts.

You got something special, kid. Embrace it. I say.

She sat up and embraced me. My light green eyes met her light blue ones. We were together in this; all of it.

Please world, be gentle.

	monicapacheco on A Mirror to the Self-Abso…
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	Emotional:(:Thinker on What if you forget me?
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	monicapacheco on A Mirror to the Self-Abso…
	Tony Single on A Merry Christmas Card Tribute…
	Emotional:(:Thinker on What if you forget me?
	Tony Single on What if you forget me?
	Emotional:(:Thinker on the shadow behind the wall…

	monicapacheco on A Mirror to the Self-Abso…
	Tony Single on A Merry Christmas Card Tribute…
	Emotional:(:Thinker on What if you forget me?
	Tony Single on What if you forget me?
	Emotional:(:Thinker on the shadow behind the wall…

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