Boy; Unhinged

“…and suddenly I was exhausted by all the years I spent doggedly chasing the carrot of self-improvement, while dragging behind me a heavy cart of self-criticism” (Bremer, K., 2010, Excerpt from Cover Girl).


Ample enough to be a maverick rather than gauged by the illusions of society, to which one can never fully measure to, I’ve gathered a resounding quantity of stillness in this day. It wasn’t more than a week ago that the pangs of doubt were sucking the life-force from me and but 12 hours since I last breathed that heavy-handed sign of desperation. Criticism and self-improvement are oddly paired in what trails through my day and somehow, self-improvement wins by a hair’s breath of distance generally leaving me to slump into a mass among twisted sheets and the ceiling fan whirring its meditative noise for me.

Rett was but one when we began this flight of fancy. Bitterness and rationalization soon came to the surface, followed soon by a mix of fright, pain and anguish. When I can project the timeline in my own head of what he’s had to endure through what constitutes 90% of his life, the results are debilitating. I can only imagine what his adult therapy sessions are going to sound like should he ever muster the courage to delve back into his childhood once we finally get through it. 

Where do you start something like that? “Once upon a time in a state of confusion and mistaken identity, I was born…” that’s how I’d begin that phase of treatment.

See what comes of it from there. Posh.

It does lead me to thinking though…what exactly does self-improvement consist of? What do you temper it against? Yourself? Your self? (I always preferred to reference the self in that manner. Don’t really think it’s appropriate in a grammatical sense, but for the sake of the psychoanalysis behind it, I feel it’s much better to separate the two – you know: my self, her self, your self, etc. The self as it would be, is a separate and highly important position.). Little perennial that he is, Rett has this amazing ability to switch modes from one to the other depending on his surroundings. It’s becoming more and more prevalent - either he’s happy, young, curious and free when he’s home, or he’s returned from a visitation in a state of fright, fear, angst, anger and self-protective. Now and again there’s the marking that indicates Dad wasn’t able to control his himself (this “self” stays with the “him”) but as my little perennial builds his vocabulary and personal identity, the actions of Daddy dearest are more and more psychologically twisted.

Really twisted.

Yesterday, for instance was a good day for him. He was home. He was safe, unburdened with what he had to process and how much it wouldn’t make sense to him. He was free to tie up his shoes and run through the fresh-cut grass with his dog. He sat for dinner and said grace without peering out through interlaced fingers to see make sure he was in good company while doing so (Saying a blessing is forbidden at Dad’s). He was a boy, unhinged.

Today, and at the notice that he’s scheduled to spend the long holiday weekend with Dad, like a light-switch he transformed. All that aggression, those questions, the worry…it’s been building since I gave the news. My correspondence with his teacher through the day has already revealed two emails that speak to him “being unkind to a classmate” and so full of energy that he can’t “sit still”. He KNOWS!

“Give him credence!” I think to myself. “He’s not just six, he’s six and intelligent! He’s confused and receiving empty promises. He’s scared and not getting safety. He’s voicing the injustices and not being heard!”

That. Is self-improvement. It’s self-improvement being cut off at the knees, but self-improvement nonetheless. The catch will be if he can continue to improve him self and make the changes to not pull a wagon of guilt behind, or criticism, … or anger. Already, he’s farther ahead than most. Somewhere though, in the midst of learning your voice and learning your self (while learning to live in your circumstances) I believe you are more-likely to be recognized by your age than you are your intelligence, particularly if you’re “too young”. Bah.

Hinging this child is the necessity he faces to swing between the highs of “normalcy” at home and the enfeebling lows that come from time spent with dad. From that I sit in a state of stillness today; figuring that when the time is right to movement, I can be reassured that there is more faith than fear. Or as T.S. Eliot said, “Still and still moving”…there is movement though in the physical sense all is still. There is movement. Enough so that when this cycle finally spins out, my little Rett will once again run as a boy; unhinged.

Polish Up Those Shoulders

Today I was asked when I'd be taking "that trip down the aisle"?  At this same time I was reminded of the ways in which we process relationships and how, for whatever the reason, things have taken their sweet time in coming to fruition.  Relationship-wise, you're either the "point-and-shoot" type where very little nuance, every bothersome issue or habit is because of something that someone else did. Or, it's a role-responsibility relationship.

In many painful reminders I believe I've succumbed to the ever easy point-and-shoot and I would imagine that's because the alternative is hard.  If you accept the responsibility of your role, rather than pointing a finger whenever you're displeased, it becomes fairly evident that it is you who must do the work.

Not afraid of work, I put my gloves on preparing to identify the problem and drag it out by its toenails if it didn't voluntarily go.  Ask Lovey - that poor man's been through what might suffice for a modern day war of the roses where it concerns my stubborn streak and cleaning-frenzy-when-agitated therapeutic regimen.  And though even that can have its good side (streak-free living quarters) I begin to feel pressure when its all the time my problems, my issues, my therapy, my mental health, what I'm working on fixing, etc.  I begin to feel as though I cornered the market on tumultuous relationships and anecdotal self-help.

Rationally speaking, I know I'm not the only person that has issues they need to work on, and I'm certainly not the last, yet depending on my focus, remembering that rationale can become very blurred.  Resolved to stop pitying myself, I take a deep breath in and conjure up the energy to step forward again.

"Alright"  I tell myself, "you're going to have to accept this one too.  Polish up those shoulders...".  There were times when the little things that played out in our lives as children implanted themselves so deeply that they became seeds for our adult actions.  Only at this stage does one realize that by correcting the faults of those before us, we must also acknowledge taking the blame for it as well.  And isn't there some adage about "with great responsibility comes great...?"  I think Spider-man said it.  "Power".  So power it is.

Ultimately, I am responsible for how I feel and to what degree.  I know that I feel happy when I have the love and attention of my partner.  I know that I feel gracious when I have the health and togetherness of my family and children, or when my son sleeps in my bed because he's "not scared there," (even if it has become a last resort for convincing him of an early bedtime)...or when my photo albums reflect the years of memories in all stages of life. That entails a role-responsibility relationship; therapy being an added bonus for years to come.  Being careful of the pressure that I exert on someone else making me happy, I'm going to have to keep my role(s) in mind.

And in this same pattern of thought, I'll dream forward to the day when I actually am walking down that aisle.

Be the Drip

Because parenting was never described as “easy” and because the added element of divorce, makes nearly any nuclear family with children become mismanaged, I am having a difficult time with being Mom.


I don’t believe it’s the adage of “Because I said so” 100%, nor do I think that children should be handed the reigns of their childhood to run amok as they choose. I don’t know that there’s any one ideal that I subscribe to with parenting, and I have yet to meet someone who has raised the perfect child. As a matter of fact, there appear to be more parents that are still searching for clues to living as an excellent human-being, than there are children (me being one of those).

I don’t mind the every day cycle, the running, the gathering, the shopping and the structure; what I mind is the incessant evil and manipulating nature of “the other” parent that appears to act only out of spite and vindictiveness. Isn’t there somewhere he can go? Like…the tar pits? Or Iceland?

It was about a year ago that I had an inordinate amount of tension pent-up and decided to take it out on a dried out log that had been sitting by the fire pit in the back yard. With a splitting maul and an ax, I marched right over to it, read it it’s last rights and then commenced the pendulum swinging; hell-bent on finally splitting it to handy little pieces for the next get-together. As I'm sweating into my swing, I hear a *tink, tink, tink* from the side. And any wood-chopping person knows that you keep an eye and an ear out for what might be around you as you’re lunging blade into wood, so as it would be, the noise was slightly disconcerting. At the turn of a head, I see my bestest girly – she’s in her strapless sundress, hiking up one side with her left hand, barefooted and *tink, tink, tinking* at the other log nearby…with a bitty, little ax. The wood slivers flew into the breeze as she held her dress up and out of her way – you have to plan your trajectory, you know. I made a comment to her that day being as frustrated as I was … “We’re all about futile efforts here!” We laugh about it still. The picture though – of taking measures to just keep chipping away at the problem, the goal or whatever other name you give it…I suppose that does have an effect; futile as it may seem.

Like Peg told me over a year ago – “Be the drip, Trish!” She used it as a metaphor for how the tiniest amount of water can create a cavernous ridge in solid stone just by dripping, continuously and without diverting from the drip…drip…drip. It’s back to the making of life, as compared to the drudging of life. I'm tired of drudging. Time to kick things up a bit (or at least get my *Tink* on!).

Dearest Child of Mine

I am sorry that you have to contend with these issues that exceed your cognition right now. I'm sorry that I married a man who has not produced a good role model for your fragile state of mind. I'm sorry to see you weighing the good against the bad and not knowing where to turn or what to do. I'm sorry that you feel like no one’s listening. I'm sorry that there isn’t change coming faster and most of all, I'm sorry for the times when I don’t know what else to do or say.  I'm sorry that he’s broken.

I'm glad that you feel safe enough to act out around me because you know you’ll not be hurt. I'm glad that you’re blessed to be as intelligent as you are. I'm happy to see your face shining on the good days and humbled at your smile. I'm saddened to see so much hurt put in your direction by someone outside my control, but delighted to see you growing into a wonderful person who is more compassionate than you are resentful. 

I pray more than I answer and try to be thankful more than I worry.  I do have absolute faith that this will not last forever and that every dream is worth following. I recognize that this will not be the last time you have to come up against forces outside your control or understanding and that the head-on meetings with the man who fathered you, will certainly occur again.  It is my job to prepare you to work through these inevitabilities to the best and healthiest ways possible for the tools you’re equipped with and the age that you are.
It is of what we fear that we are gauged emotionally. Or, in reference to the Piscean me…I've gauged everything emotionally, fear or not.  Bugger.  With that in mind, there is a path that unfolds before me, it’s been a tad rocky and overgrown, but a path nonetheless. I'm referencing this path because it encompasses the dear message, the continuous worries and the frights of childhood that I allude to with nearly everything I speak of.  Bah. 
Tomorrow…maybe tomorrow we’ll speak of confusion and what that means.

Manners & Comprehension

One thing that I fail to understand is how I spend inordinate amounts of time to consider what I feel are the various avenues of possibility and yet, my expectations are often rendered a dry well. What is it that I'm not seeing? Did I miss something? Am I still supposed to be hibernating? Can I please get an answer? Someone…anyone…


This cycle of communication mishap, the one between me and the “system” seems so hindered that I retreat. I draw back the reigns and pull under my shell to contemplate the pieces that I may have overlooked…how I might be further persecuted and what that would mean to accomplishing a dear goal of mine. When I feel that air has cleared and the smoke has dissipated I venture out again.

**BAM** Miscommunication in my face!

Posh.

Bah.

Voltaire said that “True greatness consists in the use of a powerful understanding to enlighten oneself and others”, and though I perfectly understand that, I feel that my comprehension is belabored by the others. And how is that right? What I understand is that there is a large populous that remains blissfully ignorant, that as much as I attempt to follow rhythm, my step is heavy and that language is key to communication and is highly gauged by the manners that are instilled in that language…or else tone.

Maybe we can start there – with communication. “Please” and “Thank you” are both, incredibly powerful and when you couple the basics of language with priorities, well…then you’re on to something good.

I figure it can’t always be like this, not forever anyway. “This too shall pass” was a common phrase as I recall my teenage years, spoken often by my mother. And yet now I sit with the hope that “This too shall pass soon” - as my patience is wearing thin; my comprehension even thinner. Oh, and “please”.

A Chance at Redemption

It came to me today as I followed a little red-winged blackbird that’s been flitting around the nearly-empty parking lot in the back.  It flew among the branches of the trees in the back; the poplar trees all shedding their fluffy seed pods left the bird scampering through what looked like snow falling mid-Spring.  I'm searching, longingly questing every time I get to thinking – always thinking that there must be something I'm missing or an element of this picture that’s escaped me.
Like the bird however, the one that skipped branch to branch – I'm reminded that much of what I'm aspiring to be, I already am.  I fail at giving myself credit because I don’t want to be boastful and then the second-guessing starts. And well, that’s a never-ending cycle.  I keep assuming that I'm going to end up at *that* spot where I’ll be happy and the efforts that I’ve put in will render a beautiful result of life as I see it in my dreams.  In essence however, it’s already arrived – just that the thoughts I'm having are overwhelming (and ultimately creating) the vision that I'm seeing.