Vicarious Rising

Don't Call Me Pollyanna

I've always been an optimist, which is probably the only reason I didn't march down sociopath road. Some low grade hum of Uncle Remus' "zippidy-doo-dah" must've been coursing through my veins to keep me from turning to the dark side. I look at my nasty, critical family and know this has to be true. Whenever they thought the world was out to get them and they thought the worst outcome was the most likely, I was always making my mental flowcharts of possible routes in the event of any outcome. No outcome was bad and I could make anything work. A little adjustment here or there, I'd make it mine. All was well, no worries... next issue, please.

Which is not to say I am easy to please, malleable or even all that flexible, if you ask me. In fact, I'd say I have an ironwill and I'll be damned if that cat won't get skinned one way or another. But I will keep trying until the job gets done.

I don't know if any of the above rant makes sense to anyone. I'm sure it does to some people who think the same way. Today I am not really of a mind to explain myself. But today is a wonderful day, if I do say so myself, Uncle Remus. Say hi to Bre'er Rabbit for me. And that tar baby.

No, I am not drunk or high, although I do have a head cold I knew I'd catch as soon as I quit moving things and running around for the holidays. My son thinks I am a fortune teller because I predicted my sickness a week ahead of time. He's been a good boy and bringing me tea. I think he's a little freaked out that I can read his mind too much also since I have a knack for catching him doing things he's not supposed to. His 13th birthday is coming up in less than two weeks and he wants to be in my good graces.

I'm going to have him call my mother today to thank her for the wonderful Christmas gifts she sent him. Although my mother was god-awful at gift-giving for me, she has turned out to be supremely talented at putting together Christmas gifts for my son. She usually picks a theme, then goes all out in putting together an adventure for him to open. Even when she refused to speak to me, I would have my son call her (he was nice to her, but sort of perplexed because he was mad at her on my behalf, the dear boy) because she did such a marvelous job and whatever she feels about me, she obviously does not pass on to her grandson. At any rate, I do not want to make it a tug of war because that would be dumb.

This year she did a James Bond theme and had secret codes to crack and some really great digital microscopes, two way watch radios, etc. He had to open things in a particular order and it took him hours to get through the package. My mother is brilliant and creative and clever. I so wish we could share time together. It could be so much fun.

I wish everyone a wonderful new year. Here is to the potential for great things to happen in all of your lives....

Closer to Free

My horoscope is all over the place lately, telling me my head and heart and intuition are not in cahoots. I'm supposed to listen to my head and not my intuition, ignore my feelings, follow the advice of the guy in a red hat or some such nonsense. WTF? I think I am going to ignore horoscope man. He's going to paralyze me into hiding under the covers.

Said covers are not exactly a bad place to be... I am officially homeless. Yep. As of December 24, we were run out of our temporary townhouse living arrangement. And our new home is not yet finished with construction. The days leading up to Christmas Eve were complete chaos of moving shit out and into storage, cleaning up our former living space and hauling ass to Connecticut to see my mother-in-law. We missed Christmas Eve dinner. We made it onto Mrs. Claus's bad list. I would've skipped going to her house altogether if I didn't think she'd guillotine us all if we tried. Bad list is much better than headless.

Mrs. Claus-a.k.a. my mother-in-law also has her birthday the day after Christmas. We did the obligatory hoo-ha for that, and hauled ass back north to supervise the continuing saga of our home building project. Our homeless shelter is one rather elegant structure that pretty much is an upgrade of anything we'll ever live in. I'm not exactly sufferring.

At any rate, I've been too busy to do more than cursory blog reads, but I want to catch up with everyone. I also, fortunately, have not been crying in my cornflakes about best friends who I have finally realized were kind of lousy people all along (why I ever doubt my first impression of people is beyond me. It always ends up to be the dead on truth in the end.). It's amazing how little you miss someone when you realize you were creating all the good elements of their personality out of your own fertile imagination.

But I am not kicking myself for the pretty delusion. I required a knight in shining armor. He was the lucky recipient of my needful dreams. I can't hate him for not being Sir Lancelot. I can't hate me for wanting a man of honor, principles, loyalty and integrity in my life. I had a hard past filled with people I couldn't trust or love. I needed to believe in something, someone, better. He served his purpose. Now the fairytale has ended. Now, I can believe in me.

Today I feel good. Just plain good. Nothing more, nothing less. I feel ready to write, no urges to drink. I also want to write a couple posts about my mom's reaction to the necklace and about my husband breaking the no gift rule (naughty boy. one of his gifts is the Raw 7 tee to the left with argyle and a motorcycle on it. defnly me. i love it. weird it happens to be the exact same color as the everybody lies tee).

But not yet. Right now, just going to enjoy not feeling heavy. I'm glad you're here.

Froid, Freud, Fraud

The television show "House," with Hugh Laurie starring as the ill mannered yet effective doctor, remains one of my all-time favorite programs. House holds a belief that 'everybody lies,' especially patients. Even ones risking death. How many alcoholics have told the true number of daily booze consumption?

For Christmas, because of the large outflow of cash due to the new house, my husband and I have agreed not to exchange gifts. But while reading a magazine, I saw an ad for t-shirts for the tv show "House" that had proceeds going to the National Alliance on Mental Illness charity. The front of the shirt had one of Dr. Gregory House's favorite sayings: "Everyone lies."

And I thought this shirt was the perfect gift for my husband. I also bought a shirt for myself and our son. I packaged all three together and had my son and husband open it.

In the wee hours of the night between Christmas Eve and Christmas Morn, I mused to myself, given the gamut of emotions I've run through this past year - what peculiar inner workings of my mind thinks that this House-ism is the most succinct motto for our little family to wear emblazoned on our chests?

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Are You Talking to Me?

When I post about my past, I sometimes fear that my readers will begin to groan about my bellyaching. While there is lingering anger at what happened to me, which I think I am entitled to as I would be angry on behalf of another human being if he or she had been treated as I was by either parent, I have let go of most of my anger towards my mother. The retelling of these stories is more part of explaining my recovery and how I got here.

In the case of the clothing rack, for instance, I was attempting to show how deeply ingrained my mother's opinion and criticisms were in me, to the point that even when she wasn't speaking to me, even when I knew she was mentally ill, even when I knew she no longer had a direct influence over me, she was still inhabiting my psyche. I could not blame my mother any longer for the misery I was still carrying around. It was a part of me that I was allowing a forum, with a megaphone, no less. That godawful critical shrew that I hated was inside me and I was feeding it by listening and acting to please it.

Recovery has been about listening to the voices that like me a whole lot better than that bitch. I hold myself fully responsible for supervising that task.

One of the most difficult aspects of this process is the idea that you are supposed to want recovery for yourself and not for anyone else. No one else can love you into recovery, squash your fears and hug your cravings away. Yet at the same time, you are told in 12-step programs that you shouldn't do anything without your sponsor and you shouldn't isolate. To some degree, I find this to be bit more of a tug-o-war than I would like. Maybe I just find it annoying when I am happy to see my sponsor just because I like her, only to have her nag me about the number of meetings I've been to. I've got enough of a peanut gallery in my head having a go at me, telling me what to do. Either I want this for myself or I don't. Sigh. I know she's just trying to help.

It is so striking to me how my behavior today has been affected down to such little things, like how I dry my laundry or something larger, like how I respond to the silent treatment (or even perceived silent treatment) that my mother was so fond of using. Mom doesn't have to be in the vicinity for her voice to be in my head barking at me, telling me how badly I suck and have ruined everything... again. Certain things trigger me that way, and learning to identify those things and go back to figure out their origins is the way that I have been able to learn to heal.

It also helps to tell that voice to shut the fuck up. The nice Judy voice is getting stronger and she's getting good at cutting off mean Judy-voice before she even makes a snotty sniff.

I got a chuckle out of my horoscope for yesterday, given the way things have been going for me lately:

You think you know what you want, but you might not be able to figure out how to get it. You could have trouble expressing your basic needs now. Perhaps your fears of rejection trigger past hurts that can prevent you from showing your true colors. Remember that if you remain kind and strive toward awareness, your current uncertainty won't slow you down for long.

Me, have trouble expressing my basic needs? You must be joking? I have needs?

Hanging the Dirty Laundry

Tonight I was washing clothes and dutifully hanging my delicates on the wooden clothes rack I have had since I went to college. My bras, which get severely abused by my rather generously proportioned chest relative to my petite size, last longer when the elastic is not cooked by the dryer. I learned everything I needed to know about doing laundry from my mother. Most of all, I learned that I do not do it right. But please don't ask me what exactly that means. It has something to do with her exacting standards and I think she mentioned that I didn't use her brand detergent and so when her machine died, it was my fault and she wouldn't let me bring my clothes home from college anymore (I wasn't allowed to use her stash of detergent and she used that Amway stuff). It made sense to her. The fact that the washer was 15 years old had nothing to do with it.

I will heartily admit, I am a very bad folder, especially of sheets. To resolve that problem, I usually just put clean ones on the bed and have the set of dirty ones in the laundry. As for my weekends home from college, my boyfriend's mom gladly let me use her machines. I think she thought I just wanted to spend more time with her son and try out letting our undies take a spin together.

Although my mother was stingy about sharing her laundry detergent and use of her facilities, she did give me a hand-me-down clothes drying rack. It was in fine condition, but she thought she needed a new one. It's one of those plain wood ones. She had three and all of them had Saran Wrap carefully covering each bar and taped securely with Scotch Tape. You see, the wood would warp otherwise. Due to the wet clothing hung to dry. You cannot have warped clothes racks. Naturally.

I was thrilled as punch to get this clothes rack, as my mother seldom handed down anything, and yes, this clothes rack is still with me now. It made it through all the moves and construction and even the sale of most of my earthly possessions last year when we sold the New Jersey house. What also lasted up until last summer was the original Saran Wrap and tape, almost pristinely intact, protecting the wood from the evils of damp brassieres.

My mother probably had that clothes rack for a good five to eight years before passing it on to me and I've had it for nearly, egads, 20 myself. I'll tell ya, that wood was a whole lot less warped than I am.

And in a beautiful act of freedom and defiance, last summer I took that plastic wrap off.

I wonder if the Guiness Book of World Records has an entry for the World's longest exorcism.

Ramshackled

A number of people have mentioned that any major home construction project is nearly always a major test of a marriage. Anyone endeavoring even to rent a place with another person, then a faucet goes drippy or a lightbulb needs to be bought and replaced, wait and watch the power plays and resentments begin. One need not be married for this relationship litmus to occur. In fact, starting with my sister and "get off my side of the car," learning to share space with anyone is difficult. Determining how to live harmoniously and combine your styles and living habits is a whole different level of game play. Add in all the other fun relationship nuances, and, boy, it's a cocktail of unstable proportions. Add too much of the wrong personality ingredients, and you've got "Molotov" written all over your Home-Sweet-Home.

My husband and I have lived in one rented apartment together and owned one townhouse (first owners, bought the model with all the whiz-bang extras), one Philadelphia historic (1865) row house and a retro New Jersey 1970s Colonial split level house. We have been living in a temporary furnished rental condo for nearly a year and a half. Back when we were in Philly, we also spent six months abroad living in a Milan "residence" (a tiny furnished room much like a Residence Inn, but much, much smaller) with our son for a semester of our MBA studies. Our son slept on an armchair - this was a neat exercise in family proximity. We even had my dear-departed best friend Allen (ok, he's not dead, just a mean, cold bastard ex-friend - did that sound pissy?) come stay with us a few nights in this ridiculous room. I think he slept on the floor. (There was another time I slept in the same bed between him and my husband. Alas, it sounds alot more titillating than it actually was). Since July of 2006 we have been working on building a house right from the drawing board.

The house in Philly badly needed a new kitchen, and being the enterprising MBA students we were, we went to Ikea and bought ourselves a bunch of boxes and built us a kitchen. Fitting those things into the not-so-regular walls of a home built in 1865 was the cause of considerable swearing primarily from the male half. Our then two-year-old spent a lot of time wanting to help hammer. It would have been cute if we didn't think he'd kill himself on the treacherous spiral staircases (which, not so ironically, I nearly did myself in on when imbibing too much more than once. Who's the real baby?) Did you know they used horse hair for insulation between the floors and walls back then? The kitchen came out great, we made a little money on our investment and got to be all proud.

In NJ we bought a house with great bones, land, location and floorplan but in real need of updates. It still had some rust shag carpet and kitchen cabinets falling apart. Termites. Leaky skylights. It was not exactly 70s groovey. Over the course of our seven years there, we did a kitchen addition, remodeled all three bathrooms and updated every room. When we sold the place, we nearly doubled what we paid for it, made a considerable profit over our improvement spendings and survived living in constant construction. I learned to do some basic electrical wiring. My husband "accidentally" tried to electricute me (our one fight). We also vowed never to do that again. We did the bathrooms simultaneously (although we did always have one working shower and toilet), and I never want to do dishes in the bathtub again.

Now, ask me about how my husband and I did during these projects? Unbelievably well. Probably sickeningly well. Not in a mushy, gushy way, but we complement each other, have similar tastes, know how we live, how to live well together, use our space and how to efficiently design, order, save money and manage these projects. We don't fight. We rarely disagree about decisions (granted, I usually make them, but he approves and it's not just to keep the peace, it's because he genuinely is very pleased with my choices). When it comes to dealing with the hired help, we're basically good cop/bad cop, but neither one of us is really all extreme. At the end of the day, it's the quality that matters and we are also respectful (unless the worker is really flagrantly awful. Then my husband deals with it.). We've never hired a decorator or designer. The only architect work done was stuff for the technical permits, etc. We do have a builder and both he and his foreman have great ideas. But this is definitely a collaborative project and we've had our fingers intimately on every step (to which I think much of the crew wishes we would get lost once in awhile, especially my husband who is at the site daily, often pitching in to work. But he does also bring coffee, lunch and praise too).

I would say for about three quarters of the process this go around with this new house, I'd been dragging my feet. I have not gone to the site anywhere near close to everyday, or even every other day. I have many, many reasons for it, none of them particularly good or bad. But I took my therapist's advice and just felt what I needed to feel and didn't do anything nuts. But I sure let my emotions go all the way where they wanted, even though I was terrified they -- and by extension, I -- might not ever come back.

And thank god I listened for once. But, hey, to give myself a little credit, somewhere inside I knew that it was what I needed to do. It was just fucking scary as all hell and ferociously uncomfortable.

I think it's going to be worth it. I'm worth it. Maybe I can begin to believe I deserve the home that I have so ardously built.

[The two photos are actual antiques I bought for the house. The first is a circa 1890 antique Japanese merchant choba chest I bought on eBay from an importer in California. The last is a Danish two door armoire from circa 1880 that was restored by a really cool couple in Vermont of The Country Gallery Antiques. Janet's photo is a little dark, but the finish is a pickled Prescott Green by Benjamin Moore. We bought several large pieces from them, but this is the only one I have an "after" picture of from their careful restorations. The wall unit is also from the Country Gallery, in it's "before" splendor. This sucker is giant, 76 inches wide. Perfect for our new TV. But the really big TV will be in the media room in the basement...]

The Art of Letting Go

I sometimes feel like I need to debrief myself during this recovery process. I do this on occasion with people who have more sobriety/sanity/tenure on this planet with me. I do it frequently with my therapist. But I also get this sense of explaining things to myself with that gosh-darn smarty-pants inner voice that seems to be pushing me along the growth continuum. While the less mature me screeches "why?" and "do I hafto?" and "this sucks," a wiser part of me has been regularly making decisions, contemplating, feeling and generally trying to heal whether I fucking like it or not because it is TIME.

Every so often, something clicks and I feel I have turned a major corner in my inner peace, but I can't always put my finger on why. What I do know is that it has not come out of nothing: it has been from dogged diligence, if seemingly haphazard, work on my part. I falter. A Lot. But I keep going and face my fears, often with my heart in my throat - or on the floor somewhere.

I must note, not one bit of this process has been the least bit attractive. It's a good thing I find, er, ugly interesting. Because that wreckage behind me has a lot to contemplate.

But rather than use the lack of beauty in my past as an excuse to beat myself up, I'm learning to observe it, feel however I feel about it, and move on from it. It's kind of a weirdly simple but difficult thing. Takes awhile for even the simplest thing like buying a gift. Every so often the negative thought of my mom grimacing when she opens it pops in my brain. But then I remember that how she reacts is not my problem. Holy shit, revelation. The gift was a gesture that was true to an impulse and a feeling with no agenda. And maybe, maybe, she will enjoy it. But if she doesn't, it doesn't have to influence how I experience my action.

And that, folks is about 15 years of therapy and two plus years of sober time. Yikes.

A big event in my life I have given little blog time to is the dream house my husband and I are building that is set to be complete sometime around the first of the year (yes, that is within the next few weeks). One might ask why I've been so quiet about a project I have dubbed my "dream" house and has been something that has consumed a great deal of my time the past several months. I guess that is something maybe I might talk about now that think I have turned another major corner in my life...

Getting Closer to Myself

I ordered my mom the necklace. In silver.

I hope she likes it. I do.

I love her.

Merry Christmas to me.

[Sunny Meadow necklace of peridot and citrine by Linda Trent Jewelry]

Projection: Coming Soon to a Theater Near Me

So, I am sitting here doing some Christmas shopping and I see this lovely prehnite and jade necklace that I think would look smashing on my mother. I haven't given her a gift in probably a decade (nor has she given me one in kind), but I simply feel like getting her something.

The jewelry designer is one of my favorites, an independent artist who makes each piece to order. I have several items by her of my own, and her work is outstanding. I can choose to have the necklace made in sterling silver or 14k gold-fill.

Oh, wait. Gold-fill won't do. My mother will flip out and say it turns her skin green. Or she'll just sniff and refuse to wear it. Mind you, I won't hear or see her say it, but my sister will and it will get back to me. And is silver good enough? It might be, but will my mother look online to see how much I spent? Is $70 enough for a Christmas gift? Maybe I should get the $90 one. Should I get her one of the more expensive necklaces, one of the over $200 ones? Because I know  she'll check the website and see what I spent. And since my husband's father is well-to-do, more so than my father, if I don't spend enough she'll be bent out of shape. It doesn't matter that it's not actually my money and that I am still paying off graduate school debt. I'm vicariously living large and am being cheap or just unclassy (because of course, despite the money, my father-in-law is rather vulgar because he was just a farm boy from Iowa before he became Mr. Big Deal. And naturally, I was hypnotized and seduced by the money and became gross in the process despite my meticulous etiquette-filled upbringing.).

Oh, fuck it. Suddenly giving this gift doesn't feel so jolly. Is it really the thought that counts? I just feel like crying. I still can't get it right.

And then there's my father, who I don't really think of getting anything at all for.

I know, I'll get them the bottle of wine that I really want to drink after this exercise in proving I'm a good for nothing, rotten daughter.

Bleh. Come join my pity party. Party favors are to the left. You must wear a silly hat to play. I can't be the only one looking like a stupid jerk.

I See a Little Silhouette

One of the worst things about my childhood was that it made me doubt my own mind and sanity. It taught me to believe what I was told rather than what I felt. My feelings were irrelevant, might as well be non-existent.

I was watching one of the millionth episodes of Law and Order SVU where a shrink was describing how a child who is deprived of the loving attention of a parent becomes desperate for interaction, panicked and eventually becomes socially fucked up (paraphrased, obviously). The TV doc went on to say that psychologists believed most of these kids were untreatable and basically were sociopaths. Neat-o. They showed a video of a mother ignoring her baby and the ensuing baby's reactions. It was hard to watch. Especially since the mother reminded me so much of my own.

Now it is a little different talking to my mother. For one thing, I don't tend to try to impress her with my accomplishments anymore. I rarely tell her anything about what's happening with me, and if I do, it is in a matter-of-fact way. I have my armour on about thinking she might have any pleased reaction for me. I have clear memories of college and beyond of my pleading sounding voice to her on the phone, trying to get her approval about positive things going on in my life. It was just awful. What I didn't realize then, that I know now, is that she has her own burdens. I just thought I was a horrible, lame daughter. And it burned.

I often wonder how I escaped a sociopathic diagnosis. There are days I wonder if I really did. I bring this up with my therapist on occasion. He typically poo-poos me off. I, however, know the rages I felt before I really threw myself into therapy in earnest. I know some of the horrible things I did that were straight on the track of psychopath of no return. I felt like I chose not to step on the darkside. My doc thinks that isn't possible, that there'd be no chosing. I'm not so sure; I was there when I broke my dog's leg many years ago. And I was not drunk when I did it.

I'm not sure why I chose today to reveal that particularly ugly tidbit about myself. It is one of my least favorite and most shameful memories. One that I know the many animal lovers out there will despise me for. Maybe it is part of my residual guilt about dirtbag Steve's suicide, I'm feeling like a terrible person.

This past week also included a farewell (yes, another... it is getting to be a ridiculous routine) to my best friend Allen. This one feels more final, although I have said that before and never stood by. Yet I feel this is one that I have spent the better part of two months working towards. I just don't think I have anymore left in me to feel like the goofy side kick in the friendship. The worst part is, I'm not sure he really cares all that much. I don't think he takes me or any of my ills all that seriously. Fuck me, I'm not sure he doesn't have cause to think the way he does. All I know is that I felt like an adoring puppy dog and an amusement, and I couldn't bear to be that part of the relationship anymore. I felt like a farce. I don't think he was really there for me anyway. He has likely been waiting for me to break things off so he does not have to take responsibility for the end of the friendship. I think the strength of the connection was all a memory and built up in my mind. Still, I hate that I will miss him and I will always love him, no matter what an ass he was.

Not any of this is bad, per se. I am simply getting used to feeling without judging, looking at myself without a critical eye. It's uncomfortable as hell and I want to hide back in the shadows. I want to see who I am, once and for all, and not who I have been projected to be. I need a little more courage, I think, because it isn't all very pretty.  But it will be real. That's all I can ask of myself.