Vicarious Rising

How I Know I've Changed

My therapist is in his 70s and tells some old-fashioned corny jokes. I kind of like this. It's comforting. Maybe this is partly because my dad would tell off-color and inappropriate jokes. It always feels safe in the therapy room.

One of my doc's jokes goes like this:

How many psychologists does it take to change a lightbulb?

One. But the lightbulb really has to want to be changed.

I love this one. It is shorthand for how therapy works, when it works.

I've been up to my eyeballs in life in the best of ways. Every day I've done gardening and writing. Most days I've cooked a yummy, healthy dinner. My kid -- the little booger -- is finishing his last month of middle school. He also just got an A- in the sociology class he was taking at Skidmore college. My husband is reading my novel. I've never let him read anything of mine before. Weird, no?

The big eyeopener for me just hit me as I was reading an email from one of the authors I met last month. She had critiqued my first two chapters for me and I was glowing. Then it hit me: I had been asking for help. Oh, holy shit. I have actually been asking people for help.

Now, my problem with asking for help has not been so much about not wanting people to see that I don't have my shit together. It's really been about me thinking that I don't deserve a helping hand. With my writing, there has always been this sense of it not being good enough, and that showing it for criticism was letting someone re-write it for you. I wasn't thinking about it in terms of letting someone help me improve me.

Part of the change process has come from being a parent. Helping my son learn without doing for him is a tricky task, but I think I do a mindful job of it. But now I have to walk the talk. I believe I can do it now because I have made such huge shifts in how I think about myself.

I was pretty floored when I realized I was contacting people and saying, "Hey, would you be willing to help me out?" Like I actually think I am worthy.

Anyone out there in the early stages of recovery... stick it out. YOU are worth it.

The photo strip below isn't related to the above post, but I thought it funny. It does seem loosely related to my last post.

Out of the Wilderness

At my therapy session this afteenoon, I opened up about my father and his problem with boundaries in a way I haven't in all the years I've been seeking help. I don't know why it's so hard. I don't know why it felt ok today.

Maybe it was listening to Stephen King on the drive to NJ. Many moons ago, before I could articulate any of what had transpired between me and my father, I sent my therapist a copy of King's " Gerald's Game." It was right after my last session before his two month vacation. For those unfamiliar with the book (and haven't heard me tell this story), the father has an inappropriate relationship with his young daughter that also includes an incestuous encounter (I think she's 9 at the time). The story is primarily through the girl's perspective, both in flashback of her youth and in her adulthood. The story ttalked a lot about the girl's ambivalent feelings about being special to her father, her guilt for somehow supplanting her mother and her feelings of anger, helplessness and fear.

When I read that book, I didn't know how King had gotten into my head and knew my story, how things were for me, what I was hiding. I was drinking at the time, but I'm not so sure my reaction wouldn't have been the same had I not: I went into my parked car, turned on a song I really liked on high volume, and started to scream.

When I went back to therapy that fall, my therapist asked me what I was trying to tell him by sending him that book. I dipped my toe in the unspeakable. We've been barely talking about it here and there since. He says he knows it will come out of me when I am ready. But he is a great listener when I have anything to offer.

My doc asked me what I think I want out of my relationship with my dad today, and I said I'm not entirely sure. I do want him to do a better job respecting physical boundaries. I still get skeevy about his touchy-feeliness, even though it no longer poses a threat to me. I know it sounds strange, but I also feel guilty wanting to shout "gross, get off me, Dad" at him, like it'd hurt his feelings. This is the shit why I am careful not to flirt with men, to not give the wrong idea. I blamed myself for a long time for not drawing the right lines.

It's hard to believe how far I've come since the Gerald's Game incident wouldn't let me hide anymore. That had to be about 7 years ago. I do know my therapist rocks, even if I do baffle him on occasion. I think he knows some things take time.

The Promises - Short Form

If you become whole,
Everything will come to you.
~ Tao Te Ching

Insides Out

One thing that strikes me when I look at the photo of me on my wedding day is how happy I look. And I was truly happy that day and the entire weekend and week that followed. My two bad moments came courtesy my parents: 1) I asked them to watch our then 2-year-old the day of the event and said no matter what make sure he took a nap. The poor baby ended up screaming bloody murder at the end of the dinner, and only mommy could console him, so new husband and I could not go out dancing with our friends as planned (my parents and in laws offered to take the toddler in his agrieved state, saying, "he's not bothering us like this.". That wasn't the point. My baby was very unhappy.)

2) As I was getting dressed in my parents' hotel room, I told my parents that my father-in-law had paid for our wedding dinner as his gift to us. Our original plan had been for my husband and I to pay, as this was my second wedding and we were having a modest number of guests at 60. Big mistake to express my pleasure at this gift to my parents. My dad got all miffed and used the word "usurp" and dithered around angrily. It doesn't matter that they had no intention of paying themselves. And regardless, dude, keep your ire to yourself on your daughter's wedding day.

They did give us some money for our honeymoon, which we were very grateful for. I should note, the amount did not cover our trip, nor was it even a quarter of what the wedding dinner cost. I just don't get what the rage was all about -- except jealousy.

But I digress...

My joy on my wedding day is clear in all the photos, which are a stark contrast to those from my first wedding. In those, I look terrified and ready to flee. The only ones I look remotely comfortable in are the pictures with my grandparents and great aunts and uncles, most of whom have now passed. I am glad to have those photos, particularly since none if them were still around for my second marriage.

Another time photos tell a story of my inner turmoil was when I was on that trip to Australia in June of 2005. I look so miserable, like the jig was up and I was on the road to perdition. I avoided the camera most of the time, but my sister snapped several despite my protests. She had the nerve to send me a framed picture of me and her with some kangaroos in the background. The frame said something sentimental about sisters being born but now we were friends. She looks cute and delighted. I look bloated and resigned. I was angry she expected me to display this deformed version of me, felt like she wanted me to look so much worse than her in the comparison. I threw the damn thing out, frame and all.

I can't say yet if I regret that act.

I've noticed my willingness to be photographed has increased. I still am not excited at the prospect of getting my picture taken. But I am reasonably sure that whatever I look like, the look on my face will reflect the happiness I feel today.

Quoting Moliere and Other Surprises From My Parents

A few days ago, I received a notecard, written in my mother's hand. It began with:

"Moliere once said, 'The heart can do anything.'"

My mother seems to have become fond of literary quotations. I recall her writing to me about how she liked the television program Criminal Minds in part for it's use of quotations. I enjoy the show too, but usually find the quotes heavy handed and trying too hard to make the show seem more intellectual than it actually is. I do think, however, that there are great minds who know how to say things better than the average folk. Trotting out their phrasing is often a wise idea to get your point across rather than fumbling with your own less formidable wordsmithing.

My mother evoked Moliere to show her and my father's support for my novel writing pursuit. She went on further to write that they believe I have the heart, desire and talent to achieve my dream of producing a novel. This notecard also included a check for the full amount of my summer writing workshop and the statement that they are behind me 100%.

A few posts ago, I had written about great trepidation in accepting their offer to assist in my writing classes. After discussing my discomfort and fears with my therapist, I had emailed back to them a sincere thanks for the offer, a link for them to check out the class I am enrolled in, and told them that any amount they felt comfortable contributing would be appreciated (I also told them I had already made a downpayment of a third of the cost). Then I figured I'd hear nothing.

I was wrong.

I called my parents after I received this generous gift. I haven't talked to them on the phone in some time. My mother claimed to have called on my birthday, but no one answered, but since I was home all day and evening because hubby was I'll, well, whatever. She was also funny because she talked much more than I did, but announced after awhile that my voice must be hoarse from talking so much, so I must want to get off the phone. Er, ok. Neither of these bothered me much this time, but rather struck me as sad/funny. But she did seem honestly happy for me about my news from my writing instructor. Which, I have to admit, I wish didn't wish I was looking for her approval so much, but there you have it.

I also spoke to my dad, who sounded good and pleased to hear from me. I often wonder how much info he gets from my mother about my happenings, but now that he's retired and they share an email account, hopefully they'll both be on the same page.

I'm really glad they are supporting me in this. I have often felt in the past that they thought writing was a hobby, not a career. I couldn't help but be sensitive to the fact that my mother's note specifically says (twice) they are supporting the endeavor of producing a novel. There's a little irk in me wanting to know why publication is noticeably absent.

Of course, I am aware I am being picky and overly sensitive. It comes from years of experience, but it doesn't mean these are feeling I need to encourage on myself.

The Moliere quote is interesting to me, though not just in regards to my dream of being a published novelist. I think more of what my heart has achieved for me as a person, from the scared and lonely little girl to the woman navigating difficult relationships and enjoying the unfolding of her life. My heart has led me well.

Poking at My Demons

I'm working on the climax of my novel, and the scene I am working on is one in which my protagonist has had her daddy abandoment issues used against her and is about to be sexually assaulted.

I'm not sure I can write this scene.

I know where I want it to go, how it plays out, the reverberations for all the characters in the story.

But I want to write that whatever happened to her happens in a black blur. I don't want to put words and feelings to it. I don't want to give the antagonist a voice, even knowing the outcome.

I remind myself my protagonist isn't me. I am not in her situation. It is her catalyst, not mine.

But I continually get back to my girl, trapped by this horrid man. I want her to be able to burst into flames the instant he tries to touch her, incinerating him into a pile of black soot she can dig her heel into when she leaves the room.

My Orphan Heart

As I've been writing some about my childhood in recent posts, I've been wondering if my readers have been put off by what may appear to be disloyal, condescending and angst filled diatribes to some. I'm not sure if I come off that way. I feel a level of guilt because they are my family and I always have felt like I ought to protect and defend them even at their worst. But I don't actually feel any anger any longer. I feel sadness and wish things had been different, but I hope I am conveying what happened rather than seeming as if I am casting harsh judgment.

I fiercely love my sister. I understand why she is how she is. I often feel like I bear responsibility for her having poor self-esteem because I wasn't a better big sister and because I existed and because I didn't save her from our parents. I've come to view my mother with compassion. I believe she has some form of the borderline personality disorder, leaning towards narcissitic disorder and tinged with obsessive- compulsive, agoraphobia and paranoia. I have to be honest about my dad -- I haven't come to terms with him yet. You might have guessed by the absence of text on him. I don't hate him. I don't forgive him. I suspect there are some of you who know what I mean.

Anyway, I've another post today on The Second Road titled Phoenix Girl that talks some about rising out of the muck to, hopefully, a better life. Check it out, if you are so inclined.

If you think I am full of it, let me know. I felt that the perception of me might be I was rageful and I wanted to dispel that perception, if possible. Or perhaps I wanted to lessen the guilt of badmouthing my family, a sin of such enormity that the little girl in me quakes in fear at my audacity to speak of them so. Because, after all, some things are still rooted in my soul.

My Last Name is Ambivalence

I just found out my sister is expecting. It will be her third child, her first with the new husband. I'm, er, happy for, um, her?

Ok, that wasn't a wopper of a lie, but it wasn't true either. I love babies. It took me many, many years to realize how much I love babies. I kind of thought I didn't because I spent my teen years vehement that I was not going to reproduce. I also was not a gung-ho babysitter.

It took me having my own kid to figure out what was really going on with me and what I thought was antipathy towards young ones: I was terrified. I was terrified I'd be just like my parents, I was terrified I'd anger the parents of my babysitting wards by not properly doing the job (by second guessing the parents, natch), and I was terrified that the kids would either be traumatized by me or hate me or both.

One thing did come true, I did come to second guess a lot of parents. Screw it and call me inappropriately judgmental, but there are oodles of people out there who have no business being parents. I want to slap them all.

Do I think I have all the answers? Sadly, not even close. But I believe I listen to kids far better than most.

Back to my sister's pregnancy... my sis has been known, in the past, to get pregnant for the wrong reasons. More than once. At least one time to try to save a failing marriage. At least one time to try to get a reluctant guy to commit. I'm not saying she has bad motives now, but my sister doesn't always think about how anyone but herself will be affected by her actions. And even then, her assumption is that things will go the way she wants. Which they frankly never quite do. And then it gets all dramatic and icky.

This is where yours truly used to get all sick involved in trying to help, when her real job was clucking and telling sis how the whole world was unfair and mean to sis.

Which never really worked for me.

Furthermore, I hate what it does to my sister's two daughters, now 10 and 7. The kicker is: all of it is none of my freaking business.

You know, addicts don't corner the market on fucking up peoples lives. This is how my family merry-go-round perpetuates itself. My sister is turning into her own version of our parents. I want to vomit.

I want to be happy for her. I really do. I also acknowledge that there is a small part of me experiencing maternal envy at her pregnancy. Of course, I could still have another, should I so choose. There's nothing preventing that except personal desire, so that can't really be the issue.

I don't like that I feel worried. I feel mean-spirited. I usually see the bright side if things, but this... God forgive me, I hope I am wrong. My sister has already said she hasn't told her daughters because she knows they will not be pleased with the news. The girls already despise their half sisters on their father's side. It's all so unpretty. What if it's a boy among the five girls? Would that make the boy like my brother, favored by my sister and husband?

I will give my best wishes. I will be the best aunt I can be.

I am so powerless.

Hitting the Road

After much procrastination, I finally made my first post to The Second Road. I wrote about being able to change myself rather than expect others to change. If you are interested in checking it out, click on the link above.

A quick update on my last writing submission that had me all bummed... well, the four students in my group (who are not privy to the instructor's comments) really liked the parts of the manuscript that the instructor was taking issue with. Specifically, one of the big aspects of the book is food and recipes as a way for the character to get closer to family she has never known. The instructor thought this device was tedious, but the other readers loved this. I suspect the teacher isn't a cook or hasn't spent much time with families and neighbors who use food as expressions of affection and socialization.

Of course there was other criticism where I need improvement, but the food thing was the big kicker that had me feeling low. I had decided anyway I was going to soldier on with it despite the instructor's feelings in that aspect. Now he also wants me to put in flashbacks... ugh. I've asked him if he has a suggestion that is less intrusive. Everyone wants my protagonist's drunkalogue, it seems. I think knowing bits about the destruction in her drunken life is important, but multiple flashbacks? I don't think it suits what I am trying to do with the story. Ah, well. We're only about 1/3 through the manuscript. Maybe he'll feel different as he sees where the plot goes.

Thanks to everyone who wrote supportive comments before. It really helped me.

Recognizable

I hate getting my photo taken. I'm not sure where it comes from. True, my parents made it clear that my blond sister was the pretty, photogenic one whose school pictures they were always pleased with. But I'm not certain it was all an external beauty thing that kept me from posing for the family archives.

My parents were not heavy duty camera people. There are not rolls and rolls of baby pics. I was the first born. There was the requisite baby album with the usual milestones. There was a follow up photo album for the elementary years. Not much after that, really. When I was in high school, I went to Easter Sunday with my boyfriend to his family's for brunch. Unbeknownst to me, my mother decided to sign up the rest of my family to get an official family portrait done that afternoon in their Easter clothes at the club. If I ever want to see the one and only family portrait, I can go into their library to see it. My mother still calls it The Family Portrait. For years I wanted to ask her if they would have still gotten it done had I been with them for brunch. I never got that brave.

I have no photographs of me as a child in my possession. I have a couple of me as a teen, some my friends gave me. Maybe it's not such a bad thing that in my current life no relics of that Judith hanging around. Seeing things on the other side of recovery, remembering the events around when the photos took place - and when the camera snap required a well behave child to smile as directed - how would I feel? Would it bring out compassion for the young me or drag up shit best left where it is?

Cat, who writes the thoughtful blog "Wait. What?" had written a few times about looking at childhood photos of herself to fall in love with the girl she'd once been. She recently shared this ritual with her eldest son. I thought this might be a lovely idea for me because I cannot bear to look at pictures of myself and I run from cameras.

But I cannot imagine asking my parents for any of my old baby pictures. For one, I would not be shocked to discover they had 'lost' or had a 'mishap' of sorts with them. Those sorts of shenanigans be a besting I'd prefer not to take. Second, I never ask favors of my parents. I'd eat babies first.

Some of you may have read about the recent passing of a blogger named Suzanne. I never visited her blog before her death, and I so wish I had. I learned of her through GabriellaMoonlight's "All Who Wander Are Not Lost" blog, and I encourage you to go to Gabi's blog, Suzanne's and also stop by Syd of "I'm Just FINE" for his tribute.

I mention Suzanne here because she also spoke to me through her photos. For some reason, looking at her blog made me brave enough to decide to take some self portraits today with my iPhone. Most of them were dreadful and have been discarded. Some are ok. Some I look so much like my mother when she was near my age, I want to go dye my hair blond and get collagen lips.

As I progressed, I began to loosen up before the lens. I had but an audience of one: me. Still, it was awkward and uncomfortable.

I'll only share one here, and of course it's blurry. I severely need a haircut, and...

Oh, bother. I'm not going to make a whole slew of excuses for the shoddy picture. I took Eleanor Roosevelt's advice and did something that scared me today.