(March, 2012: Working on indexing/categorizing pieces I've blogged. Transferring this piece from my once-public blog, versions.)
***************************
october, 2009
James shares via chat that he is having a health problem. I don't give advice, but I let him know that rice water has helped me before. He wants the recipe. I look it up in one my nutrition books and type the information back to him.
While I'm chatting with James, Darcy comes back out to the porch. She is now off the phone. She walks over to the smoking area, her space where she often sits to talk on the phone and enjoy the surroundings.
"You cleaned up my ashes, " she states with disappointment. She becomes upset and sounds angry. "This is my space. I'd thought of writing you a note to not touch my things; I should have written the note. Never put my cigarettes on my papers. Those are my papers. This is my corner. You said it was my space." She is angry, but contained. She isn't hollering, but firm.
I respond firmly, "Darcy, I cleaned up my porch."
I have no idea what she means about putting her cigarettes on her papers; I hadn't done that. Perhaps she means the small decorative saucer for an ashtray that has the 1/2-smoked ciggie in it? I don't ask. I did tell her it was her space; I guess she took it literally. I feel guilty but hide it.
She abruptly grabs the items from her space and walks with a determined gate into the house. I think she feels violated. I tell myself I didn't do anything wrong; all I did was clean my porch. I'd even thought she might appreciate it; that must have been naive of me.
I go back to chat with my good friend James, from Australia.
After a few minutes I hear a dish break, outside, down in the driveway. It sounds like it broke in the garbage container, the big one that we put the house trash in for sanitation pick up. Did Darcy just break my dishes? I hope she didn't break my tiny decorative saucer she was using as an ashtray. I turn to the wooden end table; the saucer is still there. The other items (her papers, her cigarette packs, the sage bundle, and the china bowl where the sage was placed) are gone.
Somehow I communicated to James or he picked up that something was going on. Maybe I told him that I think she just broke my dish. I tell him I'll be right back.
I walk into the house. I feel confused. Do I check on Darcy? Do I dare look in the garbage container? Do I walk out the front door and around the house? Do I go back out to the porch and walk that direction? Do I pretend I didn't here the dish break?
I decide to go out the front door, around the house, and look in the garbage container. There is the china bowl, shattered in the bottom of the container.
Darcy walks out as I am peering into the container. I'm not angry, but I need to let Darcy know she is behaving abusively. I can't let this incident pass. She needs to come to terms with her behavior.
I recall to myself when years back I realized I was being verbally and emotionally abusive to my husband; I'd even started punching his arm, though his firm physique hardly felt my petite punches. It was the physical punches that helped me realize my own behavior at the time. I'd get angry with him because he wouldn't emotionally respond. When I realized I'd fallen prey to my own emotional vandalism, I went to the bookstore and found a book on emotional abuse for abusers as well as the abused. There were lots of books for the abused, but I only found one for abusers. When I began reading it, not only did I recognize myself but also The Way, under Martindale's reign. At the time, I was still too blind and loyal to The Way to see the emotional blackmail and other tactics prior to and beyond the years of Martindale. Eventually I came to see those too. I worked with the book's exercises and with my psychologist to help me stop the abuse I was laying on my husband.
"Darcy, why did you break my bowl, a bowl you never even asked if you could use?" I tried to keep my tone of voice level.
Darcy becomes angrier and hollers at me as we stand in my driveway, "Your bowl?!? That bowl was on the back deck with dirt in it! You wouldn't ever eat out of it. It's not like it was a good bowl." She grimaces as her voice inflection fluctuates, it's almost like a growl. I thought of my mother, the times she would glare at me with almost a fierce hatred or jealousy in her eyes and voice.
"Ah, I didn't realize it was that bowl." I respond, tempted to apologize; but I don't. Regardless if it was dirty or not, she still shouldn't have broken the bowl. Perhaps she had dropped it. But she's not dropped other items since she's been here.
I take a deep breath. I feel that I need to confront her behavior head on. "Darcy," I pause. She looks at me and I at her. "Your behavior on the porch was abusive," I state seriously but not angrily. I feel as if I am speaking with an adolescent or young teen in a tantrum. I had felt that way before with Darcy; so had my husband. I don't think ill of that; I've felt like an adolescent for decades, until the past eight months or so. Sometimes I still feel that way, but not as often.
Darcy becomes livid with my statement. She walks around me, off the driveway and into the back yard. She begins yelling at me, backing away from me into the yard, pointing her finger at me, screaming, "Carol you are the one that's abusive!!! You are abusive for calling be abusive!! I'm afraid of you Carol!! I'm afraid of you a lot!!"
I contain my composure. I can't allow myself to engage and get pulled into this emotional battle. "Then it's time for you to make arrangements to leave," I state firmly. I am really trying to keep tabs on myself to not respond emotionally. I do feel some anger, and that's o.k., as long as I don't act out.
Her eyes get big. She is in a state of disbelief that I have told her it's time for her to make arrangements for departure. We had discussed in the past weeks about her leaving and that if things got to be too much we wouldn't throw her out, but would let her know she needed to make arrangements to leave. I had also told her she could stay up until six months, unless my daughter needed to come back home or something. This episode had crossed a line, a line that scared me.
The flame became a bon fire. Darcy's voice continued at high volume. I was concerned her rage might escalate.
Somewhere in the commotion I went back to my computer. James was still there in chat and had typed to me, "I just tried to call you." "I didn't hear the phone ring," I typed back. "I'm leaving my house. Will you be around in 30 minutes?" "I'll be here," he types back, "I've opened the private area at the forum so we can discuss what's been happening."
James was again holding my hand through a tumultuous flare-up with someone, Darcy, recovering from cultic and abusive lifestyle(s). He understood the scenario and typical symptoms and has held my hand, online and on the phone, a lot the past two years when I had dealt with my own flare-ups and with others'. I had done lots of work with myself and had pretty much rid myself of these toxic-type relationships.
Darcy follows me to the porch as I clear my ritual bill-paying area; I never did get to paying my bills. I don't recall the exact order of events, but I do recall some of the accusations and her throwing my faults at me. I don't know how much time elapses, I just know I need to get away. I address some of Darcy's words and try to communicate with her, but to no avail; emotions are too heated. At some point I start responding with smart-ass comments agreeing with her blame and fault-finding toward me, but I don't raise my voice. I get the feeling she wants me to engage; my smart-ass comments are the closest I come to the engagement.
She follows me inside the house and out to the garage as I collect my things to leave. Again, the glare in her eyes brings to mind my mother's glare some years after Dad had his wreck. I'll never forget Mom's hateful glare with jealous piercing eyes that caused me an internal shutter. When I was a child, I recall thinking Mom was Alfred Hitchcock in disguise. These feelings were lurking within me as Darcy continued with her verbal goads.
I feel like a badger's prey. I feel like a floating cosmonaut that is trying to avoid being sucked into a black hole, a black hole that wants to be filled, that wants to be whole or implode. I feel like a contaminated piece of DNA, a lump of ugly fat; yet so very small compared to the vastness of a great dark void trying to pull me into dangerous territory.
Once I drive out of the driveway I begin to tremble. I shed a few tears. My voice is shaky as I call my counselor. I get his voice mail.
I go over the scenario in my mind, the accusations Darcy screamed at me. My responses to Darcy through what just took place. I go over the past seven weeks, the highs and the lows. Red flags that I had dismissed in what I had thought were acts of empathy and compassion. Were they? I question myself wondering if I've been abusive, not understanding enough, not tough enough. I don't trust my own judgment. I don't feel safe. I feel guilty for telling her she needs to make arrangements. Red flags that I can no longer ignore. But hell, I just had to leave my own home. I'm confused. I review the things I know about abuse, how it works, the patterns. Red flags that I can no longer lower, no longer rationalize as someone injured going through layers of grief and healing; the price was too high for me and my family.
It was around 5:15 PM when I left. I didn't return home until after midnight.
3/08/2012
Rituals 2: ashes and webs
(March, 2012: Working on indexing/categorizing pieces I've blogged. Transferring this piece from my once-public blog, versions.)
***************************
october, 2009
I go back to my online chat with James.
After starting the percolator, Darcy comes back out onto the porch and sees that I have cleaned up the cigarette area. She again sounds angry and irritated, "What'd you do with my ashes?"
"Darcy, I cleaned up my porch. That's all," I answered firmly but not angrily. I wasn't angry. I felt Darcy was reacting because she was tired and perhaps because I'd touched her things. But it is my porch. She has said repeatedly that she wants me to be myself around her. Sometimes that has been difficult because she gets triggered. When that happens I sometimes get triggered. But when I get triggered I don't usually holler and yell; I withdraw and become silent.
There was an incident shortly after the first week that Darcy was staying with us; she had a really tumultuous day, one of those tsunami-wave-hit days. I won't say it's been the toughest day; there have been many. But this one day, well it was night, around midnight, I took her for a ride in the country to help her calm and get eased. We were out by the Yadkin river at an access area. The night was crystal clear with stars twinkling. The star-gazing helped her. After she calmed we talked, mainly about grief. But a certain thing I said triggered her and she got upset with me. After calming down from that she asked what I was thinking. I took a deep breath wondering to myself if I should tell her. I did, "I'm afraid to say my thoughts." She really got triggered by that and walked away into the darkness yelling profanities at me. I was like "all the fucking rest of the people!" I recognized her response as suppressed rage, not necessarily toward me but others of her past as well. Still, my internal response was that of silence, along with other internal distorted thoughts of my ill-perceived inabilities.
Earlier on this day of the porch incident, I had taken note of how I was feeling, that I wanted to get back to being more myself. I was becoming aware that I was behaving differently, in a subtle way. I was still me, just more subdued, or something. Darcy has been living with us for over six weeks at this point. This week she had seemed to be fairing better, until the flash incident two days ago. I was being myself then too.
I try to be sensitive around her, especially when she is having a difficult day; I would do that for most people. Sometimes my sensitivity radar isn't too good; or is it that Darcy jumps to conclusions and judges my motives? That's how it feels sometimes. Am I changing my behavior to accommodate Darcy? I'm sure I am; but is it too much? I have felt emotionally attacked by her more than once; she'd apologize later and usually I would too. But should I be apologizing? Am I doing her a disservice by not bringing up these things? I feel if I bring them up, she'll get triggered and I really don't want to cause that. Am I enabling her by being too sensitive?
I understand that she is in deep emotional pain and some physical pain as well; buried grief, which includes rage, has been resurrected. I know what it's like to peel through layers of grief and when the waves or tsunamis hit. I'm o.k. with that if she doesn't attack me. Yet, when people hurt they will lash out at those they trust. That said a person still needs to be accountable and responsible for their actions and words.
She walks back inside and I continue my chat with James. James is a good friend and I let him know my house guest is upset due to my cleaning up the porch. He asks a few questions, and I answer them as well as I can on chat. I trust James.
I can hear Darcy talking on the phone inside the house. She sounds jovial; that's a good sign. I wonder if she is talking with her brother? With the receiver to her ear she walks out onto the porch. Smiling she motions me in to show me something; she seems excited. I let James know that I'll be right back.
I follow Darcy into my living room, to the bay window. She still has the receiver to her ear as she points to a spider outside the window busy in its web. I grin big; I like spiders, well the big kind that spin large webs in the fall.
Darcy continues her phone call in the house and I go back onto the porch.
***************************
***************************
october, 2009
I go back to my online chat with James.
After starting the percolator, Darcy comes back out onto the porch and sees that I have cleaned up the cigarette area. She again sounds angry and irritated, "What'd you do with my ashes?"
"Darcy, I cleaned up my porch. That's all," I answered firmly but not angrily. I wasn't angry. I felt Darcy was reacting because she was tired and perhaps because I'd touched her things. But it is my porch. She has said repeatedly that she wants me to be myself around her. Sometimes that has been difficult because she gets triggered. When that happens I sometimes get triggered. But when I get triggered I don't usually holler and yell; I withdraw and become silent.
There was an incident shortly after the first week that Darcy was staying with us; she had a really tumultuous day, one of those tsunami-wave-hit days. I won't say it's been the toughest day; there have been many. But this one day, well it was night, around midnight, I took her for a ride in the country to help her calm and get eased. We were out by the Yadkin river at an access area. The night was crystal clear with stars twinkling. The star-gazing helped her. After she calmed we talked, mainly about grief. But a certain thing I said triggered her and she got upset with me. After calming down from that she asked what I was thinking. I took a deep breath wondering to myself if I should tell her. I did, "I'm afraid to say my thoughts." She really got triggered by that and walked away into the darkness yelling profanities at me. I was like "all the fucking rest of the people!" I recognized her response as suppressed rage, not necessarily toward me but others of her past as well. Still, my internal response was that of silence, along with other internal distorted thoughts of my ill-perceived inabilities.
Earlier on this day of the porch incident, I had taken note of how I was feeling, that I wanted to get back to being more myself. I was becoming aware that I was behaving differently, in a subtle way. I was still me, just more subdued, or something. Darcy has been living with us for over six weeks at this point. This week she had seemed to be fairing better, until the flash incident two days ago. I was being myself then too.
I try to be sensitive around her, especially when she is having a difficult day; I would do that for most people. Sometimes my sensitivity radar isn't too good; or is it that Darcy jumps to conclusions and judges my motives? That's how it feels sometimes. Am I changing my behavior to accommodate Darcy? I'm sure I am; but is it too much? I have felt emotionally attacked by her more than once; she'd apologize later and usually I would too. But should I be apologizing? Am I doing her a disservice by not bringing up these things? I feel if I bring them up, she'll get triggered and I really don't want to cause that. Am I enabling her by being too sensitive?
I understand that she is in deep emotional pain and some physical pain as well; buried grief, which includes rage, has been resurrected. I know what it's like to peel through layers of grief and when the waves or tsunamis hit. I'm o.k. with that if she doesn't attack me. Yet, when people hurt they will lash out at those they trust. That said a person still needs to be accountable and responsible for their actions and words.
She walks back inside and I continue my chat with James. James is a good friend and I let him know my house guest is upset due to my cleaning up the porch. He asks a few questions, and I answer them as well as I can on chat. I trust James.
I can hear Darcy talking on the phone inside the house. She sounds jovial; that's a good sign. I wonder if she is talking with her brother? With the receiver to her ear she walks out onto the porch. Smiling she motions me in to show me something; she seems excited. I let James know that I'll be right back.
I follow Darcy into my living room, to the bay window. She still has the receiver to her ear as she points to a spider outside the window busy in its web. I grin big; I like spiders, well the big kind that spin large webs in the fall.
Darcy continues her phone call in the house and I go back onto the porch.
***************************
Rituals 1: porch & papers
(March, 2012: Working on indexing/categorizing pieces I've blogged. Transferring this piece from my once-public blog, versions.)
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non-subject: "a time cut off from time"
october, 2009
I know I am afraid to approach the subject. I wonder that if I write what I really feel, what I really felt, what really happened; I wonder if I am gossiping. Or distorting. Or breaking confidences. It scares me so; to the point I tremble and cry. Why does it scare me so?
*************************************
It was Friday afternoon. The responsibility of dreaded paperwork had arisen to the top of the to-do list. I excel at procrastination, especially when it comes to paperwork and even to correspondence. Sometimes I feel detailed to death; so many god-damned details. Such a part of modern life.
Paying bills, catching up on correspondence, and such; I like to do those tasks on my screened-in back porch. The openness of the porch eases the tension of the sealed envelopes which I neatly open with my silver letter opener. Sitting on the porch I can peer across the deck and out into our back yard with its fig trees; the giant pin oak; the once beautifully tended landscaped areas with hostas, various perennials, and now naturalized black-eyed suzies and (considered by most) weeds because I suck at yard work; the two garden plots now home to weeds and grasses and volunteer blackberry bushes; and the tile-roofed shed surrounded by mint, a huge butterfly bush, and a couple azaleas. Zoysia grass, the kind of grass that feels like the grass of a golf green or thick lush down, covers at least 1/3 of the back yard. The rest of the grass is just grass, and clover sprinkled with some tiny wild strawberries. I like clover.
The backyard slopes slightly upward as one walks the 200-feet from the deck to the wooded area with its tall swaying white pines amidst oaks and elms and dogwoods, some wound with poison sumac. The woods are thick with brush under the trees, scattered with poison oak and ivy. Birds abound in the treetops. An occasional deer makes itself known even though we are in the city; well a city for North Carolina. Our property goes another 150 feet or so into the woods, to the street of the next neighborhood.
I walk out onto the porch. It's around 4:00 on a beautiful mid-October Friday, 2009. Darcy isn't up yet, at least that I've been aware of. I was up from around 8:00 AM until 10:00 AM, then fell back to sleep until around noon. I've not heard Darcy rumble since I've been up. I'm not concerned as, like me, she has sporadic sleeping patterns.
The Formica-top porch dining table where I do my paperwork needs wiping. I always clean it and the vinyl seated metal chairs before taking my perch to embark upon the onerous task of bill paying. On the table sits a left over 1/2-drunk cold cup of coffee with a spoon in it; beside it a few stain drops of the liquid lay on the cream-colored Formica. A few ashes have landed as well. We don't allow cigarettes in the house.
I take the leftover cup of liquid into the kitchen, pour out the remains, and place the green soup-sized coffee mug in the top rack of the dishwasher. I wipe down the Formica table top, my pre-paperwork ritual. I don't mind cleaning up the coffee cup, its remains, or the ashes. I straighten the chairs.
An old brown wooden end table sits between two metal outdoor chairs next to the brick wall behind which lies the dining room. The brick wall is the only solid wall of the porch. The other three sides are lined with screen with a metal roof over top. Wind chimes of various varieties play a harmonic symphony when the wind stirs strongly enough.
On the wood end table are remains of Darcy's cigarettes. In the small decorative china saucer I found for her to use as an ashtray are two to three butts with their ashes. On the wooden shelf beneath the wooden table top is a china bowl. Eight to ten cigarette butts with ashes are in the bowl; there are lots of ashes, too many it seems for the cigarettes. Darcy didn't ask if she could use this bowl. No big deal; it's not a good bowl. Still I'm somewhat surprised she hadn't asked to use it.
Beside the bowl are two open packs of cigarettes and a 6-inch long, 1-1/2 inch diameter, 1/2 burnt bundle of sage. Ah, that must be where the abundance of ashes came from that are in the bowl. Earlier in the week, Darcy told me she had burnt some sage. There are some ashes spread a bit about the cheap wooden table. No biggie; I'll just wipe it clean.
I close two cigarette packs. One pack is empty, but I've learned that Darcy is very particular about her things. I'm never sure what to throw out and what to keep, or even what is permissible to touch. So I close it and place it neatly under the pack that is 1/2 full.
I empty the ashes and butts from the saucer and bowl, except for one cigarette that looks like it was prematurely snuffed and maybe is going to be puffed again later. I clean and sanitize the two pieces of china that held the butts and ashes. I place the prematurely extinguished ciggie on the edge of the now cleaned decorative small saucer; I place the 1/2 burnt sage bundle in the now freshly cleaned china bowl.
Darcy has two papers on top of the wooden end table. I don't read them; they are not my business. I move them to wipe the table and then neatly put them back using a candle and the pretty saucer with the 1/2 smoked ciggie as weights to keep the papers from blowing on this breezy fall day. I place the china bowl, with the sage in it, beside the two cigarette packs on the shelf just beneath the table top.
There, all feels good. Time to dive in.
I bring out my laptop, my paperwork, my portable plastic black file caddy, the ceramic outgoing mail container, and the recycling box for paper. There is always lots of paper to recycle; I hate junk mail. I set up my computer to catch up on some emails and to maybe chat on Facebook, if someone is online who I want to chat with.
It feels very pleasant and fresh, the breeze adding to the mood. I sit down and check Facebook first. My friend James from Australia is there. It's been over a month at least since we've chatted; he's always fun to chat with. James is an ex-Jehovah's Witness and has been a great help to me. We've even talked on the phone, all the way from Oz.
Shortly after I get settled Darcy comes out. She has just gotten out of bed and is disappointed she has "wasted another day." She again said she didn't sleep all night and has been laying in bed. I comment that I'm sorry she had another rough night.
She looks at the table and sees the leftover coffee is gone.
"Where is my special coffee?" Her voice is angry and accusatory. "I made that earlier this morning and was going to finish it."
I feel myself internally tighten, feeling I again have done something wrong. "I cleaned up the porch. I'm sorry; I didn't know it was special. I thought it was simply left over."
Darcy turns. Irritated she walks back inside the house, into the kitchen. I hear the percolator being assembled.
I dismiss my feelings....it's just coffee; she'll get over it.
**********************************************
***************************
non-subject: "a time cut off from time"
october, 2009
I know I am afraid to approach the subject. I wonder that if I write what I really feel, what I really felt, what really happened; I wonder if I am gossiping. Or distorting. Or breaking confidences. It scares me so; to the point I tremble and cry. Why does it scare me so?
*************************************
It was Friday afternoon. The responsibility of dreaded paperwork had arisen to the top of the to-do list. I excel at procrastination, especially when it comes to paperwork and even to correspondence. Sometimes I feel detailed to death; so many god-damned details. Such a part of modern life.
Paying bills, catching up on correspondence, and such; I like to do those tasks on my screened-in back porch. The openness of the porch eases the tension of the sealed envelopes which I neatly open with my silver letter opener. Sitting on the porch I can peer across the deck and out into our back yard with its fig trees; the giant pin oak; the once beautifully tended landscaped areas with hostas, various perennials, and now naturalized black-eyed suzies and (considered by most) weeds because I suck at yard work; the two garden plots now home to weeds and grasses and volunteer blackberry bushes; and the tile-roofed shed surrounded by mint, a huge butterfly bush, and a couple azaleas. Zoysia grass, the kind of grass that feels like the grass of a golf green or thick lush down, covers at least 1/3 of the back yard. The rest of the grass is just grass, and clover sprinkled with some tiny wild strawberries. I like clover.
The backyard slopes slightly upward as one walks the 200-feet from the deck to the wooded area with its tall swaying white pines amidst oaks and elms and dogwoods, some wound with poison sumac. The woods are thick with brush under the trees, scattered with poison oak and ivy. Birds abound in the treetops. An occasional deer makes itself known even though we are in the city; well a city for North Carolina. Our property goes another 150 feet or so into the woods, to the street of the next neighborhood.
I walk out onto the porch. It's around 4:00 on a beautiful mid-October Friday, 2009. Darcy isn't up yet, at least that I've been aware of. I was up from around 8:00 AM until 10:00 AM, then fell back to sleep until around noon. I've not heard Darcy rumble since I've been up. I'm not concerned as, like me, she has sporadic sleeping patterns.
The Formica-top porch dining table where I do my paperwork needs wiping. I always clean it and the vinyl seated metal chairs before taking my perch to embark upon the onerous task of bill paying. On the table sits a left over 1/2-drunk cold cup of coffee with a spoon in it; beside it a few stain drops of the liquid lay on the cream-colored Formica. A few ashes have landed as well. We don't allow cigarettes in the house.
I take the leftover cup of liquid into the kitchen, pour out the remains, and place the green soup-sized coffee mug in the top rack of the dishwasher. I wipe down the Formica table top, my pre-paperwork ritual. I don't mind cleaning up the coffee cup, its remains, or the ashes. I straighten the chairs.
An old brown wooden end table sits between two metal outdoor chairs next to the brick wall behind which lies the dining room. The brick wall is the only solid wall of the porch. The other three sides are lined with screen with a metal roof over top. Wind chimes of various varieties play a harmonic symphony when the wind stirs strongly enough.
On the wood end table are remains of Darcy's cigarettes. In the small decorative china saucer I found for her to use as an ashtray are two to three butts with their ashes. On the wooden shelf beneath the wooden table top is a china bowl. Eight to ten cigarette butts with ashes are in the bowl; there are lots of ashes, too many it seems for the cigarettes. Darcy didn't ask if she could use this bowl. No big deal; it's not a good bowl. Still I'm somewhat surprised she hadn't asked to use it.
Beside the bowl are two open packs of cigarettes and a 6-inch long, 1-1/2 inch diameter, 1/2 burnt bundle of sage. Ah, that must be where the abundance of ashes came from that are in the bowl. Earlier in the week, Darcy told me she had burnt some sage. There are some ashes spread a bit about the cheap wooden table. No biggie; I'll just wipe it clean.
I close two cigarette packs. One pack is empty, but I've learned that Darcy is very particular about her things. I'm never sure what to throw out and what to keep, or even what is permissible to touch. So I close it and place it neatly under the pack that is 1/2 full.
I empty the ashes and butts from the saucer and bowl, except for one cigarette that looks like it was prematurely snuffed and maybe is going to be puffed again later. I clean and sanitize the two pieces of china that held the butts and ashes. I place the prematurely extinguished ciggie on the edge of the now cleaned decorative small saucer; I place the 1/2 burnt sage bundle in the now freshly cleaned china bowl.
Darcy has two papers on top of the wooden end table. I don't read them; they are not my business. I move them to wipe the table and then neatly put them back using a candle and the pretty saucer with the 1/2 smoked ciggie as weights to keep the papers from blowing on this breezy fall day. I place the china bowl, with the sage in it, beside the two cigarette packs on the shelf just beneath the table top.
There, all feels good. Time to dive in.
I bring out my laptop, my paperwork, my portable plastic black file caddy, the ceramic outgoing mail container, and the recycling box for paper. There is always lots of paper to recycle; I hate junk mail. I set up my computer to catch up on some emails and to maybe chat on Facebook, if someone is online who I want to chat with.
It feels very pleasant and fresh, the breeze adding to the mood. I sit down and check Facebook first. My friend James from Australia is there. It's been over a month at least since we've chatted; he's always fun to chat with. James is an ex-Jehovah's Witness and has been a great help to me. We've even talked on the phone, all the way from Oz.
Shortly after I get settled Darcy comes out. She has just gotten out of bed and is disappointed she has "wasted another day." She again said she didn't sleep all night and has been laying in bed. I comment that I'm sorry she had another rough night.
She looks at the table and sees the leftover coffee is gone.
"Where is my special coffee?" Her voice is angry and accusatory. "I made that earlier this morning and was going to finish it."
I feel myself internally tighten, feeling I again have done something wrong. "I cleaned up the porch. I'm sorry; I didn't know it was special. I thought it was simply left over."
Darcy turns. Irritated she walks back inside the house, into the kitchen. I hear the percolator being assembled.
I dismiss my feelings....it's just coffee; she'll get over it.
**********************************************
I like the deep tone of buffalo drums...
AWW ~ march 7, 2012
non-subject: a place
****************
May, 2005.
On a weekday morning, I enter the First Baptist Church in the town of King. Just like any other week, I am here to sing and dance with little people, children ages 2 to 5. Once a week I haul my twelve hand drums in a big dark blue nylon bag with beige webbed handles and a beige webbed shoulder strap. A cover-flap flips over the top and attaches with Velcro to the side of the bag. I have a love/hate relationships with Velcro. I'm thankful it was invented, but I much prefer zippers or latches or snaps or buttons or tie laces.
The big blue bag is left over from the late 1980s when I sold Tupperware. I use to haul the big blue bag filled with plastic Tupperware to home parties. For a period of months during my almost-two-year Tupperware career, I ranked among the top ten Tupperware sales persons in the southeast United States.
Now, in 2005, the big blue bag carries synthetic-headed, wooden, hand drums: six pancake drums, three bongo drums, and three buffalo drums. Buffalo drums are my favorite; they have a deep sound. The bongos have a muted sound. The pancake drums have more of a tinny sound. I love teaching the children about rhythm and pitch.
"Melody is rhythm and pitch, you hear it in a song like this. Melody is rhythm and pitch; you hear it in a song like this. Do-do-do-doomp (slap, slap) Do-do-do-doomp (slap, slap). Do-do-do-doomp, do-do-do-doomp, do-do-do-dooomp (slap, slap)"
The daycare teachers often chuckle the first time we sing that song. They know it is the tune for "The Adam's Family." Usually when I make up a children's song, I have to pick a tune I know; or else I forget the song
Along with my big blue bag, I carry other tote bags. One with rhythm sticks. Another carries an array of percussion instruments. One more bag is loaded with stuffed animals or puppets or some sort of visual aids and probably a book or two from which read or sing the story, a story in sync with the theme we are singing about. I like themes, but not rigidily so. If the kids are excited about a song not related to our theme, we sing it. But I can usually find a way to tie whatever song we sing in with our theme.
On this parituclar day in May, 2005, I enter the office at the church and pick up my folder in which parents leave me payments and notes. I carry it with me to the magical music room where I set up to welcome the first class of the morning.
The previous at least 5 months, I'd been investigating how to leave The Way. Where would I go if and when I left?
Mainstream denominations and churches were distasteful to me. I could never believe that Jesus is God or that the dead are alive; so how could I go to a mainstream church? The Way Ministry had taught me the truth; and I still believed that truth. But The Way had become so fossilized. I felt so dead inside. I wanted genuine fellowship again; I wanted that sweet, caramel, chewy center of God's heart.
But I didn't know where to turn, or who to trust, or how to move beyond the spiritual dearth and hollowness that haunted me every day, the hole in my heart and gut.
That day, in May, 2005, an envelope awaited me in the music folder. But the envelope wasn't from any of my students' parents. It was from my past friend, Linda, whom I had marked and avoided as was standard practice for Way believers when someone left the Way Household, which I had believed was the true household of God.
Linda lived in Ohio at the time. She and her husband and their family had left The Way sometime around 2000, I think. Linda had written me at the time and let me know about their decision to leave. I had never responded.
After music classes that morning, I open the envelope from Ohio and read Linda's letter. We connected by phone within a couple months.
I never imagined that within a few years of that phone call, Linda's two daughters and I would be working together in North Carolina side by side, packing miniature art to ship around the country, and even across the oceans.
None of us stayed with The Way.
****************
non-subject: a place
****************
May, 2005.
On a weekday morning, I enter the First Baptist Church in the town of King. Just like any other week, I am here to sing and dance with little people, children ages 2 to 5. Once a week I haul my twelve hand drums in a big dark blue nylon bag with beige webbed handles and a beige webbed shoulder strap. A cover-flap flips over the top and attaches with Velcro to the side of the bag. I have a love/hate relationships with Velcro. I'm thankful it was invented, but I much prefer zippers or latches or snaps or buttons or tie laces.
The big blue bag is left over from the late 1980s when I sold Tupperware. I use to haul the big blue bag filled with plastic Tupperware to home parties. For a period of months during my almost-two-year Tupperware career, I ranked among the top ten Tupperware sales persons in the southeast United States.
Now, in 2005, the big blue bag carries synthetic-headed, wooden, hand drums: six pancake drums, three bongo drums, and three buffalo drums. Buffalo drums are my favorite; they have a deep sound. The bongos have a muted sound. The pancake drums have more of a tinny sound. I love teaching the children about rhythm and pitch.
"Melody is rhythm and pitch, you hear it in a song like this. Melody is rhythm and pitch; you hear it in a song like this. Do-do-do-doomp (slap, slap) Do-do-do-doomp (slap, slap). Do-do-do-doomp, do-do-do-doomp, do-do-do-dooomp (slap, slap)"
The daycare teachers often chuckle the first time we sing that song. They know it is the tune for "The Adam's Family." Usually when I make up a children's song, I have to pick a tune I know; or else I forget the song
Along with my big blue bag, I carry other tote bags. One with rhythm sticks. Another carries an array of percussion instruments. One more bag is loaded with stuffed animals or puppets or some sort of visual aids and probably a book or two from which read or sing the story, a story in sync with the theme we are singing about. I like themes, but not rigidily so. If the kids are excited about a song not related to our theme, we sing it. But I can usually find a way to tie whatever song we sing in with our theme.
On this parituclar day in May, 2005, I enter the office at the church and pick up my folder in which parents leave me payments and notes. I carry it with me to the magical music room where I set up to welcome the first class of the morning.
The previous at least 5 months, I'd been investigating how to leave The Way. Where would I go if and when I left?
Mainstream denominations and churches were distasteful to me. I could never believe that Jesus is God or that the dead are alive; so how could I go to a mainstream church? The Way Ministry had taught me the truth; and I still believed that truth. But The Way had become so fossilized. I felt so dead inside. I wanted genuine fellowship again; I wanted that sweet, caramel, chewy center of God's heart.
But I didn't know where to turn, or who to trust, or how to move beyond the spiritual dearth and hollowness that haunted me every day, the hole in my heart and gut.
That day, in May, 2005, an envelope awaited me in the music folder. But the envelope wasn't from any of my students' parents. It was from my past friend, Linda, whom I had marked and avoided as was standard practice for Way believers when someone left the Way Household, which I had believed was the true household of God.
Linda lived in Ohio at the time. She and her husband and their family had left The Way sometime around 2000, I think. Linda had written me at the time and let me know about their decision to leave. I had never responded.
After music classes that morning, I open the envelope from Ohio and read Linda's letter. We connected by phone within a couple months.
I never imagined that within a few years of that phone call, Linda's two daughters and I would be working together in North Carolina side by side, packing miniature art to ship around the country, and even across the oceans.
None of us stayed with The Way.
****************
Caretaker, with ten minutes to go
AWW, 3/07/12
Non-subject: caretaker
******************
January 12, 1988. My husband, John, and I paced the Valley Hills shopping mall hoping I wasn't in false labor...again. My pains and so-called contractrations were mainly in my lower back, in the same area of my back where as a teenager I suffered horrid menstrual cramps.
I stopped walking and pressed my back into one of the large indoor columns along the wide corridor on the 2nd floor of the mall. Pressure felt good.
At some point I decided it was time to go to the hospital.
My first child, Sarah, was born on January 14. I'd been in labor for 36 hours. John and I were both exhausted. I imagine Sarah was too, but she couldn't tell us.
Sarah had had a rough time in the womb. The maximum sleep I ever got while pregnant was four hours at a time. At four hours, I'd awake in the throws of an asthma attack. Sarah must have felt my anxiety and heard the wheezing while nestled in the amniotic fluid. We must have taken at least two trips a month to the hospital emergency room.
Every living thing has no choice about his or her or its birth, nor a choice about where he or she or it is born.
Once born, every thing becomes a caretaker of something.
**********************
Non-subject: caretaker
******************
January 12, 1988. My husband, John, and I paced the Valley Hills shopping mall hoping I wasn't in false labor...again. My pains and so-called contractrations were mainly in my lower back, in the same area of my back where as a teenager I suffered horrid menstrual cramps.
I stopped walking and pressed my back into one of the large indoor columns along the wide corridor on the 2nd floor of the mall. Pressure felt good.
At some point I decided it was time to go to the hospital.
My first child, Sarah, was born on January 14. I'd been in labor for 36 hours. John and I were both exhausted. I imagine Sarah was too, but she couldn't tell us.
Sarah had had a rough time in the womb. The maximum sleep I ever got while pregnant was four hours at a time. At four hours, I'd awake in the throws of an asthma attack. Sarah must have felt my anxiety and heard the wheezing while nestled in the amniotic fluid. We must have taken at least two trips a month to the hospital emergency room.
Every living thing has no choice about his or her or its birth, nor a choice about where he or she or it is born.
Once born, every thing becomes a caretaker of something.
**********************
3/04/2012
Love Heals (at the least, eases)
(March, 2012: Working on indexing/categorizing pieces I've blogged. Transferring this piece from my once-public blog, versions.)
***************************
October 20, 2009
I have the next four days to myself, solitarily if I so desire. I wish I had two weeks.
Last night I drove the two-plus hours to the Greyhound bus station for my husband to catch the bus for the three-plus hours trip south to North Carolina. He wanted to be able to stay up here, in the Virginia mountains near Skyline Drive, but some duties at work called for his attention.
My husband is my hero; in more ways than one. One of those is how he allows me to be me; he allows me to discover me; he allows me to learn and find my own inner strength. I'm thankful we stuck through the tough years; those years of critical mass where movement is inevitably forced. Perhaps forged would be a better term.
Forged. That is how it feels.
Along our drive last night, we spoke about different ideas and relationships. As often is, the conversation was mixed with dry humor; a humor we both enjoy. Sometimes I wish I had a video camera to catch the witty exchanges laced with deep affection. I love him so very much.
Yet, even last night knowing how much I love him, I cried on the way back up the road thinking of my past lover Luke.
Luke. I don't know if Luke and I could have made it through the decades; through my illnesses and my parents. Mom with her bipolar of which she never did acknowledge, though she took various meds for years or decades. I guess they helped; the shock treatments helped, at least in the short run. And my Dad through his quadriplegia. My husband only knew my father in a wheelchair, though Dad had been in Hubby's home of upbringing once when Dad sold their family a set of books.
In the 70s and 80s, Mom was the district manager for Encyclopedia Britannica overseeing sales in western North Carolina. Part of that time was before I-40 cut through the state; we had to drive NC Hwy. 70 from Morganton up the mountains to Asheville and beyond. Mom spent lots of time on the road selling books. Before she sold for Britannica, she sold for Compton's Encyclopedias. She was the number one salesperson in the US for several years in a row with Compton's. Mom could walk in someone's home and be a friend almost instantly; she could sell ice to an Eskimo.
Dad sold Britannica awhile for Mom. So did my brother and I when we got older. In 1983, after I began dating my husband whom I met through The Way, I learned that Dad had sold Hubby's family a set of Britannica back in the 70s. Our families didn't know one another, had never met, and never planned to meet. It was a typical on-the-road-four-hours-away sales call. I happened to meet Hubby almost a decade later and married him. My mother-in-law still has those encyclopedias, becoming relics now with the age of internet. I wonder when a dark ages will fall upon us; a black out of satellites causing internet services to crash spinning the world, so dependent on computers, into chaos?
By the time Hubby met my father, Dad was permanently in a wheelchair. I had asthma as well. So at least my husband knew a little of what came with the territory; though I don't think either of us expected what would ultimately play out. At 25 years old my fatigue was almost unbearable, I'd turn into a pumpkin by 8:00 at night because I couldn't think; I couldn't function. For some unknown reason, I'd throw up in the middle of the night a few nights a week. I remember the blue furry looking spheres that would float in the toilet. I never told anyone about them. At the time I thought they were Theodur pills that grew fuzzies in my belly. Theodur, one of the asthma drug I took for over 12 years. It never did seem to help, much. Theodur, in the caffeine family. Theodur, for which I sat through tests baffling the pulmonary docs because I needed such high doses. It seems my body wouldn't assimilate it. I found out some 20 years later that may have been the case; my mercury levels were so high the mercury may have been blocking receptor sights not allowing certain chemicals access to unlock the cells to do their proper work. But maybe the blue furries weren't from the Theodur because the throwing up ceased before I was finally able to wean off Theodur.
My skin would break out in horrid hives. I recall once when my mother-in-law saw my thighs. She gasped; they were swollen, red, hot, and lumpy with welts. Not a pretty sight; reminded me of alligator skin. I told her it was normal and her eyes got big. I'd relieve the insane itching with ice-cold water, sometimes a hairbrush, and sometimes with steroid cream. Yuck, steroid cream. The hive break outs were similar to the asthma attacks. They'd attack, clear up, and one would never know I had had alligator skin the night before.
The hives were nothing compared to the internal torture of liquid cement in my lungs. Or when my sinuses were completely blocked. Completely blocked, no air passage whatsoever, due to polyps. I had three surgeries three years in a row. I'd have the surgery and then within a month, the polyps would grow again. Those greyish, spongie, alien-like protrusions in my cavities where air was supposed to circulate and process. The medical folks and I would try all we knew, alternatively and conventionally. But the polyps would take over, like some sort of Night Gallery episode. Sometimes I felt like a big piece of DNA mucus. It's a horrible feeling to be drowning in one's own fluids. Other times I felt like an experimental chimp with all the drugs, IVs, breathing tubes, pills, needles, tinctures, syrums, and tests. So many fucking tests. After my third sinus surgery it was 10 years before my fourth one in 1996, a couple weeks after Dad died. He died of congestive heart failure after living as a quadriplegic for over 12 years.
Up until eight months ago, I'd been unable to smell for over twenty-five years, except intermittently when I'd have surgery or certain drugs or a certain medical treatment called Enzyme Potentiated Desensitization. There was one odd time, during which I had an online and phone affair, that I was able to smell for a month; hormones must have kicked in to clear some passages.
Today, this day in October, 2009, I walked in a field. My lungs are clear now and I can smell without heroic medical intervention. It's my first fall in decades to freely bask in the seasonal aromas. I stood in a meadow this day, just stood and inhaled over and over and over. I squatted down close to the ground and breathed in deeply. So many scents, a prism rainbow of delicious melodious fragrance. Satisfying. Fulfilling.
I wonder if others notice how very sweet is the aroma of grass.
***************************
***************************
October 20, 2009
I have the next four days to myself, solitarily if I so desire. I wish I had two weeks.
Last night I drove the two-plus hours to the Greyhound bus station for my husband to catch the bus for the three-plus hours trip south to North Carolina. He wanted to be able to stay up here, in the Virginia mountains near Skyline Drive, but some duties at work called for his attention.
My husband is my hero; in more ways than one. One of those is how he allows me to be me; he allows me to discover me; he allows me to learn and find my own inner strength. I'm thankful we stuck through the tough years; those years of critical mass where movement is inevitably forced. Perhaps forged would be a better term.
Forged. That is how it feels.
Along our drive last night, we spoke about different ideas and relationships. As often is, the conversation was mixed with dry humor; a humor we both enjoy. Sometimes I wish I had a video camera to catch the witty exchanges laced with deep affection. I love him so very much.
Yet, even last night knowing how much I love him, I cried on the way back up the road thinking of my past lover Luke.
Luke. I don't know if Luke and I could have made it through the decades; through my illnesses and my parents. Mom with her bipolar of which she never did acknowledge, though she took various meds for years or decades. I guess they helped; the shock treatments helped, at least in the short run. And my Dad through his quadriplegia. My husband only knew my father in a wheelchair, though Dad had been in Hubby's home of upbringing once when Dad sold their family a set of books.
In the 70s and 80s, Mom was the district manager for Encyclopedia Britannica overseeing sales in western North Carolina. Part of that time was before I-40 cut through the state; we had to drive NC Hwy. 70 from Morganton up the mountains to Asheville and beyond. Mom spent lots of time on the road selling books. Before she sold for Britannica, she sold for Compton's Encyclopedias. She was the number one salesperson in the US for several years in a row with Compton's. Mom could walk in someone's home and be a friend almost instantly; she could sell ice to an Eskimo.
Dad sold Britannica awhile for Mom. So did my brother and I when we got older. In 1983, after I began dating my husband whom I met through The Way, I learned that Dad had sold Hubby's family a set of Britannica back in the 70s. Our families didn't know one another, had never met, and never planned to meet. It was a typical on-the-road-four-hours-away sales call. I happened to meet Hubby almost a decade later and married him. My mother-in-law still has those encyclopedias, becoming relics now with the age of internet. I wonder when a dark ages will fall upon us; a black out of satellites causing internet services to crash spinning the world, so dependent on computers, into chaos?
By the time Hubby met my father, Dad was permanently in a wheelchair. I had asthma as well. So at least my husband knew a little of what came with the territory; though I don't think either of us expected what would ultimately play out. At 25 years old my fatigue was almost unbearable, I'd turn into a pumpkin by 8:00 at night because I couldn't think; I couldn't function. For some unknown reason, I'd throw up in the middle of the night a few nights a week. I remember the blue furry looking spheres that would float in the toilet. I never told anyone about them. At the time I thought they were Theodur pills that grew fuzzies in my belly. Theodur, one of the asthma drug I took for over 12 years. It never did seem to help, much. Theodur, in the caffeine family. Theodur, for which I sat through tests baffling the pulmonary docs because I needed such high doses. It seems my body wouldn't assimilate it. I found out some 20 years later that may have been the case; my mercury levels were so high the mercury may have been blocking receptor sights not allowing certain chemicals access to unlock the cells to do their proper work. But maybe the blue furries weren't from the Theodur because the throwing up ceased before I was finally able to wean off Theodur.
My skin would break out in horrid hives. I recall once when my mother-in-law saw my thighs. She gasped; they were swollen, red, hot, and lumpy with welts. Not a pretty sight; reminded me of alligator skin. I told her it was normal and her eyes got big. I'd relieve the insane itching with ice-cold water, sometimes a hairbrush, and sometimes with steroid cream. Yuck, steroid cream. The hive break outs were similar to the asthma attacks. They'd attack, clear up, and one would never know I had had alligator skin the night before.
The hives were nothing compared to the internal torture of liquid cement in my lungs. Or when my sinuses were completely blocked. Completely blocked, no air passage whatsoever, due to polyps. I had three surgeries three years in a row. I'd have the surgery and then within a month, the polyps would grow again. Those greyish, spongie, alien-like protrusions in my cavities where air was supposed to circulate and process. The medical folks and I would try all we knew, alternatively and conventionally. But the polyps would take over, like some sort of Night Gallery episode. Sometimes I felt like a big piece of DNA mucus. It's a horrible feeling to be drowning in one's own fluids. Other times I felt like an experimental chimp with all the drugs, IVs, breathing tubes, pills, needles, tinctures, syrums, and tests. So many fucking tests. After my third sinus surgery it was 10 years before my fourth one in 1996, a couple weeks after Dad died. He died of congestive heart failure after living as a quadriplegic for over 12 years.
Up until eight months ago, I'd been unable to smell for over twenty-five years, except intermittently when I'd have surgery or certain drugs or a certain medical treatment called Enzyme Potentiated Desensitization. There was one odd time, during which I had an online and phone affair, that I was able to smell for a month; hormones must have kicked in to clear some passages.
Today, this day in October, 2009, I walked in a field. My lungs are clear now and I can smell without heroic medical intervention. It's my first fall in decades to freely bask in the seasonal aromas. I stood in a meadow this day, just stood and inhaled over and over and over. I squatted down close to the ground and breathed in deeply. So many scents, a prism rainbow of delicious melodious fragrance. Satisfying. Fulfilling.
I wonder if others notice how very sweet is the aroma of grass.
***************************
entry: each voice matters
(March, 2012: Working on indexing/categorizing pieces I've blogged. Transferring this piece from my once-public blog, versions.)
***************************
journal entry: august 28, 2009
August, 2009: 50 years old. Woodstock/Bearsville, NY. Journal entry about the Authentic Writing Workshop.
8/28/09 11:38 pm Woodstock/Bearsville, NY
I'm here, at the Authentic Writing Workshop. It is such an honor to hear the stories of these peoples' lives. So much rich history, depth of life, poignant present, unknown future. Each attendee has a strength that inspires.
Fred facilitates with integrity and a humble brilliance and grace hewn by years of experience. He isn't above the attendees, he is one of us, attending to his own story, sharing it, the same as each of us. I feel that my voice matters. I feel my response to others matters; it matters. It matters. Each voice matters.
Matter. Matter has form and shape and texture. Art.
Matter. Each voice matters; each voice has form and shape and texture. Art.
A bond is made with these faces. The laughs, the tears, the accents, the inflections, the lives, the histories, the present. I'd love to read each person's life's essays. This is what makes the world go round. People as individuals.
Thanks for letting me live. I treasure breath.
************************************
***************************
journal entry: august 28, 2009
August, 2009: 50 years old. Woodstock/Bearsville, NY. Journal entry about the Authentic Writing Workshop.
8/28/09 11:38 pm Woodstock/Bearsville, NY
I'm here, at the Authentic Writing Workshop. It is such an honor to hear the stories of these peoples' lives. So much rich history, depth of life, poignant present, unknown future. Each attendee has a strength that inspires.
Fred facilitates with integrity and a humble brilliance and grace hewn by years of experience. He isn't above the attendees, he is one of us, attending to his own story, sharing it, the same as each of us. I feel that my voice matters. I feel my response to others matters; it matters. It matters. Each voice matters.
Matter. Matter has form and shape and texture. Art.
Matter. Each voice matters; each voice has form and shape and texture. Art.
A bond is made with these faces. The laughs, the tears, the accents, the inflections, the lives, the histories, the present. I'd love to read each person's life's essays. This is what makes the world go round. People as individuals.
Thanks for letting me live. I treasure breath.
************************************
entry ~ behind closed eyes
(March, 2012: Working on indexing/categorizing pieces I've blogged. Transferring this piece from my once-public blog, versions.)
***************************
journal entries: september 26 & 27, 2009
09.26.09 ..late, late, late at night
Saturday/Sunday
(actually wee early hours of 9.27)
I was thinking today; about writing. What do I write about next? I have incidents run through my mind, different scenarios, serendipitous happenings. It's like a lifestyle for me; these designed-like happenstances. I've written before that maybe this happens to everyone; events that almost seemed planned, but weren't and aren't. Perhaps they happen to all of us, but sometimes we are too dizzy busy to notice; or we are worrying; or we are thinking about the next thing to do instead of noticing the moment.
But still what do I write about next? I don't need to write anything sensational. What is more sensational than a spider weaving a web?
A web. So many webs in life. Some are sticky; some are beautiful; some glisten in the morning dew; some are a trap; some cause us to pause and listen, take note.
My mind wanders and it is difficult to choose which chapters of life to write about. Gosh, it probably wouldn't even be a chapter; it's more like paragraphs of a chapter of a book. Or portholes in a ship on the ocean.
*************************************
I sat in the shopping center parking lot; the one where Moby's Coffee Shop is in Mt. Airy, North Carolina. I still had the green Dodge Caravan at the time. It was a Friday, around 2:00 or so, an April afternoon in 2006. Les was on the other end of my cell phone, masturbating while I squirmed in my car seat at the driver's wheel. If not for distance we would have been in a bed together; he wouldn't have to be jerking off. Long distance and me being married with children, made arrangements difficult.
The first words out of his mouth after he ejaculated were a sound of disappointment. I asked, "Was it not good?" I wanted to please him, make him feel good. We had engaged in cyber-sex a couple times starting last weekend, but this was the first phone sex. Some say an affair isn't real unless the two people are face-to-face in the flesh. This was very real.
"No. It was great." He paused. "But Carol, your married!" He sounded guilt ridden with anguish.
I was married, but it wasn't a marriage. It was an existence. My husband and I shared a house. We didn't fight; we hardly talked, other than to exchange necessary information. I was the maid and the cook and the mother of the children. I was no more special to Hubby than a Way fellowship coordinator. Hubby was married to The Way, not me. To the Way and to his job. I wasn't special to him.
We had tried marriage counseling in 2004 and 2005; it didn't help. Hubby didn't care. I had work where I could make enough money to help support myself, if we decided to separate. Hubby would help with the alimony and child support; he'd leave me the house so I could care for the kids. We had discussed all this; but continued living our separate lives. The aloneness had now diverted into another realm. I didn't care; I wanted out of the marriage if it couldn't be salvaged.
Les and I had met in January on GreasespotCafe, the ex-Way online discussion forum. I was on the computer every day and night, as much as I could be, which meant hours. I'd stay up into the wee hours of the morning in the chat room. Les too was online, in chat, in the wee morning hours. We had become friends.
Les had left The Way over a decade ago. I had left in October, 2005. Hubby had continued with The Way when I had exited, though he was now on the outskirts. He had supported me when I exited; yet I think it was more like tolerated my exit knowing that I couldn't continue to live in the dead, fossilized organization. I had found hot Bible elsewhere, with Christian Family Fellowship, an ex-Way splinter group.
********************************************
09.27.09
Sunday
I awoke at 12:30 pm. I am so depressed. I'm not terribly so...just so. I feel I have nothing to write about,nothing to say. That all my pennings are garbage and selfish; that I write for an audience..which isn't true writing to me. I cannot write for an audience.
But all I can think to write about involves too much drama. I'm not a drama queen; shit just happens. Good stuff happens too. It's not sensational; it's just I think, who would believe the stuff? Why can't I write about ordinary stuff, like the magic of hanging clothes on the clothesline to dry? Why do things come to mind that are so fucking complex? I think about or start to write and the web becomes too damn intricate. It begins to sound so very self-centered, or like I'm trying to prove something to someone. Am I? Is that someone others? Or is that someone me? Would people think I make it up? I don't make things up. I may get fine details mixed up at times, but I'll correct those when I learn differently.
Why do those questions even matter? They don't, except that is how I feel. That does matter; how I feel.
Sometimes I wish I didn't dream at night. I think my dreams affect me at times. Sometimes I miss parts of my past and the people; the way it was.
It's o.k. to grieve Carol. It's o.k. to grieve.
***********
***************************
journal entries: september 26 & 27, 2009
09.26.09 ..late, late, late at night
Saturday/Sunday
(actually wee early hours of 9.27)
I was thinking today; about writing. What do I write about next? I have incidents run through my mind, different scenarios, serendipitous happenings. It's like a lifestyle for me; these designed-like happenstances. I've written before that maybe this happens to everyone; events that almost seemed planned, but weren't and aren't. Perhaps they happen to all of us, but sometimes we are too dizzy busy to notice; or we are worrying; or we are thinking about the next thing to do instead of noticing the moment.
But still what do I write about next? I don't need to write anything sensational. What is more sensational than a spider weaving a web?
A web. So many webs in life. Some are sticky; some are beautiful; some glisten in the morning dew; some are a trap; some cause us to pause and listen, take note.
My mind wanders and it is difficult to choose which chapters of life to write about. Gosh, it probably wouldn't even be a chapter; it's more like paragraphs of a chapter of a book. Or portholes in a ship on the ocean.
*************************************
I sat in the shopping center parking lot; the one where Moby's Coffee Shop is in Mt. Airy, North Carolina. I still had the green Dodge Caravan at the time. It was a Friday, around 2:00 or so, an April afternoon in 2006. Les was on the other end of my cell phone, masturbating while I squirmed in my car seat at the driver's wheel. If not for distance we would have been in a bed together; he wouldn't have to be jerking off. Long distance and me being married with children, made arrangements difficult.
The first words out of his mouth after he ejaculated were a sound of disappointment. I asked, "Was it not good?" I wanted to please him, make him feel good. We had engaged in cyber-sex a couple times starting last weekend, but this was the first phone sex. Some say an affair isn't real unless the two people are face-to-face in the flesh. This was very real.
"No. It was great." He paused. "But Carol, your married!" He sounded guilt ridden with anguish.
I was married, but it wasn't a marriage. It was an existence. My husband and I shared a house. We didn't fight; we hardly talked, other than to exchange necessary information. I was the maid and the cook and the mother of the children. I was no more special to Hubby than a Way fellowship coordinator. Hubby was married to The Way, not me. To the Way and to his job. I wasn't special to him.
We had tried marriage counseling in 2004 and 2005; it didn't help. Hubby didn't care. I had work where I could make enough money to help support myself, if we decided to separate. Hubby would help with the alimony and child support; he'd leave me the house so I could care for the kids. We had discussed all this; but continued living our separate lives. The aloneness had now diverted into another realm. I didn't care; I wanted out of the marriage if it couldn't be salvaged.
Les and I had met in January on GreasespotCafe, the ex-Way online discussion forum. I was on the computer every day and night, as much as I could be, which meant hours. I'd stay up into the wee hours of the morning in the chat room. Les too was online, in chat, in the wee morning hours. We had become friends.
Les had left The Way over a decade ago. I had left in October, 2005. Hubby had continued with The Way when I had exited, though he was now on the outskirts. He had supported me when I exited; yet I think it was more like tolerated my exit knowing that I couldn't continue to live in the dead, fossilized organization. I had found hot Bible elsewhere, with Christian Family Fellowship, an ex-Way splinter group.
********************************************
09.27.09
Sunday
I awoke at 12:30 pm. I am so depressed. I'm not terribly so...just so. I feel I have nothing to write about,nothing to say. That all my pennings are garbage and selfish; that I write for an audience..which isn't true writing to me. I cannot write for an audience.
But all I can think to write about involves too much drama. I'm not a drama queen; shit just happens. Good stuff happens too. It's not sensational; it's just I think, who would believe the stuff? Why can't I write about ordinary stuff, like the magic of hanging clothes on the clothesline to dry? Why do things come to mind that are so fucking complex? I think about or start to write and the web becomes too damn intricate. It begins to sound so very self-centered, or like I'm trying to prove something to someone. Am I? Is that someone others? Or is that someone me? Would people think I make it up? I don't make things up. I may get fine details mixed up at times, but I'll correct those when I learn differently.
Why do those questions even matter? They don't, except that is how I feel. That does matter; how I feel.
Sometimes I wish I didn't dream at night. I think my dreams affect me at times. Sometimes I miss parts of my past and the people; the way it was.
It's o.k. to grieve Carol. It's o.k. to grieve.
***********
2/28/2012
entry ~ cedar closet
(February, 2012: Working on indexing/categorizing pieces I've blogged. Transferring this piece from my once-public blog, versions.)
***************************
November 24, 2009
Visiting the house Sunday. I'm not sure how to describe it - sobering maybe? Sobering as far as life changes, growing older. Seasons.
I walked each room.
The room that affected me most was the closet upstairs. It's a cedar closet; I'm pretty sure it's cedar. Seems I would know something like that.
The closet is in an eave of the house, under the sharp-pitched 1930's roof. It's a walk-in closet. I wonder if Mom and Dad had it made after they bought the house? It seems odd a late '30s house would have a walk-in closet. As long as I can recall that closet has been full. Only after Mom died and we cleaned out the house have I, to my conscious knowledge, ever seen its real shape and the walls.
There is a light bulb in the socket in the ceiling of the closet. The bulb is exposed, there is no decorative cover. A string that hangs down controls the on/off.
I pull the string and there is light. For some reason I feel an almost-terror sensation.
I notice the pitch of the ceiling and the enclosed built-in bench-like seat-shelf structures on each side of the closet running its length from entry door to the back wall. Steel rods hang on hooks that are attached to the ceiling with what appears to be make-shift rods.
I walk to the back of the closet.
I have had repeated dreams over the past 10ish years about this closet. In my dream, the back wall has a door that leads to a secret part of the house. The secret area is large and has corridors. Often in my dream, I will know I'm dreaming, but will tell myself that I know this place and have been here in real life before.
I have dreamed a lot about houses since the late 90s. There is most always a part of the house that is unused, that I know exists, that I know I must at some point "get to." The houses are usually large in my dreams, and often it is the same house. I could draw a picture of the one often-dreamed-about house, with its gardens and auditorium, spiral mahogany staircase, hallways upstairs, lush bathrooms with skylights. In my dream I don't live in the rich part of the house, but rather in the dingy part which is downstairs. Oh yes, there is also the underground part of the house. I've not discovered much about it, but I know it is there. It has wide white high-ceilinged hallways; they slope downward and are never ending.
I stand in the closet this past Sunday and I cry. I feel creepy and like it was a torture closet. I walk to the back and on the wall (where in my dream the door to the secret part is located) is a board that has been secured like it is covering up a breach or something. The secured board is about three-and-a-half feet tall and is the width of the closet, from bench seat to bench seat. My dream comes to mind; however, I know that in reality beyond that board is insulation, 2X4s and then probably the chimney. If not the chimney, then the outside brick wall.
I look at the bench seats and imagine dead people in them; their height and width are the size of caskets and totally encased. Carol, you've watched too many movies, I sarcastically tell myself.
I later wonder why I had such a reaction in that closet. Perhaps I used to hide in there when I was little.
Perhaps I used to imagine monsters in the closet. Perhaps I used to think of Edgar Allan Poe's stories that my father used to read to us kids when I was little. Perhaps I imagined that closet as a place where inanimate dolls would come alive and do evil things; it seems when I was young that I watched one Alfred Hitchcock epidose where that happened. Perhaps I used to hide in the closet when Daddy would go into a rage.
I must ask my older siblings at Christmas, "Are there family secrets that I don't know about?"
I doubt it. Probably just my wild and vivid imagination.
Still. I don't like the feeling I had as I stood in that closet.
**************************
***************************
November 24, 2009
Visiting the house Sunday. I'm not sure how to describe it - sobering maybe? Sobering as far as life changes, growing older. Seasons.
I walked each room.
The room that affected me most was the closet upstairs. It's a cedar closet; I'm pretty sure it's cedar. Seems I would know something like that.
The closet is in an eave of the house, under the sharp-pitched 1930's roof. It's a walk-in closet. I wonder if Mom and Dad had it made after they bought the house? It seems odd a late '30s house would have a walk-in closet. As long as I can recall that closet has been full. Only after Mom died and we cleaned out the house have I, to my conscious knowledge, ever seen its real shape and the walls.
There is a light bulb in the socket in the ceiling of the closet. The bulb is exposed, there is no decorative cover. A string that hangs down controls the on/off.
I pull the string and there is light. For some reason I feel an almost-terror sensation.
I notice the pitch of the ceiling and the enclosed built-in bench-like seat-shelf structures on each side of the closet running its length from entry door to the back wall. Steel rods hang on hooks that are attached to the ceiling with what appears to be make-shift rods.
I walk to the back of the closet.
I have had repeated dreams over the past 10ish years about this closet. In my dream, the back wall has a door that leads to a secret part of the house. The secret area is large and has corridors. Often in my dream, I will know I'm dreaming, but will tell myself that I know this place and have been here in real life before.
I have dreamed a lot about houses since the late 90s. There is most always a part of the house that is unused, that I know exists, that I know I must at some point "get to." The houses are usually large in my dreams, and often it is the same house. I could draw a picture of the one often-dreamed-about house, with its gardens and auditorium, spiral mahogany staircase, hallways upstairs, lush bathrooms with skylights. In my dream I don't live in the rich part of the house, but rather in the dingy part which is downstairs. Oh yes, there is also the underground part of the house. I've not discovered much about it, but I know it is there. It has wide white high-ceilinged hallways; they slope downward and are never ending.
I stand in the closet this past Sunday and I cry. I feel creepy and like it was a torture closet. I walk to the back and on the wall (where in my dream the door to the secret part is located) is a board that has been secured like it is covering up a breach or something. The secured board is about three-and-a-half feet tall and is the width of the closet, from bench seat to bench seat. My dream comes to mind; however, I know that in reality beyond that board is insulation, 2X4s and then probably the chimney. If not the chimney, then the outside brick wall.
I look at the bench seats and imagine dead people in them; their height and width are the size of caskets and totally encased. Carol, you've watched too many movies, I sarcastically tell myself.
I later wonder why I had such a reaction in that closet. Perhaps I used to hide in there when I was little.
Perhaps I used to imagine monsters in the closet. Perhaps I used to think of Edgar Allan Poe's stories that my father used to read to us kids when I was little. Perhaps I imagined that closet as a place where inanimate dolls would come alive and do evil things; it seems when I was young that I watched one Alfred Hitchcock epidose where that happened. Perhaps I used to hide in the closet when Daddy would go into a rage.
I must ask my older siblings at Christmas, "Are there family secrets that I don't know about?"
I doubt it. Probably just my wild and vivid imagination.
Still. I don't like the feeling I had as I stood in that closet.
**************************
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