silence, you
tiptoe
through the
back door.
our secret
keeps
if
they don't
see you
coming
-or
going.
we're
invisible.
ssshhhh,
don't tell.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The Back Door
It had a sound and a weight to it which was unique. It would creak when you opened it, and slap when it closed. Not the front door, not an interior door; it was a screen door. The back porch was built for utility – baskets of wash ready to be hung on the line, a shelf with a tool box, some paint, and stuff to shine your shoes. The back door would creak, and out we would go. Everything about that small, intimate space no longer exists. With air-conditioning, the idea of a screen door doesn’t make sense. Security – never thought about it then. The people -us, traipsing out the back door, wearing all manner of anachronisms - hats, gloves, ankle socks, handkerchiefs, mantillas. Off to Mass with the roast in the oven.
Coming back again through the screen door, the savory smell of meat greeting us in the back yard. Creak. Slap. We’re home.
It had a sound and a weight to it which was unique. It would creak when you opened it, and slap when it closed. Not the front door, not an interior door; it was a screen door. The back porch was built for utility – baskets of wash ready to be hung on the line, a shelf with a tool box, some paint, and stuff to shine your shoes. The back door would creak, and out we would go. Everything about that small, intimate space no longer exists. With air-conditioning, the idea of a screen door doesn’t make sense. Security – never thought about it then. The people -us, traipsing out the back door, wearing all manner of anachronisms - hats, gloves, ankle socks, handkerchiefs, mantillas. Off to Mass with the roast in the oven.
Coming back again through the screen door, the savory smell of meat greeting us in the back yard. Creak. Slap. We’re home.
Dad's Been on my Mind
I don't know why it hit me so hard- Dad's death. I should've known it was coming, but somehow I didn't. He'd been sick- first with emphysema- and then lung cancer. At 17, I must have still been naive enough to believe that doctors could cure anything, but reallly, they were all about experimenting on live guinea pigs like my father. In 1973, chemotherapy was not in wide use, but cobalt treatments were. For several days each month, Mom drove Dad from Abilene to Wilford Hall Medical Center in San Antonio. My sister had already married, so I was left at home to make sure my brothers got to school and to "hold down the home fort" as my mother used to say. The cancer specialists in San Antonio, at some point before the treatments began, operated, removing about half of Dad's left lung. For a short time he stopped smoking, but I think he realized his hope of a normal life was already gone, and he soon began sneaking cigarettes. Mom got angry at first, but eventually I think she came to the conclusion that he might as well die happy. Cigarettes gave Dad a pleasure I never understood.
I don't remember either of my parents ever saying that Dad was dying. I wonder if they thought because they knew, that we kids must have known, too, but even when a girl has a father she doesn't particularly like much of the time, she still imagines him as invincible- maybe even more so because she's been afraid of him for most of her life.
The night before he died, Dad and I were home alone. He practically lived on the sofa bed by this time. Next to him was a small end table with various bottles of medicine and water. I sat in a chair, and together we watched television. He loved MASH and a few other shows, and it didn't matter if he'd already seen them or not. At some point that night, Dad tried to get up and couldn't. The look on his face was terror, and I asked him what was wrong. He said he had to go to the bathroom, but he couldn't get there on his own. With Mom gone, it was up to me to take him. I tried to act like it was no big deal as I helped him up. I didn't realize until that moment how fragile he was. His bones showed through his skin-I recalled the pictures of the starving children in Africa as I put my arm around his waist which was smaller than my own. He weighed under 90 pounds, and I weighed about 100. I walked with him holding on to me the few feet to the bathroom, one step and then another- painfully slow going. I thought once we got there, he'd be all right, but he wasn't. He couldn't stand in front of the toilet without falling down, and there was nothing close enough for him to hold onto, so I had to stay with him. I turned my face away after helping him with his pants, but I could feel a shiver go through his body. His embarrassment was palpable. Afterwards, I helped him back to the couch, and before long, he slept.
The next day, I got the call at school to meet Mom at the hospital. She told me that he said to her, "The day that my own daughter has to be with me while I take a piss, is the day I go to the hospital to die." When I arrived at the base hospital, Mom was in the room with Dad, and I was told to wait outside. It wasn't long before Mom came out, obviously very upset. Dad was gone. Mom told me she expected him to just slip away, but this wasn't a movie with an easy ending for any of us. She said that as she sat with him, he suddenly panicked, "I can't breathe," he said, and he grabbed her hand and squeezed it so hard she thought it would break. She pushed the call button, but by the time the nurse got there, he was dead. That image of him gasping for breath haunts me still.
After that, everything happened very quickly. We were taking him back to New Jersey to be buried. My sister was called home, and we flew into Philadelphia, where relatives picked us up. We went to stay with my grandparents- my mother's parents. At the funeral home, I didn't want to look at him all laid out in his casket. It was my first funeral. Dad's five sisters and one of his two brothers were there. A sister made a remark about how "good he looked," but when I finally saw him, I saw a plastic cast of my father and not a very good one. The sisters went up to his casket, each of them kissing him on the cheek, making Mom feel like she should do the same. She said later that he didn't feel real but rather like a statue, cold and too smooth to be real. Back at my grandparents house, everyone gathered. My cousin, Tom, with whom I'd always been close, made a funny remark about Dad and his dad reaching through the ground to shake hands and catch up on old times. Dad was to be buried in the same plot as Uncle Charles, Tom's father. We laughed about it, and then I felt ashamed for laughing so soon after my father's death. But I heard my grandfather say Dad would want us to laugh- he'd want us to party and drink a beer as we sent him off to wherever it was he'd be going. My mixed emotions about this man, my father, wrapped around one another and tears came-angry tears, sad tears, tears for what could have, should have been. I cried for the years we'd lost, knowing we couldn't get them back or change the past. I cried for the grandchildren he'd never know because grandchildren give us all a second chance, and he sure could've used that second chance.
I tried focusing on the good times we'd had, though I initially struggled to remember them. I have to give him credit for doing the best he could under the circumstances he was dealt. He left me many lessons. I don't drink because of Dad. I love with all my heart because of Dad. I work hard and play hard, and I am a person he helped create. I hope he's found his peace, and I hope he forgives me for not loving him like a daughter should love her father. I understand him now, and maybe he understands me, too.
I don't remember either of my parents ever saying that Dad was dying. I wonder if they thought because they knew, that we kids must have known, too, but even when a girl has a father she doesn't particularly like much of the time, she still imagines him as invincible- maybe even more so because she's been afraid of him for most of her life.
The night before he died, Dad and I were home alone. He practically lived on the sofa bed by this time. Next to him was a small end table with various bottles of medicine and water. I sat in a chair, and together we watched television. He loved MASH and a few other shows, and it didn't matter if he'd already seen them or not. At some point that night, Dad tried to get up and couldn't. The look on his face was terror, and I asked him what was wrong. He said he had to go to the bathroom, but he couldn't get there on his own. With Mom gone, it was up to me to take him. I tried to act like it was no big deal as I helped him up. I didn't realize until that moment how fragile he was. His bones showed through his skin-I recalled the pictures of the starving children in Africa as I put my arm around his waist which was smaller than my own. He weighed under 90 pounds, and I weighed about 100. I walked with him holding on to me the few feet to the bathroom, one step and then another- painfully slow going. I thought once we got there, he'd be all right, but he wasn't. He couldn't stand in front of the toilet without falling down, and there was nothing close enough for him to hold onto, so I had to stay with him. I turned my face away after helping him with his pants, but I could feel a shiver go through his body. His embarrassment was palpable. Afterwards, I helped him back to the couch, and before long, he slept.
The next day, I got the call at school to meet Mom at the hospital. She told me that he said to her, "The day that my own daughter has to be with me while I take a piss, is the day I go to the hospital to die." When I arrived at the base hospital, Mom was in the room with Dad, and I was told to wait outside. It wasn't long before Mom came out, obviously very upset. Dad was gone. Mom told me she expected him to just slip away, but this wasn't a movie with an easy ending for any of us. She said that as she sat with him, he suddenly panicked, "I can't breathe," he said, and he grabbed her hand and squeezed it so hard she thought it would break. She pushed the call button, but by the time the nurse got there, he was dead. That image of him gasping for breath haunts me still.
After that, everything happened very quickly. We were taking him back to New Jersey to be buried. My sister was called home, and we flew into Philadelphia, where relatives picked us up. We went to stay with my grandparents- my mother's parents. At the funeral home, I didn't want to look at him all laid out in his casket. It was my first funeral. Dad's five sisters and one of his two brothers were there. A sister made a remark about how "good he looked," but when I finally saw him, I saw a plastic cast of my father and not a very good one. The sisters went up to his casket, each of them kissing him on the cheek, making Mom feel like she should do the same. She said later that he didn't feel real but rather like a statue, cold and too smooth to be real. Back at my grandparents house, everyone gathered. My cousin, Tom, with whom I'd always been close, made a funny remark about Dad and his dad reaching through the ground to shake hands and catch up on old times. Dad was to be buried in the same plot as Uncle Charles, Tom's father. We laughed about it, and then I felt ashamed for laughing so soon after my father's death. But I heard my grandfather say Dad would want us to laugh- he'd want us to party and drink a beer as we sent him off to wherever it was he'd be going. My mixed emotions about this man, my father, wrapped around one another and tears came-angry tears, sad tears, tears for what could have, should have been. I cried for the years we'd lost, knowing we couldn't get them back or change the past. I cried for the grandchildren he'd never know because grandchildren give us all a second chance, and he sure could've used that second chance.
I tried focusing on the good times we'd had, though I initially struggled to remember them. I have to give him credit for doing the best he could under the circumstances he was dealt. He left me many lessons. I don't drink because of Dad. I love with all my heart because of Dad. I work hard and play hard, and I am a person he helped create. I hope he's found his peace, and I hope he forgives me for not loving him like a daughter should love her father. I understand him now, and maybe he understands me, too.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Back Door
I used to think I was laid back. Those of you who know me, don't laugh, I really thought I was. I wasn't so much trying to fool you, but me. Years ago, though, a therapist told me I was "tense and intense." Damn, I thought, I wanted to be someone else, someone whose bones, even, were calm. I thought I was an open book, that I could hit things head on, and that I could be approached directly and just open right up. Perhaps in the same way George Bush must believe he was a beneficial president, I believed I was easygoing. Who knows where we get these crazy ideas or why I so needed it to be true.
Then a therapist, a different one this time, told me, "Everything has to come through a side door, maybe even a back door, with you. You're too skittish and defensive, afraid for the front door."
I felt I'd been annointed with clear spring water, petals spilling over me. A truth spoken with kindness sailed to my bones and from there, my work could begin.
Then a therapist, a different one this time, told me, "Everything has to come through a side door, maybe even a back door, with you. You're too skittish and defensive, afraid for the front door."
I felt I'd been annointed with clear spring water, petals spilling over me. A truth spoken with kindness sailed to my bones and from there, my work could begin.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Voices
The chattering stopped. I don’t know when exactly, but it’s gone and hasn’t returned. Too bad I didn’t recognize the date and time the voice ended. It’d be nice to celebrate that anniversary each year like a birthday. The day I was born. The day I decided to bear dominion over my thoughts and my life. Whenever it was, that was the day I stopped telling myself I couldn’t. That I was wrong or bad or not worthy. It’s funny how it just vanished without my realizing. You’d think that when something that powerful goes away I’d notice. What probably happened is that the voice gradually diminished. It got softer and softer until I couldn’t hear it any more. The voice gradually lost its influence over me and in a snit of impotence just stopped and took its negativity elsewhere.
I always thought of it as mine. The voice belonged to only me. But, when it no longer resided in my head, did it go hound someone else? Is my voice now in someone else’s head telling them not to bother? Telling them to just quit? To accept the fact that they are not as good as everyone else? Second guessing them and asking who they think they are?
Every time I read something about schizophrenia I think of my voice. Thankfully there was only one. But it was like a loud and disrespectful roommate that behaved as if I didn’t exist. Its job was to scare the piss out of me every single day in every single way. My singular voice was so powerful that I can’t imagine how frightening it must be to suffer the schizophrenic continual bombardment of many voices all at once. I suppose the only consolation would be that those voices are from someone or someplace else. My voice was me. My voice was self defeating. I owned my voice. I allowed my voice to exist and rule my life. How crazy is that?
I don’t remember inviting the voice and I can’t recall when it arrived. I think it was around for a very long time before I realized it existed. Once I acknowledged it I believed that it was just a part of life and I had no choice. The voice was as integral to living as breathing. The voice wasn’t an intruder, it belonged in my head. For years, I not only indulged the voice but I gave it credibility. When sides were chosen between me and what I wanted or thought or believed and the contrary opinion of the voice, I stood in line with the voice. It always sounded more experienced and more reasonable and definitely safer. The voice would pat me on the head and remind me of my faults and inabilities.
Now that I have some perspective on the chattering I look around in amazement at how many people are battered by their own voice. Like gamblers they each have a tell. A behavior, a mannerism, a voice pattern that gives them away and announces the self destructive messages they deliver to themselves. The sneaky ones appear to be thinking about something when they tilt their head back and roll up their eyes. But I know they are at the mercy of their hypnotic voice. They aren’t evaluating what the voice tells them. They believe it and commit it not only to memory but to action. The empiric voice rules the serf like self. The voice is the master that whips them each day.
The tricky thing about these voices is that they have just as much influence over the talented and successful as they do the not so talented and not so successful. The chattering voice is an equal opportunity brute. It haunts the best of us. It scares what is best in us away. The chatter dispels our possibilities. Maybe the story of Cinderella and her cruel step sisters is really a metaphor for what we do to ourselves. Cinderella was plagued by her wicked step sisters who constantly demeaned her. We have the chatter in our heads instead. Maybe the silk slipper is a symbol of our strength. Once Cinderella put on the magic slipper her life became manageable and happy. When we have the courage to find our inner strength and allow ourselves to trust it we gain dominance over the voice that denies who we can be. Like the slipper that protected Cinderella from her evil step family, our emotional authority inoculates us against the chatter.
The voices are identity thieves. They are body snatchers. They steal our souls and wreck havoc with our lives and our sanity. They ruin any potential for happiness and satisfaction. They deny our abilities and our goodness. The voices are biblical and epic in scope and depth. They are the true serpent in the gardens of our lives. The voice tells us to concentrate on the worm instead of the apple. The worm’s objective is to second guess, to criticize and demoralize. Some of the most often used worm lines are “you should have known better” “what were you thinking” ‘you’ll never make it” “who do you think you are?” The worm bores through our sensibilities and rots the fruit of our lives. It is the disease that kills our orchards of hope.
Once we realize the voice is us we can take control. The constant chatter can be stilled only if we ignore it or tell it to be quiet. As soon as we realize that we, not the chatter, own our lives the voice is vanquished. We can then gather our tools and become the gardeners of our future. The chatter poisons our soil. Our strength of character tills and fertilizes it.
Now that my inner chatter has hushed, I realize there are other equally destructive voices that surround me. Do this. Do that. Think this. Think that. This is true. No it’s a lie. Some days I long for my one nagging voice, even if it was false. The volume of the badgering voices outside my head can be just as oppressive and dangerous. I’m grateful for the calm, clear voice that now resides not only in my head, but also my heart and soul. It may not always ring a universal truth, but it rings my truth and guides me away from the lies and protects me from the worms.
I always thought of it as mine. The voice belonged to only me. But, when it no longer resided in my head, did it go hound someone else? Is my voice now in someone else’s head telling them not to bother? Telling them to just quit? To accept the fact that they are not as good as everyone else? Second guessing them and asking who they think they are?
Every time I read something about schizophrenia I think of my voice. Thankfully there was only one. But it was like a loud and disrespectful roommate that behaved as if I didn’t exist. Its job was to scare the piss out of me every single day in every single way. My singular voice was so powerful that I can’t imagine how frightening it must be to suffer the schizophrenic continual bombardment of many voices all at once. I suppose the only consolation would be that those voices are from someone or someplace else. My voice was me. My voice was self defeating. I owned my voice. I allowed my voice to exist and rule my life. How crazy is that?
I don’t remember inviting the voice and I can’t recall when it arrived. I think it was around for a very long time before I realized it existed. Once I acknowledged it I believed that it was just a part of life and I had no choice. The voice was as integral to living as breathing. The voice wasn’t an intruder, it belonged in my head. For years, I not only indulged the voice but I gave it credibility. When sides were chosen between me and what I wanted or thought or believed and the contrary opinion of the voice, I stood in line with the voice. It always sounded more experienced and more reasonable and definitely safer. The voice would pat me on the head and remind me of my faults and inabilities.
Now that I have some perspective on the chattering I look around in amazement at how many people are battered by their own voice. Like gamblers they each have a tell. A behavior, a mannerism, a voice pattern that gives them away and announces the self destructive messages they deliver to themselves. The sneaky ones appear to be thinking about something when they tilt their head back and roll up their eyes. But I know they are at the mercy of their hypnotic voice. They aren’t evaluating what the voice tells them. They believe it and commit it not only to memory but to action. The empiric voice rules the serf like self. The voice is the master that whips them each day.
The tricky thing about these voices is that they have just as much influence over the talented and successful as they do the not so talented and not so successful. The chattering voice is an equal opportunity brute. It haunts the best of us. It scares what is best in us away. The chatter dispels our possibilities. Maybe the story of Cinderella and her cruel step sisters is really a metaphor for what we do to ourselves. Cinderella was plagued by her wicked step sisters who constantly demeaned her. We have the chatter in our heads instead. Maybe the silk slipper is a symbol of our strength. Once Cinderella put on the magic slipper her life became manageable and happy. When we have the courage to find our inner strength and allow ourselves to trust it we gain dominance over the voice that denies who we can be. Like the slipper that protected Cinderella from her evil step family, our emotional authority inoculates us against the chatter.
The voices are identity thieves. They are body snatchers. They steal our souls and wreck havoc with our lives and our sanity. They ruin any potential for happiness and satisfaction. They deny our abilities and our goodness. The voices are biblical and epic in scope and depth. They are the true serpent in the gardens of our lives. The voice tells us to concentrate on the worm instead of the apple. The worm’s objective is to second guess, to criticize and demoralize. Some of the most often used worm lines are “you should have known better” “what were you thinking” ‘you’ll never make it” “who do you think you are?” The worm bores through our sensibilities and rots the fruit of our lives. It is the disease that kills our orchards of hope.
Once we realize the voice is us we can take control. The constant chatter can be stilled only if we ignore it or tell it to be quiet. As soon as we realize that we, not the chatter, own our lives the voice is vanquished. We can then gather our tools and become the gardeners of our future. The chatter poisons our soil. Our strength of character tills and fertilizes it.
Now that my inner chatter has hushed, I realize there are other equally destructive voices that surround me. Do this. Do that. Think this. Think that. This is true. No it’s a lie. Some days I long for my one nagging voice, even if it was false. The volume of the badgering voices outside my head can be just as oppressive and dangerous. I’m grateful for the calm, clear voice that now resides not only in my head, but also my heart and soul. It may not always ring a universal truth, but it rings my truth and guides me away from the lies and protects me from the worms.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)