Fear itself

These things I fear:
Alternately, success and failure.  I suffer from a horrendous case of inertia because of this.  If I do something, I might succeed, but if I do something, I might fail.  So, I do nothing.

I fear being left alone.  I fear never being left alone.

We can see where this is going...

I fear being right.  And wrong.

I fear I may not be who I think I am and that I am certainly not who others think I am.  Frankly, I am terrified of the possibility that I actually am what some think I am.  I fear never becoming who I hope to be; who I expect myself to be. Even worse, I fear I am becoming my mother.

I fear I will never catch up.  With what, you ask?  Pick something.  Anything.  I'm sure it's on my list.

I so very much fear this could be all I am capable of.  What if it is?  What then?

I fear my imagination far surpasses my abilities.

I fear discovering exactly what makes me happy because, what if it is not what I have?  What then?  Of course, I fear never being happy.  That then leads me to fear I might not be capable of being happy, which leads me straight into the fear I am making everyone around me as miserable as I am.

Mostly, I fear myself, and that of which I am both capable, and most likely incapable.

The Process

There is no method to what I do, no discipline, no specific process for getting things done.  What I have is a haphazard, willy-nilly, anti-process which generally takes shape in the midst of unrelenting chaos.  This fledgling process is weak, like a spindly plant suffering from lack of sunlight that screams a whisper:  “Find me, tend to me, nurture me.”  I hear the call, but am always too scattered to respond.  The walls need painting!  The kitchen needs cleaning!  The bathrooms, the laundry, the floors, the closets, the children.  The children for whom I repeat my mantra, “Let me finish this, and I will be right with you.”  It is a form of insanity this business of not being able to complete a thought, unable to follow an idea to its logical conclusion.  Let me finish this, and I will be right with you.  

My soul has a much louder call.  It is angry, almost anguished at times, born of neglect and impatience.  “DO SOMETHING!” it shrieks, followed by a slew of obscenities that make me blush.  DO something.  Do SOMETHING.  Anything, before it is too late.

So I run.  I run for time.  I run for distance. I run for the burn in my lungs and the ache in my legs.  I run from my chaos and in to my process, which I find standing at the side of the road, around mile two, patiently waiting.  My breathing finds its rhythm, my hands hang loose at my side, my stride becomes long and locked at my hips.  I am in my groove, and my process has hopped on board.  I have sudden clarity of mind, and I find the logic that escapes me the rest of the day.  I know where I am going and what I have to do when I get there, every stride cementing further who, and what I am -- mother, wife, Marine, mother, wife, Marine -- at a pace of six and a half minutes per mile.

            Ask me the who and what of me at any other time, and I can not answer.  Mother?  Wife?  Marine?  I do not know.  They are all part of the whole, none complete without the other, yet strangely disjointed.  On a day to day basis the three do not communicate, leaving large gaps between who I am and what I need to be. I fumble around “processless,” disorganized in action and thought.  I react, am caught by surprise and am continually dumbfounded by the most ordinary of routine things.  I move through my day, vaguely acknowledging the muffled protest coming from my strangled process that struggles to remind me, I must do something else. 

            I just do not know what.

            

IED

You can tell the condition of my mind by the condition of my home.

Right now, it looks like a bomb went off; papers strewn about, dirty dishes, laundry here and there, packs of wild dust bunnies roaming free, small fires in places, a burned-out car in the middle of the kitchen, sirnes in the playroom, children wailing in the background, that acrid smell in the air that always seems to accompany disaster. I can't triage the damage fast enough, mostly because I am not sure what needs my attention first -- the whole point of triage being to find out what needs your attention first, so, you can see my problem...... Unable to move, I sit, dazed and stunned, watching Rome burn.

prettypinkbutterflyseashellflowerugh

I have a friend....rather, my BH (better half) has a friend, who is all things sunshine. Petite, blond, bubbly, optimistic, upbeat, happy, shiny, beautiful and successful (if you can think of any other positive adjectives, they likely apply to her 100 percent). My BH sent me the link to her blog, the incarnation of her latest-wildly-successful-business, "Photographer Extraordinaire" (mind you, she just sold her last fabulously successful business, started from a near-defunct effort on her father's part, for some obscene amount of money). The site is gorgeous; bright and cheery with fun music in the background, all of which perfectly showcase her talent as a children's photographer. Oh, and she's a terrific writer to boot. There is a picture of her, sitting cross-legged on the floor, cropped blond hair pulled back in a scarf, kelly-green T-shirt, jeans and cute flip-flops, a genuinely happy smile on her gorgeous face. My only thought, "I want to be her!"

Reality is, I can't even come close. For starters, next to her I look like a monstrosity; tall, gangly, dark and brooding. I look ridiculous in pink and kelly green, two colors I claim to love but which are repelled by me......LOL.....I am wearing hot pink right now!!!!

OK, rewind.

I am in awe of her. She gives the impression of being able to float seamlessly from one success to another, nailing what she is passionate about and making her dream reality. She began this photography business because she likes to take pictures. How much more simple can that be?? I am not naive to think it all comes easily -- she works her a** off. I have seen her at the end of a very long and thankless week in her other business, ready to burn the place down....she confesses in her blog to being up well past her bedtime reviewing pictures for a meeting with a client the next day.....but still.....she pushes on, and I think at the end of the day, rests comfortably in what she knows to be a success.

My kelly-green T reads, "Envy".

I am not jealous of her business, her accomplishments, what she has, or even who she is (though I do prick a bit at the tremendous respect my BH has for her, that in 12 years, he has not found merit for in me). I am envious of her ability to be true to herself; you look at her and you know, what you see, what she does and how she does it, is exactly who she is. She gives the impression she is comfortable and happy in, and with herself, and she operates from a position of absolute surety in her ability to accomplish what she wants. And if she doesn't? I suspect she just rolls up her sleeves and keeps trying until she does.

For someone who is hit with a paralyzing fear just thinking about trying, her approach is almost flabbergasting to me. How does such a creature come to be? Is this a learned thing, or innate to her character? Was I busy lamenting the size of the boobs I was given and missed the moment in my creation when they handed out confidence? (If that is the case, I stood in the "fear" line twice, and apparently picked up someone else's portion of "dark sarcasm" in addition to mine). And then I found it, in a post on her blog: "....I just have to take a second and brag about my Mom. She has always been so proud of whatever I've done (and if you've ever been on the sidelines next to her cheering at one of my sporting events, you and your ears know what I mean)" She has been instilled with the sense that someone out there is on her side, no matter what she does.

I understand, this is not the only reason she is the fabulous person she is, but it is a huge part of it. This is a quality my BH exhibits as well; they know, no matter what, they will be succeed -- in no small part due to the tremendous effort they make to that end -- and there is a host of people cheering them on as they do. But, if you have never had that; if you have muddled through life on your own, having your decisions questioned and accomplishments dismissed as accidents, how do you set your script aside and become a happy, bubbly, kelly-green-T-wearin' kind of girl?

p.s. -- take a look at her site (see "This caught my eye") and marvel. If you happen to be in Annapolis, make sure you book a sitting; she is as fabulous as she looks.

I dream of her.....

.....rarely. To be exact, only four times since her death in 2003.

She used to tell me, when she dreamt of her mother, who died when she was 13, there were never any words spoken. My grandmother would appear to her, sitting in a chair in an empty room, dressed as if she were going out, purse in hand. She never said anything, just looked at her lovingly. My mother took that to mean my grandmother was always with her; always by her side when she needed her, which she said was a great comfort.

In contrast, the dreams I have of my mother leave me distressed and sad. The theme that unites them is an uncontained and violent anger against her indifference. I feel it just thinking of her; it starts as a knot in the pit of my stomach, my heart races, I shake, I clench my jaw..... We are always arguing, which turns to a fight like the ones we used to have (she who screams loudest wins, and if you can throw something, you get more points), and always that familiar feeling of dispair washes over me; that feeling that came from knowing, no matter how sound my argument, how valid my feelings, how right my position, how loud and violent my tirade, she was immovable in her stance. I was just wrong; I was flawed; evil; you name it. So in my dreams I yell, I scream, I am mean, cruel, spiteful, angry, angry, angry, angry, angry, angry. And still, I don't think she hears me. I wake up exhausted and spend the day trying to keep my simmering anger at bay.

I mentioned this to my therapist (are we surprised by this bit of info???) who as a master of the obvious stated, "You've not yet gotten over her." I sink lower in the couch at the thought I might never get over her; she is not around to hear my argument, to concede she might have been wrong, to for once, apologize. But then, how could I not be past it all? Don't I understand she was who she was, incabable of being or doing anything else? Don't I just shrug my shoulders at the thought of her anymore, turn and walk away?

Next, my therapist hits me with a possible diagnosis of PTSD. Excuse me? I don't flinch at loud noises; don't bear the scars of beatings; don't fail to function on a daily basis, weighed down by the memory of it all (OK, most of the time). She ignores me, then describes my needs in the context of a 35-year recurring trauma, and who I am falls neatly into that column. Needs an escape route; needs to have a plan; needs to be informed of changes far enough in advance to adjust......there was more, but it got lost in the fog that settled on my brain.

When my mother died, I did not mourn the loss of her -- she was not my biggest fan, my most staunch supporter, loudest cheerleader, the first one I turned to for help -- I mourned the loss of any chance there might have been for things to change. She died as she lived with me, unapologetically, without explanation, and keeping with her all the things I should have known to help me understand it wasn't me, it was her. She just shrugged her shoulders, turned and walked away.

Tell Me

Tell me about this hate thing;

How does it go?

How is it different from that other thing?

You know.......Love.

10/8/6/3

There are four of them; four against one (not counting the better half), ages 10, eight, six and three. It is distressing to realize, nearly all civility is gone in my dealings with them -- I am a "Mom Who Yells." They in turn, yell at each other -- a direct reflection of me -- which then prompts me to sternly say, "If you can't speak to each other like human beings, then please do not speak to each other at all." Where does that leave me? Can I parent effectively in silence? Would what I do now qualify as "effective parenting"??


They have learned, polite words spoken at a normal decibals to not require action on their part; an escalation in both tone and volume still doesn't impart a sense of urgency; it is strictly top-of-my-lungs-you-are-not-going-to-be-happy-with-the-outcome-wait-till-your-father-comes-home that gets them moving. Even then, it only lasts as long as my voice echos in the room; as soon as I am quiet and have turned my back, they move back to their starting positions. Perhaps I fall short on the 14th troop leading step: Supervision. Assign the task and provide plenty of feedback and supervision. If I skip this step, I find I yell less. However, I make up for it upon my return to the scene, when I discover nothing of what I asked has been done. At least my Marines had the courtesy of giving me the impression they were doing what they were supposed to be doing, allowing me to rest in blissful ignorance for a little while. This clan won't even give me that.


Do I expect too much? I am continually baffled by the little things......who didn't flush the toilet? Whose socks are these on the kitchen counter? Is there some reason why every light in the house is on at 9 a.m.? Is it really that difficult to take the clothes I have washed and folded and transfer them from the bed to a drawer? Whose wet towel is this on the floor? I simply can't keep up. In reality, we are six against one -- I have to fight my own inclination towards entropy -- and I just can't keep up. Part of the equation is, I don't want to. Every thing I do here, I do against my will. It's like walking uphill in a windstorm blowing downhill.


One more thing to add to my list of "Things I Find Distressing."


Our latest snowstorm is what prompted this, my second blog entry. School was cancelled today, the sun is shining, the snow is fresh, the cul-de-sac unplowed; perfect conditions for playing. Eight and six (both boys), after some loud prompting, got themselves dressed. Six needed a little help, but he was 95 percent there on his own. Miss Three was distracted by the butterfly balloon she got at the Daddy-Daughter dance last night; forgivable, as she is only three. I expect to spend the bulk of my time getting her bundled up. Daughter Ten meanwhile, sat around. Every time I "suggested" she get dressed, she said she was waiting for me to help her put on her sock. She kicked her Dad's bag last night (he had to leave on business) and split the nail on her big toe.....OK, fine. "Put a band-aid on it"; ten minutes. "Get your snowpants and boots"; ten more minutes. In between, she sat there, looking helpless. In the end, I put on her sock; I zipped her snowpants; I put on her gloves; I put on her neck gater; I fixed the boots, zipped the jacket, kicked her out the door. Holy Cow!! I spent more time with her than with Miss Three. Why? Because I didn't want to turn around an hour later and find her still in the process of getting dressed; because I wanted her outside and out of my hair; because I wanted to save myself the effort and ensuing anger that would have come from forcing her to do it herself.


I'm still angry though, so I'm not sure from what exactly I saved myself.