For some reason, I really want to let this blog go.

It's not because of anything bad. I think, on some level, after posting the things about my Dad, and Mom, and my childhood, it just feels finished.

For now, I may just stop posting here for a bit and see how that feels. I really don't want to rush to judgement, but I also want to honor my healing process completely. And I, for one, should know that our psyches sometimes are healed by the unorthodox choices that we use as deliberate signposts and symbols for where we are on the journey.

If I do close this blog, first know that I'll keep it forever, for I have processed leaving Christianity, parenting highs and lows, come out as Bi, and made a public spectacle of my own unique brand of humor right here in these pixels. It's a sacred space for me. Second, if I do end this blog, I'll probably ultimately start a new place with a new coat of paint and a decor that reflects who I am post-recent-confessions.

In the meantime, please do keep up with me on my photoblogs, where I'm certain I'll never stop expressing myself.

Ampersand & Boogieman 365 (+1)

They Amped Eye

Thanks, friends.

I Heart Voting

It's such a fabulous thing to do. Every time I go to the polls I sense the best of living in a country with such rights and freedoms.

In some ways, I could have skipped this primary. I'm still a registered Republican, so I could not vote for either Democratic candidate. But in that, I was spared having to decide between the two, the one that has my heart and the one that has my head (and you'd be surprised which one is which.)

I woke, late for me, to snow flurries, checked my email, made my scrabble moves, took all my pills, and pondered what do do next. I kept thinking that I had an appointment or something, but could not remember what it was. I reminded myself that it was Thursday that I had to go to court as a witness for something related to our store. And Wednesday I had to take Equus to the barn in the morning. But what was Tuesday? I could not remember what I had needed to to on Tuesday.

I clicked over to the Washington Post to scan the headlines and saw, "Potomac Primaries."

That's it! That's what I needed to go do this morning. Vote.

I decided to use the voting excursion as a reason to go to 7-Eleven and get myself a diet coke, my favorite part of the day, bonding with the caffeine junkies. I pulled in to a very quiet polling place with only one guy in the parking lot, sitting in a folding chair, head down with orange knit cap, trying to avoid the flurries and wind.

"You sure do have a great job," I called out.

He peered up at me from under the orange cap and smiled. Then he got up from his chair and began to tell me about his candidate. I nodded and listened and then just has he turned the pamphlet over, asked me, "Can we count on your support?"

I glanced at the picture of the lovely black woman running for congress and the saw the picture of Obama as well. I did not have the heart to tell the young man braving the cold that I was registered as a Rebuplican, so I just said, "Yes."

"Thanks, you made my day, really!"

I wondered if there were only Republicans coming to my polling place or something. Maryland is a blue state, but our county is rather wealthy if you know what I mean.

I went into the polls and gave all my relevant data and got my voting card. In the process, the kind man asked me, "Is it correct that your party affiliation is Republican?"

"Yes, unfortunately it is."

"Well," he smiled and said, "it's not to late to switch for the general election. We have the forms right here."

So I filled out the forms and really wanted to switch to independent, but in our state you can't vote in the primaries (except for the school board) as an independent. In fact, that's the reason Boogieman is not voting today.

So I took a big breath and felt all grown up as I checked the Democrat box. My Republican registration was a legacy of my upbringing and values I held as a twenty something in the Reagan era. So much has changed since then, in me and in this country.

I took my voting card and went to the table to be taken to a booth. A nice man in khakis saw me and said, "All people wearing backwards ballcaps have to go to booth one."

I smiled and nodded. "That would be you right?"

"Yes, I definitely have my ballcap on backwards."

He instructed me what to do and how to put the card in and all that. Then my information came up on the screen and he asked, "So Republican is your correct party affiliation?"

I smiled and gave him the same line, "Yes, unfortunately it is."

"What do you mean unfortunately?" he said in mock exasperation.

"Oops, sorry, " I said with a grin.

As I turned in my card to the same khaki guy, he smiled and gave me my sticker. It amazes me how voting brings out the best in all of us. It was such a happy experience and everyone seems just so pleased to be a part of the process. Well, at least that's what it looks like in my demographic. :)

As I went out, I saw one of my neighbors and realized that he was volunteering there. How cool. Even better, his name is Kwame.

I cast my vote for John McCain. He's not who I want to be president. But he is who I want to be the Republican candidate -- because he is not an evangelical (read Huckabee).

(Technically, Clinton and Obama are evangelicals, but clearly they are not running on that platform. In fact, Obama speaks more for pluralistic values than anyone in a very long time.)

I know. That is narrow and discriminating of me. In this, I am guilty of the same things that I hold others, who do not share my liberal view, accountable for doing to me and others.

Here's the thing. I think there will be a day when, once again, I could vote for an evangelical Republican for president.

Right now, there is still too much power in the evangelicals-as-voting-block. Even John McCain is pandering to them and acting like he's one of them, even though I don't think he really is. At least not in the way that he thinks his election would be a sovereign act of God.

I just want the pendulum to swing back to the values of plurality. I'm tired of this country being dominated by the religious agenda. I'm secular. And I vote too.

Yes, I see the irony in my position. I'm making an anti-religious vote. But not forever, just until we wash ourselves clean from the abuses of the power brokers in the religious right who were able to use abortion, and aids, and homosexual marriage to convince their constituents that to vote Republican was to vote for God.

A little levity

You know what I love?

When people read all the game titles aloud as they browse the store.

I also love it when they ask me the prices of all the game systems just to amuse themselves.

An Addendum

It occurs to me that reading this recent burst of posting on my scars and wounds, one might not know that I've already had so much healing and utter contentment with myself and happiness and joy in my life. But I have.

I've also gone many rounds with this beast, each one coming with less intensity and more time in between. The early rounds were the hardest and most frequent. I think they were the ones where I got myself on solid ground.

But there have been a couple of rounds that have surprised me and come at a time when I was feeling otherwise content and happy. This recent one is like that. It's not that I was faking the aforementioned happiness; it's just that it got abruptly interrupted. In so many ways, I'm so beyond this part of my life, and it is utterly strange to be to be writing so much about it, and as if it dominates my life.

Breaking the Cycle

There are ways that my childhood was wonderful, and amazing, and there are ways that it was horrible, and devastating. In my mind, it’s usually one story or the other, depending on how I’m feeling.

I’m remembering it as a story that is comprised of times with my mom, or times alone up in a tree with my favorite book, or times when I when I ventured out in the woods alone to think, or times with my doting grandparents, swimming in the pool with my grandmother calling out games for me, fishing on the lake with my grandfather, driving the mower around their property to sweep up all the pine needles.

Or, I’m remembering it as a series of fatherly rejections and abuses.

I am completely unable, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, to integrate the two. I suspect that right there is the root of most of my angst.

It’s hard to remember my mom as a witness to that abuse, mine and hers. And it’s hard to remember those dear grandparents as people who were part of the cycle of abuse – although I don’t know specifics, there are hints as to what kind of childhood my father endured.

Shamedmonkey said something wonderful the other day. We were talking about how sensitive and hyper-aware I am. I was wondering if other people felt the way I did, that I know and see and feel more than I know what to do with. And he said that he thought that was probably because of what happened to me as a kid. (I sometimes forget that he reads this blog.) Then he went on to say that he understood how I felt because he was somewhat like that too. Which left me wondering if he was going to tell me it was the affect of his early, rigid, strict childhood, that thankfully we changed when we came to our senses and saw it as a form of abuse.

But then he said something that surprised me, “You know mom, it’s great that you’ve been able to break the cycle of abuse.”

I was all astonishment that he had that level of knowledge and awareness of abuse and it's ramifications. Quiet kids just always surprise you with what they have going on in their heads. I know he does me.

I'm happy with that for now, breaking the cycle. I will ponder how I might integrate my psyche, but realizing the fractured identity is a start.

p.s. I guess I wasn't done with this topic...

Reflected Sunset

No matter who the next Redskins’ head coach is, I won’t be watching. I can’t. Even if they win, hell even if they go to the Super Bowl, I’m not watching. Thanks to the NFL package on DirecTV I’ll have plenty of other choices. And I can always watch my fantasy team.

I’m so tired of this owner-as-GM dog and pony show. I hate it. I hate rebuilding all the time. I hate that we threw away the continuity and connectedness that Joe Gibbs finally brought. I actually liked Gregg (extra G for genius) Williams. He had the confidence and support of the players. And some of Al Saunder's 700 page playbook had been mastered. Why not just promote Williams and leave Saunders as offensive coordinator?

This last season was heartbreaking but inspired. I cannot understand, for the life of me, why we are throwing all of that away for some big name or hot up-and-comer. Then add to that the indignity of hiring coordinators before a head coach. If not for Al Davis we'd be the laughing stock of the NFL.

I’m done. I have nothing left in my heart to give. I have retired the ball cap with the gold, scripted R.

Shamedmonkey: Mom, I just got my paladin up to level 27.

Me: I'm so proud of you.

Shamedmonkey: You should be!

Me: I really am!

---

Shamed gave his paladin the name Torres, my maiden name. (WTF? Was I ever a maiden?!?)

And he recently blogged about what a gigantic nerd he is. I really am proud, of his self-awareness, if nothing else. :)

I think, since this conversation, his paladin is up to a much higher level, like 39 or something. And if I don't put that here, he will correct me.

The Last of the Mohicans Sad Stuff

It's really, really helping me to get this stuff out and I'm hoping it's not a burden to my friends and readers. But when we keep things to ourselves, it's a bit like a secret even if we don't mean it to be, and even if our reasons are just to spare others knowing our pain and sadness. Secrets connote shame. And victims of abuse carry shame in their hearts. The shame of not being loved. The shame of not fighting back. The shame of not being worthy of better.

This is the very first year that I've made the connection between the grief of my Mom's death and the grief of my childhood. This is the first year that I've sat with the sadness for long enough, and intensely enough, to allow the connection to become apparent. And, without exaggeration, it's the hardest thing I've ever done. It's much easier avoid the truth of those childhood memories. In fact, in my few times in therapy, I was actually able to report on my childhood with complete emotional detachment. As if it happened to someone else.

But now, I'm just going to tell it. Not in gory detail, because that would not serve any purpose, but at a meta level, and with a view towards the overarching theme of not being wanted.

Not being wanted. That right there is the thing that messed me up. Being hurt was not good either. But it just reinforced the not being wanted. So, here's the story, if you want to read it. It won't hurt my feelings if you don't. I just have to say it, and then get on with my life. And not detach myself or bury it. Because nothing can change it.

Herein lies the basic construct of my existence.

Two beautiful, smart, young people meet on a college campus. Nineteen, they are.

They fall in love, and want to marry, but their parents, who are required to consent under Florida law, forbid it.

The young couple elopes, over the state line, into Georgia where they can marry.

Families are angry, futures are at risk, people are not speaking to each other. My Dad has married beneath him and my mom has given up a scholarship and a future as a scientist, or something. It's all bad.

During courtship -- back then I think this was the time when the man wanted to have sex with the woman and she refused until marriage and so he married her -- the young, handsome man declares to his young bride, his desire that no children ever come from their union. The young woman assents.

Secretly, the young, beautiful woman has desired, for her whole life, to have a child. But she also wants this man.

Knowing these facts, the young woman allows a child to be conceived. (Ironically, while I know her in my life as almost entirely submissive to his needs and demands, in this act of my creation, she is defiant.)

I am born. They are twenty.

At the joy my arrival, first grandchild on both sides, forgiveness and reconciliation between my parents and grandparents occurs.

Yes, I am just that charming.

But not, apparently to my Dad. Who, although, I’m told was emotionally moved at my birth, has nothing but distaste and resentment for me.

How do I know this you ask?

Well, first off one just knows when they are not wanted. When he is cold, mean, and distant. When he is angry at any and all of the petty demands of a young child. When the only attention he ever pays you is for all A's on the report card or the loss of a few pounds. You know. When he hits you or calls you names. When he slowly drinks himself to sleep each evening and your mother warns you not to be loud or bother him. You know.

But also because family members told me. Yes, they did. My Mom told me, I think in an effort to help me understand my Dad. My Aunt, my Dad’s sister told me, I think in an effort to disparage her rival only-brother. Yep, she even told me the awful names he called me when I was little. Nope, I can’t bring myself to repeat it here.

But really, like I said, I always knew I was not wanted by him and desperately wanted by my mother.

In another irony, my Mom was never able to conceive another child. And when she went for treatment – let me just pause here for a minute to wonder at what they hell they were doing considering another child – she was told not only could she not have more children, they wondered how she ever conceived one in the first place.

So, this is how I grew up. Fucked up.

One thing that has produced tremendous healing in me is to try to see all this from my Dad's perspective. He said he did not want a child and he really meant it. Was he responsible for changing that after I came along? I don't think so. I do think he was responsible to not abuse me. But not for not wanting me.

Yes, this is the same man that I did not want to leave me and my Mom. Because his leaving took away any last hope that I had that he really did want me. And that was too much to bear.

---

Let me postscript all this by stating my awareness that I am not the only person in the world to suffer. And many far worse than me. But this is my particular suffering. And it is the luxury of an existence that has evolved beyond the concerns of survival to be able to examine it, and turn it over in my mind, and confess it, until it holds no power over me. If you've read this far, I sincerely thank you for being a part of that process with me. Truly.

I really think I'm done with this for a while. And I think I won this round!

For the love of all things beautiful and true, you just have to go read these posts (that's a link to the first, in the series) on LesbianDad.

In Process

I’ve been processing a lot, about grief, and love, and feeling alone even when I’m surrounded by people that love me, and often wanting to feel alone even when I’m surrounded by people that love me.

You know what I’ve concluded?

I’m a big, gooey mess. I always have been and always will be.

Part of remembering my mom means remembering my childhood. And that is a rather complicated matter.

I keep waiting for the aftershocks of that childhood to stop. For me to just get on with it. To grow up.

Lately, it’s been dawning on me it’s possible that will never happen. And not just because of what happened to me, but also because of who I am … I am so fucking sensitive! Although it also occurs to me that what happened and who I am are so very intertwined as to never be teased apart in any significant way.

The more I stave off the depression with the experience of truth, my truth, and its corresponding emotion, the more that I see that I will never recover. Not fully.

On the other hand, I have had a recovery of sorts. I have a healthy, intact family. All of us feel safe and loved. I can stand on my own two feet, and am completely given to emotional honesty and full commitment in my relationships. In that sense, I am whole.

What will never change is the feelings that come from abuse, emotional or physical, they linger on. I think I feel better in realizing that. It’s easier to endure the feelings than a false hope and expectation for it to change.

It’s weird how my grief is actually more about my lost childhood than my lost mom. I miss her as a person, but moreso as that person who would hold me and make everything okay. What incredible power that is. I wonder if she really was that strong or if I just needed her to be.

At forty-four years old, I have now had half my life with my mom and half without. If I’m strong and resilient and loving and nurturing, it’s because I had her.

This week, the one in between the anniversary of my wedding and the day she died, is kind of an emotional limbo for me. It's like I'm just waiting.

Poor Boogieman, it’s his birthday and I am bringing a little grey storm cloud to it. (Love you babe.)

some days you just gotta eat french fries to survive.

i'm surviving. :)

Sorry to be littering this blog up with all this sad shit, but I just have to deal with it somehow, to get through this time of year.

I'm managing to hold the depression at bay, mostly, by sifting through my emotions, and focusing on what makes me feel sad, or scared, or angry. It seems that the depression comes when I want to avoid those feelings.

Sad is way more productive than rolling up into a little ball and sleeping all day.