I’ve cleaned out my closet because I’m a fan of metaphor, and because I don’t have a magic grief reliever or pregnancy disappearer or fast forward button for our lives.
And also- I’m going to say this because I’m tired of dancing around the issue and being afraid of losing friends: I’ve lost a SHITLOAD of weight. I not only lost enough weight to get into the small-size clothes I’d stockpiled, but I lost it so fast that I never even got a chance to wear those clothes.
In the end I decided if you’re someone who doesn’t want to be my friend because I’m thin or I enjoy running too much, it’s a good bet we’re not real friends anyway and if you haven’t already dumped me because of my love affair with running, now’s a good time. (by the way, that link left out the other kinds of thin people: people taking medications, chemo patients, parasite victims, people with food allergies, metabolic disorders, and others. Or maybe we could STOP ASSUMING WHY anyone is thin or or thick and move on with our lives without giving a shit)
It wasn’t on purpose, I don’t have a secret. My new med cocktail has side effects that pushed me back down to my pre-Avery weight, and the running appears to have done the rest by changing my metabolism. It was cool at first. Now I miss my ass, and I’m tired of every single cashier at every single store asking if I feel OK. Yes, I am aware that I wasn’t overweight to begin with. Yes, I am aware that I am very thin now. By the way: I ate a pint of ice cream at 11 p.m. last night. The side effects that caused the weight loss are over. Maybe it’ll all come back. Such is the life with bipolar meds. You go up, you go down. So I’ve stockpiled 2 sizes up in all my pants.
Clutter is the enemy. Everyone says so. The Zen mind is a peaceful mind. People make better decisions in an uncluttered space. People sleep better in an uncluttered bedroom. An uncluttered desk is more productive.
I say my life is really simple and streamlined. I’m lying though because while I try not to have much to DO, my mind is full of noise and this week I arbitrarily decided that most of it was coming from the closet.
I don’t like 500 cable channels and I don’t want 60 pairs of shoes or 22 pairs of jeans. I want 6 channels that show good stuff ALL the time. I want 4 pairs of awesome shoes that go with everything. One pair of perfect jeans. A closet full of 20 useless pairs of pants is BULLSHIT! I mean seriously how is a body supposed to manage a life with a closet like that looming in the corner of their bedroom? That place provokes anxiety every time I look at it. My closet: a perfect reflection of my noisy noisy life. Full of disorder and clutter and a few perfect things hidden by chaos. Mostly hand-me-downs, hoarded items I couldn’t bear to get rid of because I’m too scared to get caught with a need and no resources to meet it. So I sat on 10 identical pairs of slacks in similar colors, (I don’t even wear slacks. I don’t have a job.) cocktail dresses I’ll never wear, stacks of layering shirts. But I take what I’m given. I work with what I have.
I clear out some noise. Things that don’t fit, don’t work for the life I have now. What happens when I rid my closet of the noise is I’m left with space, and quiet. There’s very little maintenance in my simplified closet full of clothes that are only what I truly love and what works for me. I still need some things, but I’ll wait. The maintenance that I have to put into my wardrobe now is worth it. I do this work with no resentment, because I know my return is high. These clothes won’t sit mocking me in the closet, won’t languish on the shelf, won’t hang off my body or disappoint me when I look in the mirror, won’t fail me when I get out into the cold. What I’m left with when I carefully select what actually works for me is a perfectly matched wardrobe of tasteful pieces that won’t fail me because I’ve invested well. If something rips, I’ll mend it. These are not throwaway clothes. I don’t shop like that anymore.
It’s over now. The slacks are off to a new home where hopefully someone who leaves their house on a regular basis will use them, and the cocktail dresses will see the bright lights of the big city sometime soon. I could probably fit a chaise lounge IN the closet now and make that my new reading nook.
You may be interested in these related posts:How utterly perfect this anniversary was for the place we are in our lives. We’d planned a quiet dinner alone. Takeout and a movie like always, because that’s how emotionally depleted we are. We can’t even be bothered to get dressed (that’s more me) and leave to go to dinner. The movie usually turns into “What’s TIVO’d?” and devolves into “I’ll be right back I just have to check one thing on the computer”
Hannah was supposed to be gone all weekend with my dad; the kids would be in bed. Dad couldn’t make the trip. Then, my dad got sicker and for the first time in the history of the universe was too sick to take the kids to his place. On my anniversary. Then I hit a boiling point with Stalemate 2010 and we had Peace Talks with Hannah which were tearful, intense, emotionally draining, and lasted hours into the evening. Our favorite Italian place, which is so expensive that we rarely eat there and never eat in because we can’t afford the wine or tip, wasn’t doing takeout because they were so busy. I was so disappointed (spoiled) that I didn’t want any other takeout. By the time I was supposed to be “picking a movie” (he was in the mood for a comedy and this was my cover for the Big Reveal) I knew this video was going over like a baby ruth in a pool.
May god strike me down with a bolt of lightning for even sullying my TV screen, my retinas, and my eardrums and the internet with it but I need to share a piece of wisdom I heard with you . A little nugget I mined from a pile of steaming feces called the Real Housewives of Orange County. There’s only one person on that show who ever says anything remotely sane, and on the reunion show she let one rip. Speaking about her marriage to Don and her Love Tank she said “It’s full right now. It’ll be empty again someday” and some asshole quipped “nice optimism there Vikki’ and she’s like “What? It’s a marriage. It goes up, it goes down. Peaks and valleys. That’s what marriage is.” If I were a religious woman, I’d say God finds a way to get the messages to me no matter where I’m looking. But since I’m not, I’ll say that when my mind is looking for patterns or messages, I find them.
Our long lost wedding video: rendered to DVD with sound for the first time ever. Happy occasion, no? We’re about to hear Steve’s best man speech for the first time since the wedding, after believing it was lost to us forever, and being especially heartbroken about this since last June when he died and it sunk in that we’d never hear his voice again. We’re watching the endless possibilities on our 10 year old daughter’s cherub face as she dances on Steve’s shoes. Yeah, super happy. Baby Ruth. Verdict: We’re just really glad we have it.
In a perfect illustration of the last year of our life, we sat three feet away from each other on the couch, watched our wedding video and cried; we sat apart from each and separately grieved/celebrated. We’re not just in a valley. We’re in separate valleys. I mean who pats their husband on the shoulder and says “hard stuff, huh?” when he’s grieving?
That would be me.
They say you’ll hit some years out of the park and some will be the white knuckle years that will make you want to kill the writers of every single romantic comedy ever written. (I really thought we were through the white knuckle years after the kids started sleeping) I will say this about hard years: while they may amplify struggle, they also amplify strength. In my darkest hours, in my most frightened moments, what I notice about my husband is how completely perfectly he compliments and tempers my Crazy.
If I were a religious woman, I’d thank God that he sent me Michael, who somehow sees beauty in what most people would pick apart and spit out in therapy. (I’m sorry did I say would? I meant have.) I’d thank God that I married someone who hasn’t an aldulterous bone in his body, who holds friendship his highest priority, and who always sees the big picture. Who can stand in a valley, look up, and keep walking.
Since I’m not a religious woman, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank all four of his parents and his incredibly nurturing circle of friends for all of the above, and so much more.
And although it sounds a little empty to say “Happy Anniversary Baby!” this year, I think we’ve earned a little “Hell YEAH”, a high five, and possibly a heavy weight champion belt or something because this year was HARD. I can’t say for sure, but I have a feeling we’ll look back on this one with great affection because it signifies a battle we fought hard to win. Are fighting. Will win.
You may be interested in these related posts:You know that shelf you have, where the parenting books are? The ones with studies. The authors have letters after their names, and you trust them. They’ve done their research so that you don’t have to, and they’ve studied more children than you will ever see in your lifetime. Their systems work. You might have to try out a few different systems, though. Positive Discipline, tough love, Love & Logic. Maybe Attachment Parenting resonates with you. Maybe Dobson floats your boat because you believe a firm hand is the way to go. Dr. Sears really knows his shit.
Whatever you want to believe in your heart, there’s a study out there to back you up and someone with letters after their name to soothe you and there are about 4 thousand kids that have been in the studies to prove their theories. Seriously, kids are pretty universal. Developmentally, they all do basically the same shit at pretty much the same time. There’s very little mystery to them, and as long as we love and cherish them and make sure they know that and don’t fuck up our bond with them or you know, fucking traumatize them in some way, we’re good.
Right?
It’s still winter in most of the country. Go now, and look at the shelf. Take a pretty basket with you, and fill that basket with all those books, and carry that basket outside with a lighter, and light those motherfucking books on fire. Do you have marshmallows?
Those people don’t know your kids, can’t know your kids, and those books are written with only well adjusted, normal children in mind. They do not take into account mood disorders, neurological factors, spectrum diagnoses, or personality disorders or kids at risk for disorders. Nor do they address trauma victims, abuse victims or children from broken homes, survivors of parents who have died or food allergies. Or your kid, or yours or yours or yours. They do not address the PARENTS who may also be dealing with their OWN set of mood disorders, quirks, compulsions, and other factors which may royally fuck up a kid. No wonder this paragraph worked for me for 9 days and this sentence from the back of this book worked for me for six months in 1998 for a week and this book just flat out made me want to hunt down the author and have him move in with me for a week and have him work his 1-2-fucking three fucking magic on my heinous fucking plate throwing asshole of a child. Jesus.
This is me trying to be funny about something that’s the least funny thing that has ever happened: my realization that nothing I have ever believed about parenting is true, and that quite possibly every piece of advice I have ever given about parenting is wrong. And I’ve given a lot of it, because of almost everyone I know, I’ve got the oldest child. Here are just a few of the more broad little nuggets of wisdom I’ve been spreading around the world that have not produced the results we anticipated, and therefore I feel like I should warn you off of them:
- As long as you provide love and attention and stability, you are OK. Even if you flounder some on your methods, loving kindness prevails, no matter what. And if for some reason YOU aren’t able to provide constant and consistent emotional stability, make sure you surround yourself with people who can. Family, therapists, friends and what have you.
- Don’t hit. Hitting just teaches them to get better at doing wrong things and later, to hit people and animals.
- (and it doesn’t feel like loving kindness to a little kid.)
- Never leave, never quit. Abandonment can’t heal.
- Teach them to question authority.
- Because I told you so is a bad answer. Try to explain as often as you can.
- They are equal members of your family! Treat them as members in the cooperative and they will respect that responsibility, and you.
- But most of all, love is really ALL YOU NEED because as long as you are coming from a PLACE OF LOVING KINDNESS, whatever you are doing WILL WORK. You can’t royally fuck up a child by parenting with loving kindness. It’s just not possible.
It’s a beautiful night for a bonfire. This is the last post in this blog that will ever contain a word of advice about parenting.
You may be interested in these related posts:I guess I should be flattered that my husband’s been reading my blog and retaining the information; in a fight just now he flung at me “Oh yeah! Let’s deal in absolutes!”
I swear sometimes I compromise.
I see the ebb and the flow of our lives as a constant exercise in compromise. We came home to red state and a town full of people completely at odds with us in pretty much every way. I knew that coming in because that suffocating blanket of fundamental conservatism is why I left. As I got older I convinced myself that we could subvert the culture from home, like my parents did for me.
We left culture and diversity when we came here. It feels like we traded political action and food and all kinds of things we were attatched to for affordable housing, a large family, and the opportunity for me to be home with the kids while they were young. We believe the trade-off was worth it, mostly.
When my fifth grader asked my “what’s a Dyke?” because that’s what the kids called her when she made her own Valentine’s Day cards, and when she told me the teacher made them pray before lunch at their party, I knew we were in for some controversy. That year, my husband’s first year as a teacher, I kept my mouth shut even though her school was violating the law. Later, the gloves came off. She’s on the wrestling team, too.
My family stopped asking us to attend chuch after the first couple of years but out of courtesy I still hold hands when they sing the blessing at holiday dinners, and no one’s hands get burned when I do. That’s probably because I was once in the fold, and rumor has it once Jesus is in your heart he’s pretty hard to eradicate. I decided pretty quickly that church wasn’t for me because the dress code was whack and I refused to believe that my parents were going to hell. Oh yeah, and hell isn’t a place and the devil isn’t real. I was raised in a home of tolerance and respect though, so I left quietly and at family dinners I don’ t laugh when my relatives think they’re thanking an actual being for the food they eat.
Kindergarten is a different animal from the story time and crayons and wooden blocks of my 5th year. I love being married to a teacher, because now I don’t feel guilty for not participating in the parental conditioning. He reads all the papers. And I just put my earmuffs on when I hear about how they get punished or rewarded for lining up (like good little soldiers) or sitting quietly at their desks. Luckily we drew one of the teachers that doesn’t sing or read about Jesus in the classroom.
I know my 5-year old is exposed to other…forces outside my control. Children of the fundies. Kids that get out of the trucks with the confederate flags. Children that hear the N word at dinner. They play together at recess, because my daughter wasn’t raised to fear and avoid these kids, and at such a young age these little soldiers in God’s army don’t know yet that they’re not supposed to like her. We’re sure we can undo whatever is done to our kids during the school day. We can re-educate them. De-brief them. This might be a good time to mention that the superintendent of schools in this county does not believe in evolution.
So, I tried to keep my face neutral this morning when Avery told me about how her friend (I’ll call her B. Isn’t that a convenient letter for her name to begin with? B? B stands for B….eautiful Bouncing Buttercup!) has been chatting with her about Satan. Avery knows that we don’t believe in the Devil but Bai-I mean B has warned Avery that the Devil will be coming for her mom and dad.
My voice was friendly when I asked my daughter to pass the message along to our friend Beautiful Bouncing Buttercup that she should tell her mother that I would like to speak with her as soon as possible and may we have her phone number please. And now I would like to write a short open letter to my readers with small children who are being taught to spread your fundamental vitriol on the playground:
Just as my children hear and mimic my foul language, your children hear and mimic the parables in your book except they think that it’s real because you think that this monster is a real thing and they bring that hateful monster to the playground. They threaten children who are not familiar with your monster, with in this case, images of the devil coming for a 5 year old’s parents. Because that is what your religion has taught your children: that if I don’t believe your book, that the devil will come for me- has come for me- that the devil has already got me, because I don’t believe your book. Please corral your children, and I will ask that my children don’t teach your children to say Jesus Fucking Christ when they stub their toe. Thank you ever so much.
*I know that I have readers who are Christian, and please know that I’m not disparaging your faith in this post. What I’m angry about is the frightening all or nothing imagery attached to it, and that children are threatening parents with a monster they’ve learned about in church, a place where supposedly people are taught to act Christ-Like.
You may be interested in these related posts:My first mistake might have been using TV friendships as guides for how to measure my own behavior in relationships. As an only child, a weird child, and then a troubled, addicted adolescent/young adult, I was already crippled in the area of frienships when motherhood dealt me the triple death blow of isolation, fatigue, and the inability to carry on a conversation about anything other than children.
Grey’s Anatomy makes me unreasonably sad because I don’t understand how Christina, who is just as unemotional and misanthropic as I am, can climb in bed and be affectionate with Meredith because I can’t do that. And also, how come they can have such HUGE fights and still be friends because if someone I was friends with almost cost me my job they would simply not be my friend anymore, and that would be it. I mean wtf. I’m trying to think of a more realistic show but I can’t right now. But trust me I’m ALWAYS on the lookout for examples I can follow because in this way I’m like Dexter. I need examples to follow because I do not know how to behave. Remember when I had a fight with my brother and my dad and I thought we were going to have to move? And then two days later my brother came up and apologized and said he was sorry and we hugged it out. It NEVER OCCURED TO ME that this could happen-that scenario never crossed my mind. It’s as if something in there is broken.
Motherhood didn’t do THAT to me, of course, I have always been into the absolutes; but there is not room for the absolute in motherhood. Motherhood requires ultimate flexibility, right? The job requires us to adapt moment by moment to any number of scenarios in a given day. Because I thrive on crisis, motherhood suits me in this way, the challenge of putting out the fire. But, paradoxically the constant requirement of flexibility of my person is unnerving-almost impossible for me to maintain.
So in friendships+motherhood then does the same rule apply? No room for the absolute? Is that true for friendships in general? For relationships in general?
*I feel like I’m Data on Star Trek asking for insight into the human mind. No really, I’m really asking.
Tags: friendship, motherhood
You may be interested in these related posts:
