March 20, 2013

Phase II


I started writing this blog one year ago.  I had no idea why I did it…and to be truthful, I still don’t.  Back then I wrote for me, and for me only.  Every night I sat here and vomited the words onto the page, and was freed.  It was cheaper than therapy.  Outside, I didn’t have to answer any questions.  Everyone could just read the blog.  I didn’t want to lie and say, “We’re fine” to the multitude of people who asked.  We weren’t fine.  And I’m not a good liar.  I was in pain, and was intent on taking everyone down with me.  I wanted everyone to feel my pain.  I had never known such pain, didn’t realize it even existed, and I didn’t think it was fair to carry the burden alone.  I wanted people to know that this could happen to them.  I wanted them to know that we started out as just regular people.  I was blindsided, and so I offered myself up as the cautionary tale. The blog became my bullhorn.

I’m not sure what I expected, but I sure didn’t think 600,000 people would read it.  I wrote most of these posts in 15 minutes or less.  I remember back then stumbling upon blogs with thousands of email subscribers and thinking that I would like to be like them.  I wanted to have those readers.  Now I do.  I’ve won blogging contests and awards and have been ranked number one on different sites.  And suddenly…..I’m not really sure it’s at all relevant or important.

I’m not sure what my ambivalence means.  Maybe it means nothing.

I think right now it just means that other things are more important to me.  My kids.  Living in the moment.  Being more present with them.  Moving on to the next phase. 

I’m terrified of the next phase.  In the next phase, I have to go back to work.  I have to make money, rather than just spend it.  In the next phase, I have to do what I do with a whole lot less hours in the day.  I feel I already have about 10 jobs.  Now I’m going to have another one.  And I’m scared.

In the next phase, I have to face reality.  Because this next phase is going to last a long, long time.  Like forever. 

It’s hard for me not to blame Dave right now.  I always hate him when I’m scared and overwhelmed.  It’s his fault.  HE should be working.  NOT ME.  HE should be HELPING ME.  Not rotting in a casket.

I’ve been quietly contemplating my next move from the moon lodge.  I decided I should consult Dave on what to do, since perhaps he can see things I can’t.  I know I’m not that great at taking directions from most people, so I’m not sure why I’m asking a dead person what I should do.  “So here’s the deal,” I say.  “I need $1,092,000 so that I don’t have to go back to work.”  This is no random number.  It’s a carefully calculated figure of what I need until baby darling finishes high school.  By then surely I will have figured something else out, right?

I bought a lottery ticket.  I was quite surprised I didn’t win $1,092,000.  I wrote the number down and folded it up carefully and put it in my wallet.  I’ve made a few wishes since then, like when it was 3:13 on 3/13/13.  Which, by the way, was the day Pope Francis was installed.  Expect great things from Pope Francis, whether you are religious or not.  I know that he will be great because I unexpectedly cried and got very emotional when he bowed his head and asked the world to pray for him.  I prayed for him out loud, as did millions of people in the world simultaneously, and that is a degree of coolness that should not be lost on any conscious person.  How often does that happen?  Not nearly enough is my answer.  That’s a lot of positive energy being released into the universe at one time.  I hope you were smart enough to reach out and grab some of it, and then send it on its way.  If you missed it, take that moment now.  I happen to think the good stuff swirls around for a while, allowing ample time for people to reach out.

Now, where was I?  Oh right…consulting dead people.

During the ‘consultation’, I somehow found myself opening this bereavement box, which is really just me trying to sound cool, because it’s a shoebox, for fucks sake.  Anyway, it became the resting place for a lot of cards and letters sent to me shortly after the incident.  I didn’t torture myself with all that…instead I read a letter I wrote to him in 2009, when I was pregnant for baby darling.  We were separated at the time.  The letter was very meaningful, because as I read it I realized it was ALL THE WORDS I would have spoken to him had I come upon him standing in the garage with the gun pointed just so.

As I read all the words, I realized that all this time I have really assumed that had he just TOLD ME what was going on, I could have FIXED IT. 

No.

I said all the words.  All of them.  I wrote them down, even.  And it didn’t matter.  My words didn’t matter.  Nothing I did mattered.  This was his destiny.  To die.  His destiny was not to be fixed.  Not even by me.  The masterful and powerful fixer of all things.

My destiny, I suppose, is to just pick up the pieces.  Phase by phase.

In this new phase, I’m not sure what I’m doing with all this social media.  I didn’t post a single thing to the facebook page for a solid week.  I felt very free.  I’m not a good twitterer either.  I just don’t like it.  So if you want me, you probably need to subscribe to the blog, via email or google connect or whatever those boxes are.  I will never not write.  Writing frees me.  It shows me things I can’t see.

Whether or not I share them…well…I just don’t know anymore.

I wish I could change that I’m a chronic oversharer.  That I don’t know how to not say everything out loud.  That my best communication occurs via writing. 

You know, someone asked me the other day, ‘what my message was’?  What is the message I’m selling?

I don’t even know the answer to that, which just really amplifies my current state of being.

I’m in a cocoon.  Plotting.  Planning.  Focusing solely on a means to an end.    I’ve received lots of advice over the past few weeks, everything from write a book, go back to school, start a business, or get married.  The last one is most definitely not on the table.

Right now, I’m just being quiet.  I’m listening.  I feel certain a beautiful butterfly will emerge.  I’m hopeful.

Until then, my message is to simply carry on.  Keep growing.  And love.  Especially your children.

March 7, 2013

The Ignorant Serfs


My children are constantly schooling me.  No doubt, they were handed to me for this very reason.  Or perhaps I’ve just been watching too many episodes of LOST.

I had a ‘moment’ this morning.  I’ve been butting heads with my middle darling for a few days now.  He blows everything out of proportion, he assumes the worst is going to happen all the time, he takes a very subtle and unintentional slight and turns it into Mt. Vesuvius.

My knee jerk reaction is always the same.  I’ve explained the “mountain vs. a mole hill” scenario too many times.  “Pipe down, little fella,” I tell him over and over.

Yet this morning, a light bulb went off in my head.  The constant Rubik’s cube twisting and turning in my brain finally brought me to the place where I considered surrendering.  Dare I raise the white flag and just let him be?  Let the boy be one who questions!

You see, while I’m simultaneously trying to convince him to stop questioning every little thing, I’ve been actually sitting here once again questioning why people in general can be so dumb and unquestioning.

Here’s my Rubik’s cube for this week.

These new compact fluorescent light bulbs contain mercury.  No biggie.  It only comes out if you drop one and break it.  No harm there.  If you notice now, there’s a little blurb on the box that says you should “Manage in accordance with Spills, Disposal and Site Cleanup Requirements.  In case of breakage, follow cleanup procedures provided by epa.gov.”  Wow, suddenly this sounds all serious.  If you go to the EPA site, they have this long list of precautions you should take if you break one.  Open all doors and windows, move kids and pets out of the room, wear gloves, find a proper disposal site, etc.

Apparently this mercury must be slightly hazardous, right?  SO WHY IN THE FACK DO DENTISTS STILL PUT IT IN OUR MOUTHS???

Duh.

Here’s the next one.  Toothpaste.  Specifically, toothpaste with fluoride.  Ever notice that the tube says in case you swallow it, you should contact poison control?  Poison control?  Really?  I caught myself saying to middle darling the other day, “Don’t swallow it, it’s poison!”  His eyes got big and he spit it out and he said, “Then why are you letting me put it in my mouth?”

“Why, mommy?”

I had no answer.  Because I’m just one of the serfs, I guess.  I’m doing what ‘they say’ to do.  And I’m not questioning it.  Because even if you don’t swallow the toothpaste, you are likely gulping down gallons of it every day because our governments are putting it IN OUR WATER!  So we are to call poison control if we swallow the toothpaste, yet we are not to call poison control when we drink our eight glasses of water each day?  And this makes sense, how?  I’ve read that one swallows the same amount of fluoride in 8 oz of water as is used to brush your teeth.  Of course I’m no scientist.  I’m just a mutha.  What the fack do I know, right?

By the way, fluoride is now banned in China, India, Japan, Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Germany, Italy, Belgium, Austria, France, and The Netherlands.

I once had another theory, about poo, that made me rather famous.  I know this because people bring it up to me all the time, and talk about how I forever changed their bathroom routines by voicing my concerns.

I think I’ve tried to push this one on you readers as well, by asking how you handle the situation if you are casually walking through your yard barefoot and you happen to step in a pile of dog shit?  Do you simply wipe it off with toilet paper?  Or do you head to the hose and squirt it off, and then go inside and perform yet another cleansing with soap?

Ahem.

That’s what I thought.  That’s precisely why the rest of the world uses a bidet.

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, concerned citizens can change the world.  Indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.”  -- Margaret Meade